Letter Three #3
I didn’t tell you about the stack of papers I’d found in my dad’s office after that. Papers filled with a bunch of big words I’d never seen before and certainly didn’t understand. Words like psychopathy, callous, narcissistic, unemotional, and screening.
I didn’t tell you I’d looked up the word psychopathy in a dictionary, saw the word illness, and ran to my dad with tears streaming down my face, demanding to know if I was sick.
I didn’t tell you about the letter I’d written to Michael. Or how my dad had forced me to read the letter aloud to him—in that very room—while Garland watched on, disapproving. Or how I could barely read the words aloud because I’d been crying so hard.
I didn’t tell you I’d gotten on my knees and begged Michael to forgive me, or that he’d looked close to tears himself as he’d begged me to stop. “Please stop,” he’d said. “Get up, Elliot. I forgive you.” Or that our parents had watched the whole thing, all three of them sagging with relief.
I didn’t tell you about giving Michael my favorite stuffed animal to sleep with, or all the games I lost on purpose because winning made him smile, and his smile was the only thing that could make me breathe easier for months.
Or how often I pressed my hand to his chest after that, needing the reassurance, needing to feel his heart beating.
Or how, each time I did, I whispered under my breath, “You’re still here. ”
“Does Michael know why you stabbed him?” you asked.
I nodded. “He knows, and he forgave me.”
“Even though she almost killed me,” Michael said from the doorway, where he’d been leaning against the wall, silent, listening to us.
He touched two fingers to the scar on his neck, like he always did when someone brought up the stabbing, his eyes locked with mine as he walked toward us.
The look on his face said, I remember everything.
It also said, Thanks for giving him a chance.
Michael took the picture from your hand. “How could I not? Look at how cute she was.” Smiling, he bumped my elbow with his. “Cute, but also kind of scary.”
Smiling back, I dragged my thumb down the little scar that slices through his upper lip. You probably know how he got that one: by catching a guy’s elbow to the mouth during a game of basketball at fourteen.
What you don’t know is that I’ve been stroking his scar since it fully healed, and I hate when Libby claims the plastic surgeon did a shitty job on Michael’s stitches by leaving a scar there at all.
I’ve always agreed with my dad and John: the scar gives him character.
But more than that, it gives me the comfort I need—when I’m not using it to mess with his girlfriends, that is.
Every time I stroke my thumb down Michael’s scar, my heart sighs with relief all over again: You’re still here.
He’s here and whole, and my rage didn’t take him away from me.
At least, it didn’t at eight.
But that day, to you, Michael said, “Hey, man. I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have told them your business like that.”
You shoved both hands inside your pockets. “It’s okay, mate.”
“No, it’s not,” Michael said. “But you should know—it’s almost impossible to keep stuff from them, anyway. There’s a good chance Nic’s already done a background check on you.”
You blinked at him, Casey. You froze. “What?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But you shouldn’t take it personally. He does that to everyone.”
You glanced between us to see if we were joking. But we stared back at you, completely serious.
A short while later, as you and Michael headed for the front door, Nic stopped you in the entry hall. “Casey, I’d like us to talk more about your current living situation. Why don’t you hang back and meet up with Michael later?”
You swallowed. “Actually, I—”
Nic put his hand on your shoulder, gripping the part where shoulder meets neck. You winced as he said, “I insist.”
Michael told you to text him later, and Nic ordered me upstairs to start on my homework.
Before I went, I watched Nic lead you to his office, your shoulders tense, hands balled into fists by your side.
I did my homework on the landing outside my room, hoping to catch another glimpse of you before you left.
Over two hours passed before the sound of your voices filtered softly upstairs.
Through the mahogany spindles, I watched as my dad walked you to the door.
Whatever you’d discussed in his office must’ve gone well, because you weren’t tense anymore, and neither was Nic.
He did this thing where he took your hand in one of his while gripping your forearm with his other hand. A handshake, but more intimate.
Then he said something to you, but I couldn’t make out the words, spoken too low for me to hear.
Long after you’d left, Nic stood in the entry hall, staring at the front door with both hands stuffed inside his pockets.
The whole interaction struck me as odd, but I figured you must’ve swallowed your pride and accepted my dad’s offer to provide you with a safer place to live.
And I would find out, in just a few days’ time, exactly where that was.