Letter Eight #4
Michael wiped a hand over his mouth, chuckling darkly. “Layla was one of the sweeter ones, and you made her cry.”
“Whatever,” I said, going to slip one arm into my coat.
But he grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “Hey. Don’t rush off. Why don’t you stay for a while? Hang out?”
“Okay.” I tossed aside the coat, then dropped to the couch and texted you my plans to be home late.
Beside me, Michael pulled out his phone, too.
Huddled close, we watched videos on his screen, and I squealed—like I always did—at the cute ones, while he complained—like he always did—about his algorithm favoring my interests more than his.
He refused to open the app in public lest anyone think he loved pet prairie dogs and puppies and fuzzy yellow ducklings swimming in farmhouse sinks. It felt like old times.
We were watching a video of someone’s fluffy white kitten—and I was dangerously close to proving his point about the crying—when I said, “You were right.”
Michael leaned back. “Right about what?”
“I did slip those notes into Layla’s locker. But only because I overheard her in the girls’ bathroom talking shit about me to her girlfriends.”
“Seriously?” Michael asked, already angry on my behalf. “What did she say?”
“She called me creepy and weird. Said my mom probably left because she could tell there was something wrong with me. Said she pitied my dad for being stuck with a sociopath, that he should’ve had me institutionalized for stabbing you.
And her friends ate it up, Michael. They cackled and agreed with her.
So, yeah, I wrote those nasty notes. I made her cry—but she made me cry first. I’m not saying it was right of me to put the notes in her locker, but she knew it was me, and I did apologize to her. ”
“And?”
“She said, ‘Do the world a favor and kill yourself, freak.’ And I cried in the bathroom again, but then I decided to just…let it go. I didn’t want to, but stabbing a pen through her arm would’ve gotten me expelled and probably killed my chances of getting into Harvard. So.”
“Jesus, Elliot.” Genuine disgust flashed across Michael’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was embarrassed.”
“But it’s me. You can tell me anything.” He ducked to meet gaze, wrapping his hand around mine. “I would’ve broken up with her much sooner if I’d known any of this.”
“Do you think it’s true, though?” I whispered.
“Think what’s true?”
“My mom left because she could tell there was something wrong with me?”
Michael squeezed my hand. “No. I think your mom left because she’s a coldhearted bitch.”
Two days later, I paused on the stairs when the doorbell rang.
I found Sienna shivering on my stoop, wearing bright red yoga pants and a white cropped hoodie underneath a chunky sweater coat. She charged past me into the house. “You little bitch,” she spat. “You sank your greedy claws into my boyfriend, didn’t you? You slept with him.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re lying.” She shoved me in the shoulder, hard.
I stumbled back, gaping at her. “Come at me again, bitch. I dare you.”
“What the hell’s going on?” you demanded, quickly descending the stairs. You stepped between us just as she lunged for me again. “Sienna, what’s wrong with you? Stay away from her.”
“Let her push me again,” I said, trying to shove past you. “I’ll scratch her eyeballs out.”
You secured my arm and jerked me back. “The hell you will, Elliot. Both of you, stop this.”
“Michael cheated on me,” Sienna told you.
“That doesn’t sound like him,” you said.
“Well, he did.” She jabbed a finger at me. “He cheated on me with her.”
You drew back. “With Elliot? That’s insane.”
“Oh, it was her,” Sienna said. “I know it was.”
“I haven’t seen Michael since Sunday at brunch,” I said.
“You’re such a little liar,” she spat.
“Elliot’s been with me all week,” you said. “Why do you think it’s her?”
“She left an earring behind—on his couch. A little gold diamond one shaped like a flower.”
“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said confidently, crossing my arms. But on the inside, my heart pounded with fear.
Because I had lost an earring the day I’d gone to Michael’s, something I hadn’t noticed until later that night.
The earring in question? A little gold diamond one.
Shaped like a flower. One-half of a pair my grandfather had given me for Christmas.
Of all the incriminating earrings I could’ve worn that day, thank God I’d chosen the flowers. “I’m not missing any earrings, either.”
“You’re lying.” She lunged for me, reaching for my sweater. “Let me see your shoulder.”
I lurched back. “My what?”
“Sienna,” you said, stepping between us. “It’s not hers, okay? Stop this.”
“It belongs to a pair of earrings that cost six grand, Casey—I looked them up. They’re expensive and childish. Like all the other earrings she wears.”
A dark chuckle burst out of me. “Oh, you stupid bitch. You think you’re so special, don’t you? But you’re just one girl—in a long string of girls—who got to temporarily call Michael Harris her boyfriend. You’re nothing.”
Sienna tried coming at me again, managing to grab the collar of my Harvard sweatshirt before you jerked her back and pried her hand free.
“Go upstairs,” you ordered me, but you were looking at her, your gaze furious. “Sienna and I need to have a little chat.”
I charged upstairs and frantically texted Michael, worried and angry that Sienna was accusing him of something he didn’t do.
Half an hour later, you leaned against my doorway with your arms crossed. “I’ve been thinking about something,” you said, “since Sienna left.”
The serious tone of your voice caused my heartbeat to spike. I straightened against my headboard, gripping my phone. “What’s that?”