Letter Twenty-Six #7
“No. Willoughby was freaked out, because most girls don’t give themselves bruises when their hookup buddy refuses to give them what they ask for.”
“What did you ask him for?”
“I’d really like to go downstairs now.”
“I’d rather you stay and talk to me about this.”
“Why? What’s the point?”
“I want to understand.”
“That’s just the thing—you can’t understand.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know. No one can understand.” I still felt wounded by Michael’s inability to understand—this from the person who knew me better than anyone. If he didn’t get it, you probably wouldn’t, either.
“Right,” you said, nudging me back as you climbed off the bed. “Let’s go downstairs. I’ll make you another tea to drink with your breakfast.”
“Listen,” I tried, much softer. “I just—”
“Don’t worry about it,” you said, staring over my shoulder.
You proffered your arm for our journey downstairs, and I fussed about taking it, but I did.
A good thing, it turned out, because the staircase began to swirl about halfway to the bottom, and I lurched forward.
But your grip tightened and you jerked me back, preventing me from falling.
“Oh, I’m being overly cautious, am I?” you demanded, wide-eyed. “You would’ve toppled to your death if I hadn’t been here. You realize that, right?”
I burst into tears, all my frustration springing free at once. You shushed me as we slowly made our way downstairs, then led me to one of the sofas. You were busy mopping up my tears with the sleeve of your sweater when Michael entered the Garland Room.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
“She got dizzy again on the stairs,” you told him, “and she’s hungry. She needs to eat.”
“Then go make her something,” he said.
“I was just about to do that, Michael.”
You guys entered into a staring contest with each other as you slipped past him and left the room.
Later, while I ate avocado toast with an assortment of perfectly sliced fruit, you guys sat across from each other, freely scrolling on your phones.
I hated the awkward silence so much I attempted to turn on the TV, but you quickly confiscated the remote and said no.
For the sixth time in as many days, we bickered over what the doctor had meant by “limit screen time.”
Michael sighed. “Casey, you look like you could use a break, dude. Why don’t you go for a walk or something? I’ll stay with Elliot.”
“I’m good, thanks,” you said.
“Really? You’ve been stuck in this house with Elliot for days now, and she’s a handful at even the best of times.”
“Hey,” I said, shoving my foot in his side. “What if I’m the one who needs a break?”
“Looks like you could both use a break,” Michael said, eyebrows lifted.
You glanced between us. “I don’t know if I feel comfortable leaving.”
Michael cocked his head. “Why’s that?”
“She’s feeling a bit frustrated lately, so she might talk you into letting her do something she shouldn’t quite yet.”
“She’s not talking me into anything. I know how to handle her. I’ve been looking after Elliot a lot longer than you have, Casey.”
“Okay, first off,” I said. “I don’t need looking after, because I’m not a child.”
Michael ignored me. “And while we’re on the subject,” he said, “you really suck at your job.”
You leaned forward in the wingback, eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“Since you came along, she’s been assaulted, left alone to have a panic attack, received a head injury—”
“Now, hold on,” you said.
“—sliced her hand open after you nearly killed a guy—”
“Are you fucking serious?” you snapped. “You did a good bit of damage to those boys yourself, Michael. You were there, too.”
“Thank God I was,” he said, “because you’d be sitting in prison right now if I hadn’t been looking out for you.”
“Right,” you said with a bitter laugh. “You were looking out for me—or were you also looking out for yourself? When you realized how close you were to tarnishing that big, bright name you have? That golden future? How nice it must be to have friends who can throw their weight around and make all your problems disappear.”
Michael’s gaze flickered ominously. “What, like you’re not currently benefiting from those same friends, simply because you’re my friend?
Without me, you’d still be living in a shithole where people are stealing from you, busting your ass every night for tips, and doing lines off the stranger you’re fucking in a bathroom—or, if you’re really lucky, somewhere with actual walls and a lock on the door.
Fucking people whose names you never bothered to ask for or can’t recall the next day. ”
“Tell me, Michael,” you said tightly, “how many one-night stands can you name? You know, all those girls you hooked up with in England? ‘Oh, I’m a relationship guy, I’m not really into that sort of thing’—isn’t that what you told me once?
But how quickly your own morals slipped when you finally broke free of Mummy and Daddy and suddenly you could walk into a place where absolutely no one knew who you were. ”
Beside me, Michael stewed, breathing hard, indignation coming off him in waves.
“If you hadn’t met me,” he said, voice deep and menacing, “the only thing you’d have going for you, besides that face of yours, is a place at Harvard—and I’m still not sure how you managed to pull that off, given what I know about your past. If Nic only knew how many girls you ghosted before moving here, he sure as hell wouldn’t be leaving you alone with his daughter.
You act like you don’t deserve what Nic gives you, but you must secretly covet it all, anyway, because nothing’s stopped you from taking it.
Taking everything—including center stage in my life.
You think you’re one of us now because Nic treats you like family.
But here’s the truth: you’re just convenient. ”
You repeated that cruel little word back to him. “Convenient.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Nic needed someone to watch Elliot, and there you were. Compliant, eager to please, and more than willing to give him full control of your life. You let Nic treat you like you’re his personal property—like he owns you.
But you like that, right, Casey? Being owned?
I bet you wish Nic was your daddy—don’t you?
—instead of that piece of shit who raised you.
You’re so desperate to feel wanted, you’ll take anything.
Even if it already belongs to someone else. ”
You stared at Michael, who gazed back with a look so cold and scathing it brought tears to my eyes. You quickly glanced away to hide the tears in yours, then left the room. Seconds later, the back door slammed.
I glared at Michael’s profile. “I’m not the only one who can be cruel.” When he didn’t respond, I shoved him in the shoulder. “You’re an asshole.”
Michael thrust one hand out. “I’m tired of walking in here and finding his hands all over you. He touches you like you belong to him.”
“I don’t belong to anyone.”
“He doesn’t see it that way. You know why? Because Nic’s setting him up to have a career at the firm, and a future at the firm means a guaranteed future with you. Nic’s handing Casey his blessing on a silver platter, and Casey knows it.”
“You need to apologize to him.”
He made a face. “I don’t need to do anything.”
“Fine,” I said with a shrug. “But if you don’t? This friendship is over.”
Michael drew back. “Is that a threat?”
“Yes. In the past, you made me apologize for hurting him, and now I’m making you.
You’re not allowed to get away with saying cruel things to him, either.
You’re his”—I’ll be honest, Casey, I had to stop myself from saying the word brother here—“friend. You need to stop being such a dick to him because you’re jealous. ”
“Jealous?” he said, practically choking on the word.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to be in love with you? I’ll admit, I’ve lived a truly charmed and privileged life.
I’ve never wanted for anything—except you.
Everything I know about struggle and heartache and misery has come from loving you.
Loving someone I can’t have, who doesn’t love me the way I want, who is kept and guarded by my friend.
He gets to have you all to himself on a daily basis, but the only way I ever got to have you was in secret. ”
I grabbed Michael’s hand. “I get what you’re saying, and it’s not fair, but none of that gives you the right to say such horrible things to him. You’re better than that.”
With tears pooling in his eyes, Michael turned to stare at the blacked-out TV.
“Our parents are finally talking again, and he’s staying for Christmas, and I want—” My voice broke. “I want everyone to be happy and stop fighting because of me.”
Michael pulled me close. “Okay,” he whispered into my hair. “I’ll apologize.”
That evening, you cleaned out the fridge.
Straightened up the pantry. Made fettuccine Alfredo for dinner.
Twice, my dad asked if you were okay, and you told him you were, then proceeded to spend an excessively long time washing our dishes by hand instead of loading them into the dishwasher.
I offered to help, but you told me to go visit with the Harrises, who’d dropped by for a nightcap.
But I didn’t particularly feel like watching the two of them grope my dad on Christmas Eve, so I sat at the island and watched you do the dishes, anyway.
At bedtime, I climbed under the blankets on my designated sofa while you switched off the lamps and sconces above the fireplace. Three nights earlier, I’d mentioned wanting to fall asleep to the soft, warm glow of the tree, so you left the tree lit. Especially for me.
You were always thoughtful like that. And yet, in the span of an hour that morning, not one but two people had hurt your feelings.
Across from me, you were lying with one arm tucked behind your head, staring at the ceiling, looking hopeless. And I couldn’t allow that. Not on Christmas. So I threw off my covers and shuffled around the coffee table. “Move over.”