Letter Eleven #2
Instead, I said, “What about Casey?”
His dark eyebrows knit together. “What about him?”
“You moved him in because…I’m not enough for you.”
“No. I moved him in so you’ll never be lonely when I’m not there.”
“But you care about him,” I pointed out. “You love having him live with us.”
Nic nodded. “I do. He makes us better, doesn’t he? We’ve been better since he moved in. He’s good for both of us.”
What Nic meant by better was: he hadn’t needed to send me back to therapy since you moved in.
I hadn’t done anything bad enough to require therapy (that he knew of, anyway).
Plus, for the first time in years, I sat across from him—on my birthday—without a black eye or a broken nose. And that made him feel better, too.
He believed you were the reason, Casey.
And you were, I realized. I’d been better because I couldn’t stand to disappoint you.
“I guess so.”
Nic ducked to meet my gaze. “The house feels different with him there. He makes it feel…more like the home I always envisioned for us, you know? And you seem happier with him around.” He searched my face. “Aren’t you happier?”
Nic was right about the house. You made it feel alive in a way it never felt unless the Harrises were visiting.
Your presence permeated the atmosphere. Made it warmer.
Cozier. Less dark and dungeon-like. As much as I wanted to disagree with my dad out of spite, I could no longer say I was unhappy with our living arrangement, even if you’d never know I said it. “I’m happier,” I admitted. “Yeah.”
With a sigh of relief, Nic picked up the end of my braid and stroked it between his fingers. “He needs us, Elliot. He needs people who love and accept him. We’re good for him, too.”
I didn’t see how I could be good for anyone, but if my dad thought you really needed us, I’d take that responsibility seriously.
“Look what he gave me for my birthday,” I said, showing him my hand.
Nic clasped my fingers, watching the ring change colors with the light. Then he smiled—a real smile. One that reached his eyes. “It’s beautiful. Like you.”
I thought of the pictures Michael had given me. The one of my mom and dad standing by the ocean. In the photo, her eyes had changed colors like mine, and Michael had agreed: “You look just like her. She’s beautiful.”
I wanted to hear my dad say it, too. “Do I look like her? My mom?”
Nic studied my face for a long time—clearly deliberating—while I sat there, spoon poised above my ice cream, hopeful. Finally, I thought. He’ll tell me I look like her. He’ll decide it’s time.
“No,” he said. “You’re one of a kind, honey. You’re more beautiful than she ever was.”
A lie. Why couldn’t he be honest? Why couldn’t he give me this one, basic, trivial fact about her?
A couple of tears slipped loose, the disappointment too crushing to choke back.
He brushed those tears away with his thumb, probably assuming I was sad about my absentee mom, but it was his lie that saddened me the most. I would’ve called him out on it, except I couldn’t let him know I had those pictures of her hidden in my room.
Nic pulled me against his chest. “Nothing I have is more important to me than you. Nothing.”
A few days after my birthday, we said goodbye to Bree and Tinsley, who were off to Peru for the last two weeks of summer break.
My dad went back to work, commuting back and forth from the firm each day, typically returning to the Cape by dinnertime.
City council meetings sent John back to Boston a few times a week, and an end-of-summer charity gala kept Libby busy, often sending her away from the estate for hours, leaving me and Michael to wander the property on our own.
To make the most of our freedom, we lounged by the pool until our skin grew too wrinkled and sun-kissed, drove into town for unlimited lobster rolls and ice cream, and streamed crappy movies in the main living room whenever we felt like it.
At your request, Michael sent you daily snapshots of me—making funny faces by the pool, chilling with a book in the sunroom, or laughing by the ocean—to prove I hadn’t hurt myself.
I often wondered if they made you smile.
Right before you left for England, I’d reached out to Willoughby, asking about his summer, and before long, we were texting daily, a smile leaping onto my face every time his name popped up on my screen.
His parents had a place on the Cape, too, but they’d left early, leaving him free to party with his friends.
He told me to drop by sometime, and—lucky for me—one of these parties happened to fall on a night when Nic and the Harrises were a chartered one-hour yacht ride away on Martha’s Vineyard, attending a summer soirée slash hobnobbing event of their own.
Michael appeared in my doorway just as I finished applying my lip gloss. I saw him reflected in my floor-length mirror, leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over a pink button-down shirt.
“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked, gaze sweeping over my minidress—another loan from Tinsley. White eyelet. Sweetheart neckline. Corset bodice. Fitted on top. Flared at the bottom. Also: pretty damn short. I felt both girly and sexy in it.
“I’m going to a party.”
“Whose party?”
“Willoughby’s.”
“That guy again?” He rolled his eyes. “You know Nic will lose his shit if he finds out.”
“How will he find out? Do you plan on telling him?”
Michael pulled a face. “Don’t be ridiculous. How are you getting there?”
“Driving.”
He shook his head. “I’ll drive—and I’m going with you.”
I turned around. “I don’t want you tagging along if you’re going to watch me the whole time.”
“Watch you do what?” he asked, eyes narrowed, arms still crossed over his chest. “What do you plan on doing at this party?”
“I plan to hang out with Willoughby. Is that a problem?”
Michael stared at me, his gaze briefly flitting over my dress again as he pushed off the wall. “Nope. Let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll go.”
On the way to Willoughby’s, I received a new picture of you, carrying Rhys, his chunky little body held close to your chest. He held a dimpled hand to his mouth, gnawing on one finger, smiling.
While you grinned big, like the proud uncle you were.
“Oh my God,” I squealed, clutching my heart. “Look at them. Aren’t they the cutest?”
Michael glanced at the picture. “Yeah. Really cute.”
When we arrived at Willoughby’s, his beach house buzzed with music, people everywhere, bodies packed tight. We stepped inside together, Michael’s hand pressed to the small of my back. Someone stopped him right away.
“Michael Harris.” The guy greeted him with one of those forearm-bumps you guys give each other. “I haven’t seen you since graduation, man. How’ve you been?”
I walked on, meandering through the crowd, leaving Michael behind.
That friend of Willoughby’s blocked my path: Rory Hamilton.
Auburn hair and freckles. Big and muscular.
Clean-cut. He seemed nice enough, but something about him rubbed me the wrong way.
“Elliot Bancroft. What are you doing here? Your dad know you’re out? ”
You see, Casey—that’s the kind of stuff people said to me. That’s how obvious it was that my dad kept me on lockdown.
“He doesn’t, no,” I said, staring blankly at him. “Can you tell me where Willoughby is?”
Rory made a big show of looking around. “I’m not sure. Why don’t we get you a drink, then I’ll help you look for him?”
I followed Rory into the kitchen, where he handed me a red cup filled with pink punch. It tasted like pink lemonade. Sickly sweet, but with a bite. Wrinkling my nose, I set it down.
Nearby, I spotted another familiar guy from my class, leaning against the counter: Greer Johnson. “Wow, Bancroft,” he said, raking his eyes down my body. “No wonder your dad keeps you locked up so tight.”
Their casual remarks about my life rankled, so I played into it.
“Actually,” I said, “he keeps me locked up because I’m crazy.”
Rory laughed. But Greer said, “Crazy, how?”
“Oh, you don’t want to know. I’m seriously fucked up.”
“I was there when you stabbed Michael Harris at your birthday party,” Greer said, blonde eyebrows raised, “and I can honestly say I’ve never witnessed anything more fucked up than that.” He paused to look me over again. “But you don’t seem so crazy now.”
I shrugged. “Appearances can be deceiving.”
“Yeah?” Greer said with a smile, his pale blue eyes locked with mine. “Crazy can be fun. Why don’t we go somewhere and you can show me?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “You wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
“Handle you?” Greer laughed. “You’d be surprised.”
Greer looked at me the way a cheetah does just before it pounces on a gazelle: predatory. It sent a tingle racing down my spine—and not the good kind.
Before I could think of a retort, Willoughby ambled up, saying, “Elliot! You made it.”
Messing with those boys had lost its appeal, and I wanted the hell out of that crowd. I turned to Willoughby. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”
“Sure,” he said, grabbing my hand. “Come on.”
Willoughby pulled me behind him as we weaved through the house and up a set of stairs. I scanned the crowd for Michael, spotting him in the living room, cornered by a couple of girls. Two hot girls, vying for his attention as he also scanned the crowd for me. I laughed under my breath at that.
Willoughby shut his bedroom door behind us, then led me over to the bed. We sat side by side.
“What do you want to talk about?” he asked, pushing his dark floppy hair back.
“I don’t actually want to talk.” Like that first time, I crushed my lips to his.
Unlike before, though, he had time to fully kiss me back, slipping his tongue into my mouth.
He tasted like beer—which I didn’t particularly like—but I hooked my leg over his lap, anyway, and kissed him harder.
Sparks didn’t fly or anything, but to a girl without choices, kissing Willoughby felt like liberation.
And then it felt like power—as parts of his body hardened beneath mine.