Letter Twenty-Six #11
“What an amazing gingerbread house,” John said, stooped over the island, where your gingerbread creation sat on a white serving platter, covered with icing and powdered sugar to resemble snow.
He pressed a fingertip to one of the candy glass windows, captivated by the warm amber glow shining from within.
Sprigs of thyme and rosemary climbed its faux stone walls like ivy.
“It looks like that cottage on The Holiday.”
I smiled at how fascinated John was by something you’d—I keep writing you here because, let’s face it, you did most of the work—created from scratch. After a couple of minutes, I asked, “Where’s Michael?”
“Not feeling very well,” Libby answered.
“But it’s Christmas,” I said.
“I know, sweetie. We aren’t happy about it, either. But if he’s sick, it’s better for him to stay home.”
“Don’t worry,” John said, giving my arm a squeeze. “I’ll drop by his apartment to check on him later.”
Michael had been perfectly fine the day before. An uneasy feeling settled in my stomach, propelling me back to the Garland Room. I swiped my phone off the coffee table and texted him: What’s going on? Are you sick?
He left me on read, which likely meant he wasn’t sick—but angry. Maybe even missing Christmas on purpose.
Michael had never missed Christmas.
“What’s wrong?” Bree asked, coming up behind me.
“Nothing,” I said, swiping away our text history before turning to face her.
Bree tilted her head, arms crossed over a burgundy sweater. “You seem pretty rattled that Michael’s not here. Is it because you have something to do with that?”
“No,” I said. “I’m just worried about him.”
“I bet you are.”
I gripped my phone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did you really slip and hit your head by accident, Ellie? Or was that a ploy to get attention?”
“Are you serious right now?”
“Honestly, I’m shocked our parents fell for it this time. The amnesia stuff really sold it, huh?”
“Okay, seriously, Bree. What the fuck?” Over her shoulder, I spotted you strolling into the room.
“What’s happening?” you asked, eyebrows creased with concern.
“Bree just accused me of hitting my head on purpose,” I said, pulling a face, “then faking the amnesia to make it look like an accident.”
“Bree,” you said sternly. “Why would you accuse her of lying?”
It unsettled her Casey, being confronted by you. Her arms dropped. The smug expression on her face faltered. For a moment, she blinked back at you, unsure. But then she quickly recovered, saying, “Because she’s a great liar, Casey. The sooner you accept that about her, the better off you’ll be.”
Bree tossed me a withering look before strutting off to the dining room to join our parents.
While I worried at my bottom lip, you stared after Bree. “I’ll talk to her,” you said. “Is Michael alright?”
“Yeah,” I lied, because what good would it do to worry you? To potentially spoil your Christmas? Especially after those nasty things he’d said to you? “Just not feeling well—like Libby said.”
“What about you?” You placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I clasped the back of my head. “Just a little headache.”
You glanced down at your watch. “Still an hour to go before you can have more painkillers. Maybe you should lie down for a bit after brunch.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I might do that.”
After brunch, while the rest of you chatted over warm drinks—tea for you and Bree, mulled wine for our parents—I sprawled out on the sofa, feet poking your thigh, a throw pillow propped under my head.
All afternoon, you kept your hand on my ankle, as if to say, See?
I’m not going anywhere. But I could barely take comfort in that, deeply unsettled by the weird exchange with Bree and Michael’s glaring absence. He still hadn’t replied to my text.
What made that Christmas especially bittersweet, though, were the moments between you and John.
He always took time to chat with you, and that day was no different.
When my dad and Libby left the room refill their drinks, John sat across from you on the coffee table.
“So,” he said with a warm smile, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, “Nic tells me you’re planning to do an internship at the firm next year to see if it’s a good fit. ”
Despite my own reservations on the topic—which, as you know, we’d get into later—it melted me to hear you ask John for his opinion on the matter.
To catch the earnest expression on your face as you sought his approval.
To see him place a reassuring hand on your arm, saying your plans sounded great—as long as the firm made you happy.
Of course, all I could think about was how you’d never truly be happy until you told John the truth. I blamed Michael for being so difficult, but I also blamed myself—for being caught between you guys in the first place.
The next day, I learned my dad blamed me, too.
Nic had asked you to pick up takeout for dinner at one of our favorite restaurants a few blocks away. He watched you walk out the back door, then immediately turned to me.
“What’s going on between you and Casey?”
I squirmed in my stool, cradling a cup of lukewarm tea. “Nothing’s going on between me and Casey.”
“Elliot, do you think I’m completely blind to what’s been going on in this house?”
“Is that supposed to be a rhetorical question?”