Letter Twenty-Six #9
“Then I came here, and Nic was so quick to take me in—even before Claire told him the truth about my dad—and I didn’t realize how much I needed to belong somewhere again until Nic gave me that.
Your dad has treated me with more respect and kindness than my adoptive father ever has.
Every time I go back to England, Nic calls to tell me it’s going to be okay, it doesn’t matter what he says, the important thing is I’m loved and appreciated here.
While I was over there this past summer, Nic called to say, ‘The greatest day of my life was the day Elliot was born, the second greatest was the day you told me you might’ve been my son, and the third greatest was finding out you’re John’s.
Getting to know you over these last couple of years?
Having you live with us? I’ll never be able to adequately express what a privilege that is.
’ But I feel the privilege is all mine, because getting to live here—getting to know him—has been so massively healing for me. ”
Tears sprinted down my face.
You tried brushing them away with the pads of your fingers.
“And I’ve been awful,” I whispered. “All along I’ve been awful. Especially when you first moved in.”
“You didn’t know,” you said softly, chasing a tear down my throat.
So many emotions churned through me as I clasped your wrist. These were the horrible circumstances Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to name. No wonder you spiraled every year on your birthday. No wonder you couldn’t talk about your mom without crying. No wonder.
I untangled my body from yours and rose from the sofa. But I stood too quickly, and the room dimmed at the edges, a roaring pressure flooding my head as I fought to stay upright.
“Hey.” You grabbed my arm to steady me. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, clutching my forehead. “But I’d really like to hop on a plane right now, so I can fly to England and torture the hell out of your adoptive dad.”
“He doesn’t deserve that,” you said, tugging my hand. “Come back, alright? Lie down.”
“Are you kidding? He deserves so much worse than torture—and so do I. For using your birthday against you that time?”
“It’s all in the past now. Come on,” you said, holding the blanket aloft. “Climb back in.”
But it wasn’t in the past. I remembered it all. Every death glare and scathing remark. Every broken dish and shove. Every lie and secret. Michael.
I might’ve confessed everything right then, but it was Christmas, for God’s sake. I couldn’t spoil an entire holiday for you, too.
So I let you pull me back in and drape the blanket over our bodies.
With my head nestled on the pillow beside yours, I pushed my fingers through your hair, chest heavy with all the things I wanted to say.
You’re the best person I know. You’re light incarnate like she was.
I love you. But those three little words clogged my throat, making it impossible to speak.
You removed the elastic from my braid, then carefully worked your fingers through the knots in my hair.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Your hair is a great source of comfort to me.”
Somehow, despite the situation, I laughed. “Are you being serious right now?”
“No,” you said through the smallest of smiles.
“I just love running my fingers through it.” You dropped your gaze to the strand you’d already wrapped around your index finger.
“I’m sorry I pushed you away over the Libby thing and waited so long to tell you the truth about my mum.
After everything my adoptive dad’s done, I’ve made this horrible habit of keeping people at a distance, especially when I know they have the power to hurt me.
My whole life, I’ve tried so hard to make him love me, but he just… doesn’t. He hates me instead.”
My heart ached hearing you say that. “I know it probably doesn’t help,” I said, taking your face in my hand, “but that man is a heaping sack of shit who never deserved to call you his son. There are so many people here who know and love you—and you know why? You’re easy to love.
You carry all the best pieces of your mom, and you brought them over here to us.
You take care of everyone. You listen. You put your heart and soul into everything you do.
When you moved into our house, you filled it with light.
You made it a home. It’s like my dad said—having you here is a privilege.
That horrible man’s loss will forever be our gain. ”
You stared at me, eyes shining bright. “It does help, actually,” you said, tears rolling down your cheeks. You brought my hand to your face, then kissed the inside of my wrist. “Thank you.”
After a confession like that, I decided to confess something, too. “I do the lip thing to Michael because I stabbed him. Because it’s not enough to know he’s still here. I need to touch him to be sure.”
“I need you to elaborate,” you said, brows pinching together.
“After the stabbing incident, our parents kept telling me he was fine. But they wouldn’t let me see him—for weeks—which didn’t make sense.
If he was fine, why couldn’t I see him? I worried maybe he wasn’t fine.
I pined over it. I stayed upset, crying all the time.
Until, finally, the Harrises brought him over to the house.
But when I ran up to Michael, so happy to see him alive and okay, he hid behind John.
He was scared to be near me. So they took him away again, and a few days later, I was so worried he’d never speak to me again that I read him my letter of apology and begged for his forgiveness. ”
“And he forgave you,” you said.
“Yes. And then later that day, while our parents were visiting, he laid down on the sofa in here, and I climbed up beside him and pressed my hand to his chest. I wanted to feel his heart beating—wanted to feel how alive he was—but the biggest thing was he let me. He let me close enough to touch him, which meant I hadn’t lost him after all, not even a little.
It’s one thing to lose a person because they’re gone, but it’s worse to lose someone because they don’t want to be around you anymore.
Because you’ve done something so awful they can’t ever forgive you. ”
“Elliot,” you said softly, “this is something I definitely understand.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know you could until tonight.”
“So you do the lip thing because it makes you feel more secure in your friendship. He still accepts you, despite what you did to him all those years ago.”
I nodded.
“Well, now that I know why you do the lip thing—and how much it means to you—I don’t feel I can ask you to stop doing it. So go on,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Keep stroking my brother.”
I laughed. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Making it sound so…dirty.”
“Much of what you do with him could easily turn into something dirty.” You quirked a brow. “Your head in his lap, for example.”
“Oh, I see. Now that we’ve moved past the lip thing, you’re fixating on the lap thing.”
You eyed me, twisting a strand of my hair tightly around your finger.
“I don’t want your head in his lap. I don’t want his hand in your hair.
I don’t want him wiping away your tears when I’m available to do that myself, and I certainly don’t want you sleeping with him, even if you’re only sleeping and nothing else. ”
I swallowed the knot of regret in my throat. “I understand.”
“It’s just—when I see you with him, it makes me unbelievably jealous, and I don’t want to feel jealous of my brother any more than I already do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Him and John, you know? When I see them together? The closeness? The familiarity? The little things Michael takes for granted?”
“Like what?”
“John hugging him. John telling him about the day he was born. John lecturing him, or scolding him, or bugging him because he’s texted three times and Michael hasn’t responded yet, so John rings him instead, and Michael’s annoyed on the phone, when it’s obvious John’s just worried about him.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting there, listening to their phone call and wishing I had that sort of relationship with John myself, but knowing I never will.
Even if John knew the truth, we’d never have the type of father-son relationship they have.
It’s like you said that time at the beach: Michael has the luxury of taking these things for granted—Bree, too.
But it bothers me more when I see Michael doing it.
He has something I’ve coveted my whole life, and he doesn’t even appreciate it. ”
“You sound like me at eight years old. Right before I stabbed him.”
“I do, don’t I?” you said with a sigh. “But I don’t want to punish him for it.
I’m happy he has a dad who loves him. I just—I want a relationship with John, too.
A real one, where he doesn’t think I’m his son’s friend or someone Nic’s keeping around because I’m convenient. It’s pathetic how badly I want that.”
You turned over, pointing your gaze at the ceiling again, looking hopeless.
I lifted up on one elbow, swept the hair off your forehead, and kissed the crease between your eyebrows. Then the tip of your nose, the center of your chin, the dip in your throat. Followed by your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your eye, back to your neck. Delicate kisses. Soft and lingering.
And I would’ve veered lower—into uncharted territory—except my heart was already doing crazy things, what with your breath coming out ragged next to my ear and your hand caught in my hair, tugging close to my scalp. Just close enough to the healing wound at the back of my skull to make it sing.
“See,” you said hoarsely. “Talking is good for us.”
“Therapy’s rubbing off on you.”
“Stop it.” Lifting up, you nudged me onto my back, then planted your mouth at the base of my throat, where you gently nipped at my pulse with your teeth. I shivered. “I’ve told you everything now.”
I slipped my fingers around the back of your neck. “Not everything.”