Letter Twenty-Six #2
“Some of them are. You’re unhappy about us—I can tell. You’re upset it’s not going to work out.”
You let out a short laugh. “First of all, it’s awfully presumptuous of you to assume I’d give up that easily. And I’m not unhappy—just disappointed. We might not be together the way I want right now, but I’m still here with you at Christmas, aren’t I? There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
I smiled. “Me, too.”
“What’s going on?” Michael asked, strolling into the room. He eyed our hands, which were still joined in my lap.
“Just having a chat,” you said, giving my hand one final squeeze before pulling away and moving back to your side of the sofa. “What’ve you been up to?”
“Writing a paper on the role of civil disobedience in a democracy,” he answered with a big sigh, plopping himself down on the sofa between us.
“Where’s Sienna?” I asked.
“Hell if I know.” He reached for the remote. “Told her I was busy.”
You gave a cocky quirk of your eyebrows, as if to say, Told you so. To him, you said, “Have you ever considered dating a girl you actually enjoy spending time with?”
“Sure I have,” Michael said. “But first I’d have to weed out all the ones who only want to date me because my mom’s the new mayor.”
“The girl you’re currently dating is only dating you because your mom’s the new mayor,” I reminded him.
Michael ignored this as he switched the channel to his Celtics game.
“Surely there are other girls for you to choose from,” you said. “Girls you went to school with—or once dated, even. Girls who liked you before your mum ever ran for mayor.”
“Yeah, but they’re all at different colleges,” Michael said. “In different states.”
You reached for your tea, then stopped, eyebrows shooting up. “What about Tinsley?”
We both gaped at you. In unison, we said, “What?”
“She’s a friend of the family, she goes to a local uni, she’s not shallow like Sienna is, and she’s actually very attractive.”
“Wow, Casey.” Pretty sure I shot a mini death glare across the sofa. “Very?”
“I agree,” Michael said. “Tinsley’s hot. But I can’t imagine myself ever dating her.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That would be really weird.”
“Oh?” You leaned past Michael, narrowing your gaze at me. “Why’s that? Is there some rule saying they can’t date?”
“Well, no. It’s just—they don’t even—she’s not his type.”
“On the contrary,” you argued, “she’s exactly his type. She’s feminine, flirty, has a great sense of humor. She doesn’t take his shit. And I can’t say for sure, but judging by her taste in books? I’d bet she’s got a kink or two.”
“But she’s not blonde or a bitch,” I said, “when every girl he’s ever dated has been both blonde and a bitch. They’re practically requirements.”
“Okay.” Michael gave a half laugh. “This conversation is pointless, because I’m never dating Tinsley. Can we drop it, please?”
So we did. But your smoldering gaze kept catching mine over Michael’s back as he cheered on the Celtics, giving me butterflies and filling me with dread at the same time.
You’re pretty hot when you’re jealous, Casey.
But also a little terrifying.
The first snowfall of December brought about the event that ultimately returned everything back to normal.
At least, back to normal with my dad and the Harrises.
After therapy that day, we grabbed honey cinnamon lattes and took the long way home, strolling past window boxes brimming with fresh greenery and holly.
Past balsam garlands strung around front door transoms, their lights still twinkling beneath a pillowy gray sky, the air thick with the promise of snow.
I stopped in front of a brownstone with a wreath in every window and fairy lights strung through the flocked-pinecone greenery over the door. A fat Christmas tree sparkled bright through the front bay window, silver tinsel dripping from its branches.
I filled my lungs full of crisp winter air—the heady scent of fires burning, of pine needles rustling through the air—and finally felt the tiniest glimmer of real Christmas cheer. “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful than Christmas in Boston?”
When you didn’t answer, I turned to the side and caught you watching me, your gaze dancing softly over my face.
“You should see London at Christmastime,” you said, reminding me of my conversation with Eleanor on election night—the story of how she’d met your adoptive mother in London at Christmastime.
I started to tell you so, figuring you probably weren’t aware, but you clasped my elbow and jutted your chin at a different brownstone, diverting my attention. “I like the simplicity of this one.”
Black door. A simple lush wreath made of fresh cedar, seeded eucalyptus, and dried orange slices. I tilted my head. “It’s only a wreath.”
“The orange slices remind me of my mum,” you said, wearing a wistful expression. “She used to tuck them into everything at Christmas.”
You were so broodingly handsome that day, Casey: coat collar popped up, scarf loose around your neck, a wavy tuft of hair sticking out of your beanie, your cheeks rosy from the cold.
The sight of you made my chest ache. Made me want to take you home, give you a nice long cuddle by the fire, and kiss that wrinkle between your eyebrows until it disappeared.
“Anyway,” you said, heaving a sigh, “why do you look so sad?”
“Do I?”
“Yes,” you said, falling into step beside me. “Every time we stop, you look ready to cry.”
“I just have this bad feeling I can’t shake. It feels like I’m seeing Christmas for the last time.”
Your body gravitated closer to mine on the sidewalk, your arm stroking my arm. “I don’t like this bad feeling of yours.”
“Well, neither do I. There’s this question I keep putting off. Can you guess what it is?”
“When do I leave for England?”
I nodded.
“Wednesday.”
My heart sank. “Before Christmas, then.”
You knocked my arm with yours. “Never thought I’d see you quite so glum over me leaving.”
“I’m not glum,” I said, but my voice cracked, giving me away.
You draped an arm across my shoulders, then pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll be back in time for New Year’s Eve. What if I stay in and we binge crap TV the whole night?”
“Sounds good,” I said with a smile.
“Good,” you said, smiling back. “It’s a date.”
“I see what you did there. You don’t think you’re getting a kiss at midnight, do you?”
“A guy can dream,” you said near my ear, voice raspy but deep.
My heart skipped.
Once home, we spotted a man standing on the corner, one hand pressed to his forehead, the other clutched around his phone, clearly exhibiting signs of distress. As he approached us, you shielded my body with yours.
He was a tourist, he said, and his phone had died. He had no idea how to make it back to his hotel without GPS to guide him through the city. He asked if you would please give him directions.
You told him you’d certainly try, then ordered me inside the house.
In the entry hall, I disabled the alarm and removed my crossbody bag, but in doing so, knocked the paper cup out of my hand, which sent coffee splattering all over the floor.
I swore at the mess, then stepped over it, heading for a roll of paper towels in the kitchen.
I’d just passed the basement door when a loud clanging noise stopped me cold.
Confused, I stared at the basement door, thinking.
Henriette always finished her work long before I got home from school, so that sound—which had definitely come from the basement—couldn’t have come from her.
Heart pounding, I opened the door and peered downstairs, but found it too dim to see anything.
I ventured down the steps and paused at the bottom, listening closely, eyes adjusting to the low level of light seeping through the basement windows.
A quick glance around revealed the source of the sound—a mop and broom had toppled to the floor, knocking down a few cleaning supplies with them.
I figured the mop or broom must’ve fallen first, taking down the rest of the items with it.
I walked over, picked up the cleaning supplies, and put them back the way they usually were.
And that’s the last thing I remember before waking up in the hospital.
I bolted upright, clutching the back of my head, sharp pain radiating across my skull.
“Hey,” my dad softly, grasping my shoulder. “Take it easy.”
“What am I doing here?” I demanded, voice rising with panic. “What happened? What’s going on?”
You were there, too—standing behind Nic’s chair—but your behavior confused me. With your eyes squeezed shut, you rubbed your forehead and released a sigh of frustration.
“You slipped in the basement, Elliot. Hit your head,” Nic said, then he paused, searching my gaze. “How old are you?”
I pulled a face. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just answer me.” Nic leaned forward, eagerly awaiting my response.
You, however, simply turned your head and gazed out the hospital window. Giant snowflakes swirled through the air. The very first snowfall of the season.
“I’m nineteen,” I said.
Your gaze immediately snapped to mine.
“How long has Casey lived with us?” Nic asked.
“Over two years now.”
“How many Christmases have we spent with him?”
“This will be the third.”
Nic heaved a giant sigh of relief—and so did you. When my dad turned to give you a smile, you smiled back at him. They were smiles that split your faces open. Celebratory smiles.
“Honey, we’ve been here for hours,” Nic said, turning back to me. “You’ve been asking the same questions over and over. You thought Casey had just moved in with us.”
“What?” This seemed incomprehensible to me. I leaned back against a scratchy white pillow and folded my hands in my lap. When I looked down, I was shocked to see myself wearing a hospital gown. “Why am I wearing this?”
“You had to have an MRI,” Nic said.
I wanted to ask how I’d gotten out of my clothes and into the gown. Had I dressed myself? Had a nurse assisted me? Had he? “Was I awake for that?”
Nic nodded. “You’ve been awake this whole time—other than drifting in and out for the last twenty minutes.”