Letter Eleven #3
Anxious for more, I unlatched a button on his shirt.
Willoughby broke our kiss and pulled back, still gripping my waist. “Hold on,” he said, gaze searching mine. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think?” I went for another button, but he stopped me. “What’s wrong? You don’t want to?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just—would it be your first time?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. But so what?”
Willoughby closed his eyes, easing me off his lap. “Elliot, we barely know each other. We’ve never even had an actual conversation.”
“We text all the time. We’ve known each other for years.”
“Yeah,” Willoughby said as he stood. “All these years later, you just started talking to me—so you could make that guy who lives with you jealous.”
“I wasn’t trying to make him jealous.”
“Tell me this, then. Do you even like me?”
“Sure. You’re…nice.”
Willoughby laughed, but the sound rang hollow. “Just what every guy wants to hear right before he takes a girl’s virginity.”
My temper flared. “Your buddies downstairs would take it for a lot less. Greer asked me to go off with him the second I got here.”
“That’s because Greer’s an asshole. He wouldn’t think twice before taking advantage of a girl like you.”
I drew back. “A girl like me? What’s that supposed to mean? And how is it taking advantage if I want it? Maybe I’m the one taking advantage in this situation. Did you ever stop to think about that?”
“So you admit, then,” Willoughby said. “You only came here to hook up and leave. I thought we could hang out. Talk. Get to know each other better. But all you want is someone you can use to your advantage—while your dad’s away—and you don’t care who it is.
Everyone at school thinks you’re cold, detached, unknowable…
and I keep thinking they’re wrong. I keep thinking there’s more to you than that.
” He shook his head, disappointed. “But the way you jumped on me just now? Makes me wonder if they’re right. ”
Willoughby was a nice guy alright—way too nice for me. I couldn’t decide what made me feel like crying more: cold, detached, unknowable or the blatant rejection. I hopped off his bed. “Fuck you, Willoughby.”
I shoved past him and fled downstairs, finding Michael near the bottom, heading up to look for me.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asked, pausing with his hand on the banister.
“I want to go home,” I said, fighting the urge to burst into tears. “Can we leave?”
“What happened?” he demanded, his stony gaze pointed up the stairs.
“Nothing.”
Unconvinced, Michael tried slipping past me, but I put my hand to his chest.
“Nothing happened,” I said, pushing him back. “Can we go now, please?”
Michael grabbed my hand and led us out of there.
In the car, he kept glancing over at me. I turned my face to the window, trying to hide the tears.
“What happened up there?” Michael asked softly. “Did that asshole hurt you?”
“He didn’t touch me.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“I’m not,” I said, but my voice cracked, giving me away.
“I’m going back there tomorrow to beat his ass,” he said.
“No. The problem isn’t him. It’s me.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m cold and detached.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone.” I swatted at a tear. “Everyone thinks that about me.”
“I don’t think that. You’re not cold and detached, Elliot. None of those people know you. Willoughby doesn’t know you, either.”
“Well, how could he? I’m not allowed to hang out with anyone at school besides Bree and Tinsley.”
“So what? Willoughby’s a loser. He’ll be one of those guys who lives off his trust fund and never actually does anything with his life.”
I swiped the fallen tears from my chin. “I guess. But what was the point of me learning to drive this summer? It’s not like I can go anywhere. Even when I do manage to break free of my stupid gilded cage, everyone’s afraid of me. Except Greer Johnson, apparently.”
Michael went still, gripping the steering wheel. “I played soccer with that guy last year. Did he say something to you tonight?”
“He asked me to go somewhere with him after I told him my dad keeps me locked up because I’m crazy.”
“Promise me you won’t do that,” Michael said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Promise you won’t ever go off with him.”
Michael pulled the Range Rover into the driveway and parked. “I’m serious, Elliot,” he said, turning to face me. “You shouldn’t ever be alone with him.”
“Why not? He might be perfect for someone like me.”
Michael pulled a face. “Are you kidding? That guy?”
He threw open his door, climbed out of the car, and stormed ahead of me into the house. I followed him up to his room.
“Why are you so mad right now? It’s true.”
Michael twisted to face me, hands propped on his hips. “What about me?”
“You? What do you mean?”
“Maybe I’m perfect for you, Elliot.”
I laughed. “Right. Like you’d ever want me like that.”
“Of course I want you like that,” he said, narrowing his gaze. “Please tell me you’re not that oblivious.”
My body went still, heart galloping in my chest. My stomach kept doing these funny little flips. “Wait,” I said, blinking at him. “Are you serious?”
“How is it not completely obvious? You’re a total bitch to my girlfriends, and I always forgive you.
I let Sienna believe I cheated when I didn’t so Casey wouldn’t take away your freedom.
Every time you touch my lip, I think about kissing you.
” His expression softened as he walked toward me.
“I tried telling you at Christmas. Tried telling you how beautiful you are. How being near you without touching you the way I want is torture. How even thinking of you with another guy makes me crazy jealous.”
Michael kept moving closer, and then he was there. Right in front of me. So close. His gaze searching mine. Fierce. Probing. Desperate.
While I remained frozen, he dropped his head, easily capturing my mouth with his. But this wasn’t anything like the kiss I’d shared with Willoughby. This was so much different. So much more. Because it was him. Michael. My best friend.
God, how do I even describe it?
That very first kiss?
The crushing weight of his lips on mine? How they coaxed and begged and urged me to respond? And how, eventually, after a few stunned seconds, I did?
How can I describe the all-consuming force of it? Of him?
He was a boy, stranded on an island, dying of thirst, and I was water.
How do I describe all those conflicting emotions as I kissed him back?
Just that it was strange, and yet somehow familiar.
That it was absurd, and yet it felt totally natural—the way my mouth responded to his—as if kissing him were the most natural thing in the world.
That it was terrifying in its intensity and yet, somehow, despite all logic to the contrary, kissing Michael felt right.
At least, far more right than it had with Willoughby.
How do I describe all that pent-up longing and desperation, flooding out of him and crashing into me?
It was too much. It was way too intense.
Fighting for breath, I pushed him off me.
He stumbled back, breathless himself.
My hand flew to my lips—still charged and electric, like the space between us. Like that kiss had been. Already, I sensed a shift. A gaping divide between then and now. Our friendship, forever changed. We’d never be the same again.
“How?” I asked quietly, tears burning hot on my cheeks. “How long have you…felt this way?”
Michael dragged two fingers over his lips. Like he felt the difference, too. “How long have I been in love with you?” he corrected me. “I don’t know. Maybe always?”
“In love?”
“Yes, Elliot,” he said. “I love you.”
I shook my head, struggling to comprehend.
Michael? In love with me?
I fled his room for the refuge of mine, shut my door, and sank to the floor, needing time to process how that kiss—how Michael’s admission—made me feel. My mind raced as I twisted the ring you’d given me on my finger.
And here’s another truth: I actually wasn’t that oblivious. On some level, I had known. Sensed Michael felt something, at least. Something deeper than friendship.
The summer before you arrived—before Michael started his freshman year at Harvard and met Sienna—he’d often drift into my room at the estate, home late from a party and reeking of beer. He’d toss off his shoes, climb into bed with me, and wrap his arms around my waist.
It was our late-night routine. Michael’s head on my chest. My fingers in his hair. Him, mumbling nonsense.
One night, he’d said, “Remember that time Nic left you at my house, and you dragged me out of bed to watch the snow fall? I wish life could always be like that.”
“Like what?” I asked, tossing my book aside.
“Simple.”
“What’s so complicated about your life now?”
“Everything,” he’d whispered.
I poked him in the shoulder. “Those college jitters are hitting you pretty hard, huh?”
“I don’t want to grow up,” he’d said—no, whined. Exactly like a child.
Laughing, I’d kissed the top of his head. “You’re drunk. Go to bed.”
“I am in bed.”
“To your bed.”
He’d nuzzled his face against my breast, the stubble on his cheek pricking my skin through the flimsy fabric of my camisole. “Let me stay. Let me stay here forever.”
So I did. Within minutes, he’d fallen asleep, and when I finished reading, I’d curled my body against his.
The memory of that night leapt to mind while I deliberated and freaked out and pressed two fingers to my lips, still stinging and swollen from his kiss. Michael’s in love with me.
Michael, who let me drag him out of bed to watch the snow fall. Who gave me those pictures of my mom for Christmas because he knew how much they’d mean to me. Who knew my darkest secrets and loved me, anyway. Who always—always—found it in his heart to forgive me.
I slipped off my sandals, smoothed down the skirt of Tinsley’s dress, and returned to his room. I found him sitting on the edge of his bed with his head between his hands, clearly devastated. And it broke my heart.
He glanced up when I stopped between his legs. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Forget I ever said anything. It—”