Letter Eight
We slipped easily into a routine once you returned to Boston after the New Year. My dad loved having you back, and I did, too—not that I’d ever admit it. But we got along for the most part, didn’t we?
Like that January afternoon when the temperature climbed to fifty degrees and everyone flocked to the park, taking advantage of that brief reprieve from winter.
We sat on one of the weathered gray benches along the edge of the walking path, sharing a honey cinnamon latte, my heart fluttering each time you handed the cup back and my lips touched the spot yours had just touched.
To distract myself, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a handful of pumpkin seeds.
You shot me a wary look. “Why do you have seeds in your pocket?”
“For the squirrels,” I said, tossing a couple across the walking path, hoping to lure them closer to our bench.
You leaned back. “I’m not feeding a squirrel.”
“Suit yourself.”
Just then, one scurried over, twitching his nose, his bushy tail flicking—and you tensed. “What if it bites?” you asked. “Don’t squirrels carry rabies?”
“It’s nothing a shot won’t fix,” I teased, nudging your elbow.
You tossed me a withering look as I pressed a few seeds into your palm. Awkwardly, you stuck out your hand.
The squirrel crept closer, then paused. Then darted forward to snatch a seed. He quickly retreated to nibble on it, sticking close to your shoe.
You stared down at his twitchy face, equally rapt and horrified.
Hungry for more, the squirrel crept forward again—bolder this time, deciding you were safe—and grabbed another seed.
The tension eased from your shoulders, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “You’re a nice little woodland creature, aren’t you?” you murmured softly.
My stupid, tender heart gave a traitorous kick in my chest.
Then there was the time I headed to the kitchen to grab my water bottle for school and heard you speaking to someone, so I stopped in the hallway to listen.
You chuckled. “Looks like someone wasn’t quite ready to be up from his nap.”
Another voice—a female’s, in the same English accent as yours—said, “I thought he’d be thrilled to see you. Normally he is.” Your sister, I assumed, laughing over the phone. “I can’t believe his face. He’s properly scowling at you.”
You laughed, too. “Maybe he’s bored of always seeing me on this tiny screen and never in person. Cheeky little thing.”
I pursed my lips at your comment, trying not to smile myself.
“I’m a bit bored of seeing you this way, too,” Claire said. “I understand you need to do this, Casey, and I’m happy you’re doing it. Really, I am. But I miss you terribly, and I worry after you.”
You were quiet for a moment. “There’s no need to worry, Claire. I’m doing quite well here.”
“You seem well now, but I know how you get. Who’s going to be there if it doesn’t work out the way you hope, and you go down that horrible path again where you self-destruct? Who’s going to pull you off the ledge, Casey, if not me?”
I drew back, confused. In what universe were you the type of person who had to be pulled off a ledge? And what was this mysterious thing that might not work out the way you hoped?
“I wish you’d give me Nic’s number,” Claire added. “I’d like to have a chat with him about some things.”
“That won’t be necessary,” you said tightly.
“I won’t be able to bear it if you spiral again. Do you hear me? I need to be sure someone’s looking after you.”
“I’m looking after myself. Please, Claire. I don’t want you still worrying over me like this.”
“Well, if I even suspect you’re spiraling again, Casey, I’m boarding the first flight out of here and coming there to collect you. You’ll move back with me, and that’s the end of it.”
You both went silent after that, prompting me to tiptoe forward and peek around the corner. At the island, you were looking away from the screen, chin resting on your hand, knuckles pressed hard to your lips. It pricked my heart to see you upset, so I entered the room.
“Listen, Claire,” you said, sitting up straighter and clearing your throat. “Elliot’s here. I need to go.”
“No, wait,” I said, dropping my backpack. “I’d like to say hello.” Placing my forearm on your shoulder, I leaned forward to peer at the screen, still held aloft in your hand. “Hello, Claire.”
“Hello, Elliot,” Claire said, definitely blinking back tears as she smiled back at me. “Pleased to finally meet you.”
Claire had a pleasant smile and a kind face, but she looked nothing like I expected.
When I thought of your sister, I’d pictured a female version of you with dark hair and blue eyes.
Crazy pretty. In my imagination, she’d never looked like the young woman staring back at me.
Claire had light blonde hair that bordered on white, pale porcelain skin, and brown eyes the warm, mellow color of steeped tea.
“Oh, Casey,” Claire said, grinning wide as those eyes filled with tears again. “She’s so much prettier than you described her to be.”
“Thanks…I think?” I glanced down as you shifted under my arm. You wouldn’t look at me.
“Is Rhys there?” I asked.
“He is, yes,” Claire said, dropping the phone until a chunky little baby filled your screen. “Though a bit moody at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“Hello, little guy,” I said with a huge grin, and your nephew gave me the biggest, gummiest grin back.
Claire gasped.“Would you look at that? I believe he likes you, Elliot.”
“I’m hurt,” you said to Rhys’s image, hand pressed to your heart. “She gets a smile, and I don’t?”
I smiled as you gazed at him, a look of pure adoration on your face. It made my throat squeeze.
Claire lifted the phone to her face again. “Tell me the truth, Elliot. Casey’s not being too much trouble, is he?”
“Casey? Trouble?” I let out a short laugh. “Definitely not.”
“So having him there has been helpful, then? You’re alright with it?”
Claire’s concern caught me by surprise—and endeared her to me immediately. She was the first person to ask how I felt about our new living situation, and I appreciated that.
“Totally helpful,” I said. “You know what Casey’s like?
He’s like”—I paused, pretending to think—“the dog my dad would never let me have, you know? He does whatever my dad commands. Responds well to praise. Accompanies me on long walks in the park. Follows me literally everywhere.” I rolled my eyes.
“Everyone here just loves Casey—even my grandmother. And she doesn’t like anyone!
” I smiled as I patted you on the shoulder. “Casey’s no trouble at all. Really.”
Claire laughed, unsure, her gaze dancing between us. The look on her face said, Is she serious?
As for you, Casey, you didn’t seem too thrilled at being compared to a dog—head tilted to the side, eyes narrowed, hand covering your mouth.
I glanced from you to Claire and back again. “I have to say, I’m not seeing the family resemblance at all here. How is it that you two are siblings?”
Claire stumbled over a response as you said, “I’ll ring you later, Claire. I should help Elliot off to school.”
You ended the call before we could say goodbye, then slid out from under my arm, leaving me no choice but to step back. Then you crossed the kitchen, grabbed my water bottle from the fridge, and pressed it into my hand.
“Is one of you adopted or something?” I asked, tucking the stainless steel bottle into my bag.
“You’ll be late if you don’t leave now,” you said, glancing down at your watch. “Off you go.”
“Why’s Claire so worried about you?”
Your eyes flashed. “Were you eavesdropping on our conversation?”
“Why does she want my dad’s number? Why would you self-destruct?”
Your jaw hardened as you placed a hand on my shoulder, nudging me forward, closer to the back door. “That’s none of your business.”
“This is my house. She asked for my dad’s number. What’s going on with you? I’m entitled to know.”
“Oh, you’re entitled alright,” you said, flinging open the back door. You properly scowled at me as you pushed me outside. “Hal’s waiting. Now off you go.”
I stomped down the steps, so angry I asked Hal to help me do breathing exercises the whole way to school. By the time I got home several hours later, you were fine. Back to normal. Like the incident with Claire had never happened.
Normally, I wouldn’t let that shit slide, but the little routine we’d built was nice. For the first time in my life, I didn’t dread coming home from school, and I wanted to keep it that way. So I followed your lead, pretending the incident had never happened, too.
A few weeks later, Willoughby and I paired up to do a history project together. I asked my dad if I could stay after school to work on it, but he immediately shot me down.
“You can have him over to the house,” Nic said, “but you’re to stay in the dining room—the entire time, Elliot—where Casey can see you.”
You were sitting two stools down from me, drinking your coffee over a paperback book, its spine cracked to hell, no bookmark in sight. Typical.
“You hear that, Casey?” Nic asked, tossing a serious look over the counter. “The entire time.”
“Absolutely,” you answered.
If you’d bothered to look my way, you would’ve caught me skinning you alive with my eyes.
“What’s this boy’s name?” Nic asked.
“Willoughby,” I said through clenched teeth.
My dad made a face. “That kid? The Asher kid?”
I dropped my fork. “You know his last name?”
Nic pulled another face. This one said, You’re kidding, right? Then he asked, “What kind of name is Willoughby, anyway?”
He looked at you, Casey, and you shrugged.
“It’s a family name,” I said, snatching my bag off the floor. I left without finishing my breakfast.
Willoughby wasn’t too thrilled about coming back to my house, especially with you there, but it’s not like he had a choice. When you opened the front door to let him in, he hesitated before crossing the threshold, leaving a wide berth between you two as he entered.
“Hello, Barnaby,” you said, standing straight and tall in the doorway, wearing what I’d come to think of as your home uniform: cardigan, white tee, chinos, white sneakers.