Letter Six #3
“He’s called, like, Barnaby or something,” you said.
Willoughby stopped trying to free himself. “It’s…Willoughby.”
Michael pulled a face. “What kind of name is that?”
“It’s a family name,” Willoughby said.
“It’s a shitty one, too,” Michael replied, releasing him. “Do your parents hate you or something?”
Willoughby rubbed the back of his neck. “Fuck you, man.”
Michael smirked. “Take this party out of here right now, Willoughby, or you’re going to regret letting her rope you into this.”
Willoughby put his hands up. “Look, I don’t want any trouble.”
I chuckled at that. “He’s bluffing, Willoughby. He can’t get his hands dirty or his image—too many phones.” I tossed Michael a smirk of my own. “Plus, he’s scared of his mommy.”
Michael laughed, teeth dragging across his bottom lip. “That’s bullshit, Elliot. I’m going to kick his ass just for you saying that.”
You stepped into action then, Casey. “No, let me. I’ve got nothing to lose. It’s me he’s here to fuck with, anyway.”
I laughed. “He’s bluffing, too, Willoughby. Just look at him—he’s way too soft to hurt anyone.”
You reared back. “Too soft? Are you fucking serious?”
You yanked Willoughby forward by the shirt and he threw his hands up, saying, “Whoa, dude. Hey. I really don’t want any trouble.” He cast a desperate look at me. “I’m sorry, Elliot, but this isn’t worth it.”
Michael snatched the phone from my hand and stopped the music. Willoughby whistled loud, made up some bullshit about the cops being on their way, and told everyone to meet back at his house. The kids quickly trickled out of my house, leaving only the four of us behind.
Tinsley stood nearby, looking sheepish. “Sorry, Casey,” she said, grabbing a dishcloth off the sink. “I’ll help Elliot clean up this mess.”
“No,” I said, snatching the dishcloth from her. “The mess stays until my dad gets home.”
You stepped forward. “Oh, no, it doesn’t. You’ll clean it up tonight, Elliot. You’ll make this place spotless—like nothing ever happened.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I absolutely can. Your dad left me in charge, remember?”
“I hate you,” I said, fisting the dishcloth by my side. “Why don’t you go back to England? No one wants you here. You are such a dick.”
Anger flared in your eyes—but hurt, too.
“And you’re a child,” you snapped back. “You know why your dad can’t leave you alone?
Because you throw tantrums when you don’t get your way.
You lie and sneak around and screw with peoples’ lives just for sport.
You act like a child, Elliot, and that’s why you’re still babysat like one. ”
My rage, Casey, soared to an all-time high. My chest heaved with it. You weren’t getting away with calling me a child. I wasn’t going to allow it. Through clenched teeth, I said, “April nineteenth.”
You straightened, a muscle jumping in your jaw. “Excuse me?”
“April nineteenth,” I repeated. “That’s your birthday.”
“Okay, fine,” you said, something like a laugh catching in your throat.
“You want to know why I hate my birthday? You want me to tell you?” You didn’t wait for my reply.
“My mother died on my birthday. The day I turned thirteen, she was killed in a car accident, and it was the worst fucking day of my life.”
Shame sliced through me. I’d never expected your reason to be anything as serious or tragic as that.
“Are you happy now?” you asked. “Are you happy with yourself—for pulling that out of me?” You backed out of the kitchen, your stormy gaze snagging on mine one final time before you turned down the hallway.
“I can’t believe you, Elliot. I’m going home,” Tinsley said, eyes wet and furious as she left to follow you upstairs.
Why did I do this? Why did I push people so damn hard? I stood still, fingers unclenching around the dishcloth, Michael’s silence pressing at my back. When I finally gathered the courage to turn around, I tried slipping by him without making eye contact, but he grabbed my arm. “Look at me.”
I slowly lifted my gaze to his, and what I saw there sliced through me. Disgust. Anger. Disappointment. “What’s wrong with you? Why do you treat him like that?”
I swallowed. Didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“Is Sienna right? Do you have a crush on him? Is that why you push him so hard?”
I shook my head.
“Then why? Answer me.”
I yanked my arm free and leaned against the island.
“Because,” I said, my voice catching on the word.
“He’s perfect. He does his own laundry. He picks up after everyone.
He makes our dinner sometimes—and my dad loves that shit.
Eleanor, too.” I swiped a fallen tear from my face.
“A button popped off her cardigan the other day, and Casey sewed it back on. She asked him how he learned to do that, and when he said his mother taught him, she got actual tears in her eyes. She had to excuse herself, but first she told him to teach me how to sew a button back on. So he did. And, whatever, I guess it is a useful skill to have, but why does Eleanor suddenly grow a heart whenever Casey’s around? ”
Do you remember teaching me to sew, Casey?
We sat close, your thigh pressing against mine, and I kept leaning closer, drawn to your scent.
You smelled clean—just clean—like a bar of soap.
Like mint and eucalyptus, but something else, too.
Leather, maybe. You were extra patient with me that day, your voice warm and soothing in a way I didn’t expect.
It was the first time since Eleanor’s birthday you’d actually talked to me, so I kept messing up on purpose, forcing you to go over it again and again.
Each time you took the needle back, your fingers brushed mine. I never wanted that moment to end.
“And the worst part is, my dad’s whole face lights up whenever Casey enters the room, and that never happens with me anymore. He just looks at me like I’m this problem he still needs to figure out how to solve. And, yeah, I’ve definitely done some things to deserve that. But it still hurts.”
Michael swiped away one of my tears with his thumb. “Casey isn’t trying to one-up you with your dad, Elliot. Maybe it’s time you stop punishing other people for the way Nic makes you feel.”
The truth of his statement hit me hard. My throat tightened as I looked away. “Casey won’t get in trouble for this mess, will he?”
“No,” Michael said. “You will. And even if you promise to make things right with Casey, Nic will still take you back to therapy and make you do that whole fucked-up apology routine. Is that what you want? You want Casey to see you do that?”
“No,” I said, another tear slipping down my chin. “But this was really bad.”
“That’s why we’ll clean up this mess, and then you’ll go upstairs to apologize—the normal way. Right?”
“Right,” I whispered.
“Also, you broke your promise to me. So you’ll give him another chance.”
I nodded. “I’ll give him another chance.”
“And you’ll stop with the childish games.”
“This wasn’t childish,” I argued.
Michael shot me a look.
“Fine,” I groaned. “I’ll stop with the childish games.”
Tinsley left via Hal while Michael and I cleaned the kitchen in silence. When we finished, I stroked my thumb down the scar on his lip. “Thank you,” I whispered. He squeezed my wrist on his way out the door.
I took my time locking up after him, delaying the inevitable, gathering the courage I needed to face you. Upstairs, I found you sitting at the desk in your bedroom, staring at your laptop.
“We cleaned up the mess,” I said, leaning against the doorway. “It looks like it never happened.”
You slammed the laptop shut.
“I’m sorry about your mom. I shouldn’t have done that with your birthday, Casey. It was cruel, and I feel awful.”
You stared at the wall behind your desk, jaw working hard. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
“Please.”
You finally looked at me.
“Can we start over?” I asked, blinking back the tears in my eyes. “You said we could if I apologized.”
If gazes could cut, Casey, yours would’ve flayed me alive.
“Can I show you something?” I asked.
You didn’t answer me.
“Please?”
With a reluctant sigh, you rose and followed me upstairs. When I stopped on the landing, your eyes narrowed in confusion.
Across the hall from my bedroom door is a smaller door. Hidden.
While you stood back and watched, hands stuffed inside your pockets, I pushed the camelback settee away from the wall. And there, just inside the hidden closet—neatly stacked on top of each other, still on their hangers—were your clothes. Your jaw ticked when you saw them.
“I’ll help you put them back. I’m sorry I took them,” I said.
“I don’t need any help,” you replied, slipping past me.
“But I want to help. I’m trying with you right now. Why won’t you let me?”
You turned, fixing me with a look that made my stomach clench. “You said you hated me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Then why say it?” you demanded.
“I’m jealous of you, okay? My dad fucking loves you. You’re perfect.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “I’m far from perfect.”
“Not compared to me.”
“Jealousy doesn’t give you the right to be cruel. Jealousy doesn’t give you permission to take things from people,” you said.