Letter Five
Today didn’t go as planned.
I pissed off my cellmate again, because the bruise she gave me last week had faded to a barely detectable yellow smudge on my cheek. So yesterday morning while she slept, I ripped open her packets of instant coffee and emptied them all over our squatty little sink.
When she woke up and saw what I’d done, she snatched me off the bottom bunk by my hair, dragged me across our cell, and smashed my face against the side of the toilet seat.
I fell to the floor, laughing, which only enraged her more, so she yanked me up by my hair again and kneed me in the eye.
I writhed next to the toilet, clutching the right side of my face, moaning, “Oh my God. Yes. Thank you. Yes.”
That bitch gaped at me, half in awe, half disgusted. Because, I mean, the sounds I made, Casey, they sounded like sex sounds, even to me. She said, “The fuck. You wanted that, didn’t you? What special kind of fucked up are you, rich girl?”
I refrained from telling her: The worst kind.
The girls in the cells surrounding us wanted to know what had happened, and she happily dished.
So they all know about my fucked up relationship with pain now.
Even in here, I’m a freak.
When the guard brought me out to the visitors’ lounge today, and you saw that angry bruise on my cheek—my right eye, completely swollen shut—you straightened in your chair, horrified.
Not even thirty seconds ticked by before you finally gave it back to me: the warm melody of your voice.
“What’s happened to your face?” you demanded, instantly soothing me, better than any balm ever could.
I gazed back at you—through my good eye—but didn’t respond.
“Wait,” you said, your eyes narrowed to slits. “Did you do this on purpose? Did you do this because I stopped speaking to you?”
You do know me, Casey. You know me well. How quickly you arrived at that conclusion proves it.
You waited for me to answer.
But of course I didn’t.
“Silence is one thing,” you said, “but I won’t tolerate this kind of shit. I won’t have you hurting yourself to get back at me.” Your gaze burned through those bruises on my face. “Did you do this on purpose?”
Again, you waited for me to answer. And again, I didn’t.
“You answer me right now,” you said, voice trembling around the words. “Or I walk out of here, and I don’t ever come back.”
I’d expected anger—but not a threat. As you shoved back the chair and pushed yourself up to a standing position, my resolve slipped. You weren’t bluffing, Casey. You stared down at me with tears in your eyes, dead serious, hope draining like quicksand from your face.
You were about to give up on me.
And I thought I wanted that. In the beginning, when I got here, I did. You were a reminder of everything I’d lost. What I deserved to lose.
It wasn’t until you shook your head sadly and turned to leave that I realized: I can’t give you up. I can’t lose that precious hour with you on Tuesdays. It’s the only thing I have left.
“They hate me here,” I said, and you stopped instantly, body sagging with relief.
“Keep talking,” you whispered, dropping back down to your chair, eyes still shimmering with tears. Like you’d missed the sound of my voice. Like maybe you’d missed that part of me.
“My cellmate hates me,” I said. “I got mad at you last week and ripped up her book, so she attacked me. Yesterday, I tossed her coffee down the drain, so she attacked me again. They hate me here. They hate me because of who I am and what I did. They hate what I come from, and they hate who my family is.”
You didn’t care whether it was the truth or not. You wanted my voice back so badly you accepted whatever I gave you, just content to hear me speak. You asked a lot of questions: “Are you eating? Are you getting enough sleep? What are you reading?”
The more I talked, the more you relaxed, my voice soothing something deep inside of you.
You think you’re so good at seeing the truth in me, Casey. But sometimes I see the truth in you, too.
The relief you showed today reminds me of the relief you showed that day you found me hiding out in the Garden after school. I snuck off to the park after our personal driver, Hal, dropped me at the house. You would’ve been expecting me inside, and I wanted you to worry when I never showed up.
The temperature had dropped to freezing that week, the sun hidden behind a thick haze of clouds.
I’d hunkered down on a bench, hands stuffed inside my coat pockets, determined to stay as long as possible, even though my fingers were growing painfully numb through the wool of my gloves.
A squirrel appeared near the base of a tree across the path, his little nose twitching as he caught my scent.
According to my research, squirrels had the ability to recognize human faces—to remember the ones who fed them, to learn their routines—so I liked to think the squirrels in that park knew me. That maybe they saw me as a friendly presence, someone they could always rely on for snacks.
While most girls my age had dozens of friends, I had three—and a park full of squirrels. And you probably think that’s sad, Casey, but honestly? The squirrels were enough for me. Friends asked questions, but those bushy-tailed creatures never asked for more than I could give them.
I pulled a pouch of pumpkin seeds from my backpack, poured a few into my palm, and held out my hand.
The squirrel froze, then sniffed at the air, training his beady black eyes on my face.
“It’s okay,” I said softly. “It’s just me.”
He inched forward in short, jittery bursts—stop-start, stop-start—until he reached my boot, rose up on his hind legs, and sniffed my glove.
“Don’t worry. I won’t cry today. You can eat in peace,” I said to him. Experience had taught me that crying made squirrels skittish—just like people.
Fearless, the little guy placed one tiny paw on my wrist and reached out with the other, snatching a pumpkin seed from my hand. He held it between his tiny paws like something precious, then devoured it, chewing in quick, fussy bites.
I didn’t move—barely even breathed—because the secret to keeping a squirrel close is to remain perfectly still.
“You’re so brave,” I murmured as he snatched another seed from my palm. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
He nibbled beside my foot in silence. Like we were old friends.
A woman in a puffer coat walked past with her hood pulled up, her mouth pinched tight as she shot me a look. “We aren’t supposed to feed them.”
I glared at her. “No one asked you, Karen. Mind your own damn business.”
As she stalked off, muttering under her breath, I spotted you, standing beneath one of the big orb lampposts across the pond, traffic sounds cutting through the air. When you saw me, your shoulders dropped, relief softening your face.
You made your way over to me, quickly enough to startle the squirrel, who scurried off in a blur of motion. You stared after him. “Were you just…feeding that squirrel?”
I pressed my lips into a firm line as I tucked the pouch of seeds back into my bag.
“It’s quite cold out,” you said, joining me on the bench. “Have you been out here all this time?”
“How did you find me?” I demanded.
“Michael.” You pulled out your phone and shot him a quick text. It read: You were right. I found her.
I cursed Michael under my breath.
“There’s a fire going at the house,” you said, slipping the phone back into your coat pocket.
When you rubbed your hands together, I couldn’t help but notice.
They were nice hands. Big and capable. Veins branching across the top.
Not sure why I liked that, but I did. I eyed the tattoo between your thumb and index finger again, wondering what it meant.
But to ask might give you the impression I’d accepted our living situation—accepted you—so I didn’t.
You leaned closer, your arm brushing mine. “I could make some hot chocolate—if you like that sort of thing.”
“No, thank you,” I said, breath fogging the air. “And I can make my own hot chocolate. I’m not a child.”
“Right.” You leaned back, hands tucked inside your pockets, legs spread wide. “Well, I suppose we’ll sit here until you’re ready to go home, then.”
“Will you always be this annoying?”
“Will you always be this hostile?” you fired back.
I crossed my arms with a humph. “I don’t like the way you say hostile.”
“I don’t particularly like your attitude,” you said, but your eyes twinkled as they raked over me, briefly snagging on my mouth when I pursed my lips.
“We could go back and forth like this all day.”
“We could,” you said with a wide grin, “and nothing would make me happier.”
For some inconceivable reason, my heart fluttered. “Just who the hell are you, anyway?” I demanded, and I didn’t miss it, Casey—the way your entire body went rigid on that bench.
“What do you mean?”
“My dad trusts no one. He doesn’t date. His only real friends are John and Libby, who he’s known forever. Then you come along—literally the only guy Michael’s ever brought to brunch—and my dad moves a complete stranger in with us in a matter of weeks.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m here to help,” you said.
“That’s what you keep saying, but my dad’s willing to give up spending time with me to have you here. I’ve barely seen or talked to him in weeks, and he doesn’t care.”
“He does care. He misses you. In fact, he told you that. But you’re so set on getting your way, you can’t allow yourself to hear it. He wants you downstairs, Elliot. He wants you speaking to him again.”
“You don’t even know my dad.”
“I’m getting to know him better every day—and I’d like to know you better, too, but you’re making it quite difficult.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I don’t have to be there every night. I’ll find something else to do occasionally. That way, you can spend time with your dad. Just you and him.”
“Whatever,” I mumbled, shivering as a bone-chilling breeze whipped a strand of hair across my face.
You stood, grabbed my leather backpack off the ground, and slung it over your shoulder. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”