Letter Two #3
The interaction wasn’t flirtatious, exactly, but it still raised my hackles, especially because Michael had just risen from the sofa to exchange pleasantries with a man who’d served on the city council with his mom. And when he sat down again, Sienna quickly dropped her hand from your arm.
Whatever was going on between you two, I filed it under Reasons I Hate That Bitch.
An actual list, by the way, neatly typed up on my phone. I plucked the device from my dress pocket and hammered out my most recent observation: #47 Excessive arm contact with a guy (super hot, British) who isn’t Michael.
You see, I despised Sienna before you came along.
And, no, it had nothing to do with how pretty she was.
Sure, she had an amazing body and a cute little nose covered in freckles, but a couple of Michael’s girlfriends had been way hotter.
I hated this one primarily because she was a bitch.
The first time we met, for instance, she asked how old I was, and when I told her seventeen, she’d given me a critical once-over and said, “Wow. Really? I never would’ve guessed that. I figured thirteen. Fourteen, tops.”
And while normally I waited a couple weeks to start screwing with Michael’s girlfriends, I happily made an exception that day.
When it was time to tell Michael and the others goodbye, I looked Sienna in the eye and stroked my thumb down the scar that slices through Michael’s upper lip.
She’d turned an unflattering shade of red that almost matched her signature lipstick as I shot her a smirk that said, Take that, bitch.
The longer I watched her with you guys that night, the more I ached to walk over and drag my thumb down her boyfriend’s lip again.
Because her hand brushed your thigh as often as it brushed Michael’s.
Her bright red lipstick stained your glass the same way it stained Michael’s.
Her feet, in their jet-black suede pumps, played footsie with you both.
I didn’t like the pleased grin on her face when you and Michael leaned over her lap at the same time to speak, the way her black-stockinged leg had fused itself to yours, or the way she held Michael’s hand in her lap while she whispered more suspicious somethings in your ear.
Tinsley appeared at my side, linked her arm with mine, and hissed, “Do you think they’re, like, sharing her?”
“No way,” I said, recoiling at the thought. “Michael wouldn’t go for that.”
But the truth was, I didn’t know what Michael went for, other than bitches like Sienna—girls who tended to be some shade of blonde and faintly adorable with huge tits.
That, and heavy petting sessions like the ones that often took place in the dim hallway at his parents’ house.
Petting sessions I personally had the misfortune to witness, on more than one occasion, while staying with the Harrises after school.
Sienna pressed against the wall. Michael’s hand up her skirt. Her moaning into his mouth. The mortified look on Michael’s face when he inevitably spotted me there, watching them.
“Gross,” I’d say every time. “Your bedroom is right there.” Followed by Sienna’s tinkling laugh as she pulled Michael into his room and shut the door. And that’s another reason she was a bitch—she got him going in the hallway because she wanted me to see them together.
“Libby keeps glancing over there,” Tinsley said. “She looks deeply concerned.”
Tinsley was right. The scene before us had Politician Barbie clutching her pearls, her hawkish gaze fixed on the sofa.
Questionable public displays—like the one you three were putting on that night—didn’t promote the wholesome image she and John had so flawlessly cultivated throughout their careers.
“Maybe Casey’s gay,” Tinsley said, “and that’s why Michael’s letting his girlfriend paw another guy like the new Fendi mink coat at Sak’s.”
My heart dropped at the thought, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it too long, because Tinsley dug her fingers into my arm and said, “Wait. Here comes my mom in the mortifying dress I begged her not to wear tonight. Let’s see if Casey checks her out.”
We watched Tinsley’s mom as she sashayed into the room, wearing an olive bandage minidress with a sweetheart neckline and stiletto heels, and you did check her out, Casey.
Your attention snapped to Tinsley’s mom immediately.
Your eyes raked appreciatively up and down her Pilates-toned body before settling on the impressive shelf of her cleavage.
Tinsley nodded, lips pursed. “Okay. Definitely not gay.”
“Nope,” I agreed. But then I noticed Michael, whose gaze also roamed over Tinsley’s mom in that dress.
Both of you watched her, spellbound as she worked the room, expressions scarily similar.
The only difference was you dragged two fingers over your bottom lip in this slow, sexy way that made my stomach flutter while Michael bit his—and that made me feel a twinge of something, too. I nudged Tinsley in the side.
“Oh, screw them,” she whined. “I need to distract her before she spots Casey, or she will try to bring him home with us, even though he’s half her age. Jesus.”
I believed it. Tinsley’s mom had a penchant for younger guys the way you do for cardigans. (Or so I’d learn.)
Tinsley pushed herself off the wall while Sienna—having caught Michael ogling Tinsley’s mom—socked him in the arm. And I have to admit, I might’ve hated Sienna, but I definitely didn’t hate the sight of that.
“Don’t slouch, Elliot,” a voice said next to my ear, causing me to flinch.
But it was only my grandmother, who had a habit of sneaking up on me, often to criticize or correct.
Eleanor found many things distasteful: profanity, PDA, bad posture, and far too much else to list here without giving myself a hand cramp.
She dug one of her sharp talons into my spine and added, “For God’s sake, there are very important people here. ”
“Jesus,” I said, clutching my chest. “You scared me.”
“What have I told you about taking the Lord’s name in vain?” she chided, eyeing me sharply.
I gaped at her. “But you—Eleanor, you literally just did it yourself.”
“Want to know the tricky thing about secrets, dear?” she asked, ignoring my comment.
She peered into the Garland Room, folding her thin arms over black silk chiffon.
“No matter how deep you think you’ve buried them, they always find a way of rising back to the surface.
If I were you, I’d bear that in mind the next time you think about keeping a secret. ”
“Oh…kay,” I said, when what I really wanted to say was: Thanks for the weird, cryptic, unsolicited advice. Instead, I stood there quietly—definitely not slouching—until she drifted off.
Rare as they were, social events at my house always left me on edge and prickly—as you know, I’d rather gouge an eye out than entertain a stranger—so I grabbed my coat, slipped through the kitchen, and ducked out the back door for some fresh air.
Outside, our little courtyard stretched quiet and peaceful beneath an inky black sky.
I tilted my face to the stars, a cool breeze catching loose tendrils of my hair and sweeping them across my cheeks.
Taking a seat on the stone bench closest to the house, I sucked a healthy dose of crisp fall air into my lungs.
My shoulders loosened on the exhale—but not for long, because the back door creaked open and someone stepped out of my house.
And that someone, of course, was you.
But you didn’t spot me sitting there, hidden in the shadow cast by our townhouse, so I stayed still and silent enough to observe you.
Like me, you lifted your face to the sky, drew in a deep breath, and slowly released it.
After muttering what sounded like a string of profanities under your breath, you reached inside your jacket and pulled out a cigarette, along with a silver lighter that caught the reflection of the moon.
When you placed the cigarette between your lips and went to light it, I cleared my throat, alerting you to my presence.
You snatched the cigarette from your mouth and drew back, peering through the darkness until I stepped into the light. We studied each other for one long, heart-stuttering moment before you sighed and asked, “What are you doing out here, all alone in the dark?”
What an odd question, I thought. What an odd, familiar way to address someone you’d just met.
In some inexplicable way, though, you were familiar to me.
I’d felt it earlier, too, when we were introduced, unable to shake the feeling I already knew you.
Like we’d crossed paths before, maybe, or I’d conjured you from a dream. A feeling similar to déjà vu.
“I hate those things,” I said, nodding toward the house.
“I’m not a fan of them myself,” you admitted. “Is it okay if I smoke out here?”
“Do whatever you like,” I said, shoving both hands into the pockets of my coat.
Again, you put the cigarette to your mouth, cupping your left hand around the tip to light the end.
I caught a flash of the tattoo between your thumb and forefinger: a symbol or curlicue of some kind, or maybe a letter of the alphabet.
I couldn’t tell without asking, and I didn’t ask, too busy taking in other details.
Like a bracelet made of black and white beads on your wrist, right below the tattoo.
You held the smoke inside your lungs for several seconds before blowing a large plume of it out into the night.
“Can I have one of those?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” you said, dark eyebrows lifted. “What are you, fourteen?”
“Are you serious?” I snapped, making a mental note to wear eye makeup. Or stuff my bra. Or something. Did I really look that young? Jesus. “I’m seventeen.”