Letter Ten #5
Later, you found me sitting on the beach alone, watching the sunset.“You were quiet at dinner tonight,” you said, dropping down next to me. “Are you okay?”
I shrugged, hugging my knees to my chest.
“Is this to do with the swimsuit?” you asked. “I’m sorry if he embarrassed you.”
I stared at the horizon, where the last streaks of pink and gold stretched thin, fading into the dark sea. “It feels like he’ll never let me make my own decisions—not even the small ones.” I slid my gaze over to you. “What did you want to talk about?”
“I’ll be leaving soon,” you said, voice quiet with regret. “Back to England.”
My breath caught. “Wait—like, for good?”
You drew back. “Of course not. Just until school starts back.”
Relief flooded me. I sighed, pointing my gaze back at the horizon. When I turned to look at you again, a strange little smile tugged at your mouth.
“Why,” I asked, leaning my body away from yours, “are you looking at me like that?”
Your eyes twinkled. “I’m beginning to think you’ve grown quite attached to me.”
I laughed, head shaking. “No, I just—no. Absolutely not. No.”
“Right,” you said, still giving me that infuriating little smirk.
“You made it sound like you needed to talk to me about something important,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” you said, turning serious. “The thing is, back when I booked my flight home, I didn’t realize I’d booked it on a particular day.”
“What day?”
“The twenty-sixth,” you said.
“Oh.” My stomach sank. “You’re leaving on my birthday.”
“Bright and early, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay,” I said.
“I don’t know that it is. I can skip the flight and book another one.”
“You don’t have to do that. It’s not like I celebrate it, anyway.”
“But eighteen’s a big deal,” you insisted. “Michael said they wanted to throw you a party, but you wouldn’t let them. He said you wouldn’t let them throw you a sweet sixteen, either.”
“Why would I? People would only show up to see if I did something crazy like I did at my last party. Besides, there’s nothing sweet about turning sixteen or officially becoming an adult when your dad keeps you locked in your house.”
Your gaze softly skipped over my face.
“What else did Michael tell you?” I asked, the question coming out hard.
“He said you won’t accept a cake—and that they’re never allowed to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you, either. You don’t let them celebrate you.”
“I don’t want to be celebrated.” What I didn’t say was: I don’t deserve it.
“But he says they want to. He says it upsets your dad. Upsets Nic even more when you…”
“Get myself hurt?” I finished for you.
Your gaze searched mine. “Will you tell me why you do it?”
“Sounds like Michael covered everything.”
“But he says they’ve all moved on from the stabbing. If they have, why haven’t you? Why do you still punish yourself for it?”
There we were again, Casey. You, gently trying to coax the truth loose. And me, not really wanting to get into it.
But, that day, I did.
Maybe the waves crashing along the shore made me brave. Or the breeze ruffling your hair, your eyes extra blue. Or the moment itself, tinged cotton-candy pink and dreamlike by the setting of the sun.
Or maybe it was just you, sitting there so still, waiting for my answer.
Like it mattered.
Like everything about me mattered to you.
“How can I move on from the stabbing when my dad won’t allow it?
He won’t let me forget. My birthday is just this yearly reminder that while I keep getting older, nothing ever changes.
I’ll be eighteen in a few days, but he still treats me like I’m eight.
He doesn’t get to have both. He doesn’t get to celebrate me growing older when I’m not free to do so. ”
“So it’s him you’re punishing when you hurt yourself?”
“It’s him,” I said, “but it’s also me. He wouldn’t be like this if I’d never hurt Michael.”
“I should stay,” you said with a decisive nod. “An extra day or two.”
“No,” I said, head shaking. “Go be with your sister and Rhys. He’s grown a lot since you held him last.”
“But I don’t want you hurting yourself. I’ll worry the whole day. If I’m here, I can—”
“Keep an eye on me?”
“Keep you busy. I can be here to distract you.”
“Casey, I won’t hurt myself this year. I already promised Michael I wouldn’t. You don’t have to worry.”
“I don’t know,” you said, teeth scraping your bottom lip.
“What if I have Michael send you updates? Will that help?”
“It will, actually,” you said, brightening. “Updates and photo evidence.”
Your concern touched me. “Deal,” I agreed, then we shook on it.
“In that case,” you said, letting go of my hand to reach inside your pocket, “Michael said you don’t accept gifts on your actual birthday, but I have something.”
You handed me a tiny blue velvet bag with a drawstring. “Go ahead,” you said softly when I hesitated. “Open it.”
I emptied the bag, expecting to find a pair of earrings. Instead, a thin gold ring with two of the daintiest prong-set diamonds I’d ever seen glittered in the palm of my hand. The diamonds flanked a round center stone that, at first glance, appeared to be green. A specific color of bright green.
The blue-green color of my eyes.
A green that changed colors with the light.
The ring was the second most beautiful thing on that beach with me.
“I ran across it in a little shop a couple of weeks ago,” you said, “and it reminded me of you. The way your eyes change from green to blue. Especially when you’re standing by the ocean.”
I tilted the ring back and forth, a knot forming in my throat.
You took the silence to mean I didn’t like it. “You don’t…have to wear it if it’s not your style.”
“Are you kidding? It’s beautiful. I love it,” I said, slipping the ring on the index finger of my left hand. A perfect fit. Dainty and beautiful and perfect. “I’ll wear it always.”
But that wouldn’t turn out to be true, would it? I’m not wearing it now. One of my most treasured possessions, and I left it behind—in the jewelry box on my vanity, where it can’t be lost. It’s the first thing I plan on grabbing when I get back home.
When I held out my hand to inspect it from afar, you put your thumb to my finger, wiggling the ring to and fro.
“I’m glad you like it,” you whispered, your gaze holding mine.
Before sunrise on my birthday, I heard you and Michael outside my room, gathering your luggage for the trip back to England.
Afraid I’d miss my chance to say goodbye, I jumped out of bed, hurried over to my doorway, and called your name. You dropped the bags, and I rushed into your arms.
Michael, standing off to the side, lifted one of your discarded bags onto his shoulder.
As I breathed in your freshly showered scent, you cradled my head to your chest. I blinked back tears, trying not to cry.
After a minute, Michael said, “We should probably get going.”
You kissed my forehead, then dipped your mouth close to my ear. “Happy Birthday.”
I smiled, heart stuttering, beating way too fast. “Thanks. Will you send me an updated picture of you with Rhys?”
“Of course. Promise me you’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Michael clapped you on the shoulder. “Yep. No need to worry, man.”
But I don’t have to tell you: promises are fickle, fickle things.
Little did we know, both of our lives would be forever changed by the time you got back.