Letter Ten #4
“What if I promise not to hurt myself around my birthday this year? Will that help?”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious. I don’t think I should with Casey here.”
“You shouldn’t at all,” Michael said. “You shouldn’t ever do it.”
“It makes me feel better.”
“Yeah? It makes me feel like shit,” he said. The huskiness of his voice tore through me, choking me, like a vise around my throat. “I forgave you, Elliot. I fucking forgave you for stabbing me, and all these years later, you’re still punishing yourself for it.”
“I could’ve killed you,” I whispered, voice cracking on the words.
“But you didn’t,” he said, his expression softening.
“I’m still here. And you know what it feels like when you get your nose broken?
Or a black eye? It feels like I’m being punished.
It hurts me. It hurts all of us—especially your dad.
It shouldn’t take Casey being around to stop you from doing it.
” Michael stopped and glanced away again, throat bobbing as he shook his head.
“I wish you’d stop doing it for me. For my sake. ”
The pleading tone of his voice settled it. I couldn’t keep hurting myself if it hurt him, too. Not like this. “Fine,” I said on a hard swallow. “If you want me to stop, I will.”
Michael’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”
“Did you tell Casey why I do it?”
“Yeah. He wouldn’t leave me alone about it.”
My stomach clenched. “So now he knows I’m a freak.”
Michael cut his eyes at me. “Don’t call yourself that—and he doesn’t think you’re a freak. I tried not to tell him, but he has this way of…pulling things out of me.”
“Yeah,” I said, kicking my legs in the water, “he pulls stuff out of me, too. He’s really annoying like that.”
We smiled at each other.
“Hey,” Michael said, his expression turning serious again.
“Sorry about the mom stuff at breakfast the other day. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.
It’s just…when my mom talks about having me, it’s always centered around her, you know?
On what she accomplished. She doesn’t talk about falling in love with me or any of that sappy stuff like my dad does.
It’s like she didn’t see me at all, just one more thing she could tick off her list of achievements.
Like she handed me over to my dad and said, Here, you take care of this, then ran off to conquer the next thing. ”
“I understand why it probably seems like that, but she clearly loves you. Remember how she used to cry every year when they sent you off to camp? And you were only there for a week.”
“I guess so.”
“Plus, she always bakes your favorite cake on your birthday, and she was really shaken when I stabbed you.”
Michael lifted an eyebrow. “Of course she was. She came dangerously close to winning her first city council election by the sympathy vote. The only thing worse than losing an election is winning one because people feel sorry for you.”
“Stop it,” I chided, brushing a wet lock of hair off his forehead. “And, listen, now that we’re talking again, we need to get started on those driving lessons you promised me last summer.”
“I don’t remember promising that,” he said.
I placed my foot on his shoulder and shoved him back in the water. “You’re full of it.”
He smiled. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
The next day, when Michael asked if you wanted to join us, you lowered the tea you were drinking, glanced between us, and said, “I’ll go once she’s had a bit more practice. I don’t especially feel like dying today.”
I shoved you in the arm, which only made you laugh.
My dad looked nervous as he handed Michael the keys to his Range Rover. “No intersections or winding roads—I mean it, Michael. Start with a parking lot.”
The driving lessons didn’t go well. Either I pressed the gas too hard or not hard enough.
I turned the wheel too sharply. I braked too soon.
I kept jamming my foot on the brake, jerking us forward in our seats.
Michael doesn’t have the kind of patience you have, Casey.
He yelled—and I yelled back. We slung a whole lot of profanity at each other in that car.
Michael yelled especially loud when I failed to stop at an intersection. I slammed on the breaks just as a big SUV whizzed past us, the driver laying on his horn.
Michael went pale, his body pressed hard to the passenger seat. “Oh my God,” he said, gripping the console. “Oh my God. My whole life just flashed before my eyes.”
“It did not. You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” he said, breathless as he reached for his chest. “It actually did.”
“Well, did I make the cut? Was I there?”
“Of course you were there. You’re the main person I saw.”
I clasped a hand to my heart. “That’s so sweet.”
Michael shifted the gear into park. “Get out. I’m driving us back.”
When we returned, we found you in the sunroom, wearing those black glasses I love, a thick book cracked open in your lap. “How’d it go?” you asked.
“You were smart to stay back,” Michael said, flopping down beside you. “That’s the second time in my life she almost killed me.”
You laughed. “That bad?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s being dramatic.”
Over the coming weeks, Michael and my dad took turns teaching me to drive, and I got much better.
Nic traveled back to Boston every few days to check in with the firm.
My nose fully healed, the welts under my eyes softening to a pale yellow.
You, Michael, and the girls played beach volleyball while I watched—and, admittedly, enjoyed the view.
At the pool, I kept my sunglasses on, staring freely as you emerged, dripping wet, rivulets of water disappearing into the waistband of those little black swim shorts you wore, the fabric clinging to parts of your body in a way that set mine on fire.
Tinsley pinched me one day, trying to get my attention. “You sneaky bitch. You’re doing it, too.”
“Doing what?”
“Checking him out.” She lowered her sunglasses to wink at me. “You’re practically salivating over there.”
“Shut up.” I laughed, pinching her back.
“You look hot in that suit, by the way,” she said. “Your body is amazing. It’s a shame Nic makes you cover it up.”
I’d borrowed her ivory one-piece that day, tired of being so goddamn modest, because she was right: I looked amazing in her suits.
Especially this one. The underwire cups elevated my boobs, making them look bigger.
The bottom portion scooped scandalously high up my hips, accentuating my curves.
The back showed off more of my ass than I’d ever shown in my life, and I had a nice ass.
Why shouldn’t I show it off like Tinsley did? Like Bree—and even Libby—did?
When I’d walked through the sunroom on the way to the pool, Michael had lowered his phone and said, “Why are you wearing that?”
I’d shrugged. “Why not?”
My heart had sped up at the fire behind Michael’s gaze as it roamed over my body. “It’s just—um—it’s not you,” he’d said, in this throaty voice I’d never heard before.
“Says who? Maybe this is the kind of suit I’d wear if I were allowed to choose.”
“Which is probably why Nic doesn’t allow that,” he’d said.
I’d shrugged, hands propped on my hips. “What’s wrong with it? It covers everything.”
“Covers it,” Michael had agreed, his voice dropping low, his dark gaze riveted to the crotch area. “But just barely.”
I’d started to walk off.
“Why are you wearing the suit, Elliot?” he’d called after me.
“What do you mean?” I’d asked, twisting around.
“Never mind,” he’d muttered, his arm knocking mine as he’d brushed past me for the pool.
Beside me, Tinsley said, “Earlier? When you walked out here? Casey did a double take when he saw you.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
Tinsley nodded. “He even watched you the entire time you walked to your chair.”
“Whatever,” I said. “He acts like he’s my big brother or something.”
“I don’t know. The way he looked at you wasn’t exactly…brotherly.”
My heart leapt at that, then leapt even harder when you strolled up, dripping wet, and grabbed the towel off your chair—which happened to be the chair beside mine. You sat down. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I said back.
A droplet of water rolled down your cheek, and I tracked its path, watching it slowly slide down your throat, wondering what it’d be like to chase it with my tongue. What the hell was wrong with me?
“Could we maybe have a chat later?” you asked, toweling off. “Just you and me?”
Just you and me. What a tantalizing thought that was.
Seriously, what the hell was happening to me?
“A chat about what?”
“Just—” You cast a glance over at Tinsley, casually lounging in her chair, pretending not to listen to our conversation. “Just…some things.”
“Okay.” I started to say something else, but then my dad was there, standing over me, still in his suit and tie from work.
“What are you wearing?” he demanded.
I tucked both hands between my legs, cheeks flaming hot. “It’s a one-piece. What’s the big deal?”
“It’s inappropriate. Go change.”
“I’m practically eighteen, Dad. Isn’t it time for me to choose my own bathing suits now?”
“Not if they barely cover—” He stopped. Briefly shut his eyes. Tried again. “Not if they leave that little to the imagination, Elliot.” He pointed at the house. “Go.”
Mortified, I tossed my legs over the side of the chair and strutted off without covering myself. Nic followed me, muttering “Jesus Christ” under his breath.
Michael shot me a smug look from across the pool that said, Serves you right. And if my dad hadn’t been watching, I would’ve given him the finger. Instead, I shot him a death glare.
In the hallway between our rooms, I caught Bree coming out of hers. She stopped, gaze drifting over my body, and just like Michael, she said, “Why are you wearing that?”
“I’m not anymore. My dad’s making me change.”
“What?” Bree eyed my hands as I readjusted the bottom half of the suit. Which had…ridden up…in places during my little rebellious strut back to the house.
“My dad,” I repeated. “He’s making me change.”
“Oh,” she said. “Yeah. I can see why.”