Letter Twelve
The Thursday before school started, you returned to Boston, surprised to find me waiting for you on the stairs. In the entry hall, you dropped your bags to the floor, looking me over so fondly that I rushed forward and practically leapt into your arms.
“Clearly, you haven’t grown attached to me at all,” you said, chuckling as you cradled my head to your chest.
The sound of your voice instantly soothed me, a balm to my aching heart. I closed my eyes, refusing to let go, even when your arms loosened.
“Hey,” you whispered into my hair. “What is it? Has something else happened with your dad?”
I shook my head against your chest. “No. I just missed you.”
Your voice sounded all rough and gravelly as you said, “I missed you, too.”
With a sigh, I pulled away.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” You picked up my braid, smoothed it between your fingers, and let it fall back against my shoulder.
I forced a smile. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
But I wasn’t. For three long days, I’d been obsessing over Michael, who hadn’t replied to any of my texts or calls.
You must’ve seen it—a crack in my faux happy veneer—because that crease between your brows deepened and you started to say something else.
But my dad strode across the entry hall, cutting you off. “Casey,” he said, taking your face between his hands, “it’s so good to have you home.”
The gesture caught you off guard. You smiled uncertainly, narrowing your eyes at him. Then Nic surprised you again—surprised us both—when he wrapped you in a hug. You shot a baffled look over his shoulder that said, What is happening?
My dad rarely slipped into a mood I’d ever describe as cheery, but that night, over dinner, he came pretty damn close.
With a smile permanently fixed to his face, he asked how Claire, Rhys, and your brother-in-law were.
He bragged that I’d finally gotten the hang of driving his Roadster.
He laughed out loud at a story you told about Rhys.
The troubling behavior he’d shown those last couple of weeks on the Cape suddenly seemed inconsequential.
A weird funk he’d shaken—or maybe just stress. Probably something to do with the firm.
After dessert, he asked you to join him in his office.
While you guys talked, I hung out with Garland. Tried a new TV show. Texted Bree and Tinsley. Started a new book.
More than two hours later, you finally wandered out.
I tossed the book aside and followed you into the entry hall, watching as you stopped to stare at your luggage.
“So what’s going on? What did he want to talk to you about?”
You continued staring at your suitcase, both hands jammed in your pockets. “What?”
“The talk. What was so important?”
“Oh.” You bent to snatch up your bag. Hoisted it over your shoulder. Grabbed the suitcase next. “Nothing. Turns out it wasn’t that important after all.”
“But you were in there forever.”
“We chatted about school. My plans going forward. Things like that,” you said, lugging your stuff upstairs.
“For two hours?” I asked, following you up.
On the third floor, you dropped the luggage inside your bedroom. “Look, I’m still on London time. It’s well past bedtime for me. I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”
You didn’t seem tired—more like you’d chugged a few coffees, actually—but we said goodnight. In bed, I tossed and turned forever, thinking how strange it all was: my dad’s sudden change in behavior and yours.
In the morning, however, you definitely looked tired.
Like you hadn’t slept at all. You burned my eggs, then tossed them down the drain.
I told you not to bother making more and grabbed a yogurt from the fridge, but you claimed yogurt didn’t make an acceptable breakfast, so you rinsed the pan out and went back to the stove.
A minute later, when your kettle whistled, you just stared at it, making no move to remove it from the burner.
Nic strolled in, carrying his briefcase. “Are you going to get that?” he asked, wincing at the high-pitched noise. You remained frozen. Staring into space. Completely oblivious. He gripped your shoulder. “Casey. The teakettle.”
You broke free of your trance. “Oh, shit,” you said, snatching the kettle and moving it to another eye on the stove. “Sorry.”
Nic gave your shoulder a squeeze. “Are you okay?”
“Just fine,” you said, going to work on our coffee.
Nic seemed reluctant to leave, but he kissed my forehead and told us bye. After he left, I propped my hip against the counter next to the stove and folded my arms. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You keep spacing out.”
You grabbed three eggs from the carton.
“Will you please tell me what’s going on? First my dad—and now you. What did he say last night? You wouldn’t be acting like this if he only talked to you about school.”
You turned a glare on me. “Must you always think you have a right to know everything? I’m fine.
I am totally and completely fine. I’m just a bit stressed, and I’m tired, and I’d very much appreciate it if you’d stop asking questions, Elliot.
Go focus your attention elsewhere. Go read a fucking book or something. Just leave me alone. Please.”
As you stomped away, leaving the eggs and coffee abandoned on the counter, scalding tears leapt to my eyes. I squeezed my hands into fists, enraged.
To calm down, I parked in front of the TV and did my breathing exercises.
An idea popped into my head.
Determined, I rushed to my dad’s office, hoping to find something that might give me some clue as to why you were acting so weird. At Nic’s desk, I yanked open every drawer, rifling through his files.
Nothing out of the ordinary there.
Next, I tapped his computer mouse, bringing his computer screen back to life, but I couldn’t get in without a password. My dad knew better than to choose something I could figure out.
With a sigh, I glanced down at his desk calendar, but he hadn’t penciled in anything that seemed suspicious. Just the usual stuff, like my dentist appointment and the first day of school.
But something caught my eye—the corner of a manila envelope peeking out from beneath his desk calendar. I pulled it loose and opened the top flap.
Inside, I found a sheet of paper. The header read DNA TEST REPORT, and underneath that were two columns.
One headed CHILD, with your name printed underneath it, and one headed ALLEGED FATHER that had been left blank.
All these numbers—these allele sizes—were circled underneath each column, and all the numbers matched up.
They were exactly the same. And there, at the very bottom of the page, it said the probability of paternity was 99. 9996%.
“What the fuck?” I whispered, something cold and sharp—so much worse than fear—slamming through me, snatching the very air from my lungs. “No. No, no, no, no. No.”
Still clutching the DNA report, I shoved my dad’s chair back and ran from the room. I tore up the stairs, shouting your name. “Casey!”
“What?” you called, bursting from your room. Your head appeared over the banister, eyes wide with alarm. “What’s wrong? What is it?”
I paused on the third floor landing, gripping the banister, the paper trembling in my hand. “Are you my brother?!”
All the color drained from your face.
“You are, aren’t you? Oh my God.”
I flew past you, storming into your room.
“So that’s why he moved you in here. That’s why.
You were never a stranger. He would never leave me alone with some strange foreign guy who befriended Michael.
You’re his son.” I paused, reeling, trying to count back twenty years.
“He got some girl pregnant in college—just like John.”
You blinked, still pale and silent.
“Are you my mom’s, too? Did they put you up for adoption?
” I sat on the edge of your bed, clutching my forehead.
It all made sense: the glowing contentment on Nic’s face when he’d greeted you in the entry hall the day before, why you and Claire looked nothing alike, why you’d dodged my question about being adopted, why my dad wasn’t the slightest bit worried about leaving me alone with some random hot guy.
“This is just—I mean—this is just so—I can’t even—oh my God. ”
I thought of how I’d ogled your body in those little black swim trunks all summer. How I’d pictured what you might look like with no swim trunks at all. How I’d fantasized about crawling into bed with you. How, even now—even now—I still thought of you as hot. My own brother.
“I’m about to be sick,” I said, clutching my stomach, my insides roiling. I stood, then stumbled toward your bathroom. “Yep. I’m definitely about to vomit.”
But you blocked my path. “Elliot,” you said, ducking to meet my gaze. “You and I are not siblings.”
“We aren’t?” I choked out.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
You nodded. “I’m positive.”
Relief hit me like a wave—no, a tsunami. “Oh, thank God,” I said, this time clutching my chest. I sank back onto your bed and closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. Said it again. “Thank God.”
When I opened my eyes, you were peering at me strangely. “What?” I said, drawing back.
“Why does the idea that we might be siblings make you want to vomit?” you asked.
I choked out a laugh. “I mean—can you imagine?—if you were my brother, I’d be stuck with you forever. You’d annoy me for the rest of my life.”
“Right,” you said, smiling as you joined me on the bed.
“Wait.” I pointed at the paper. “If my dad isn’t the alleged father in this report, who is?”
You hesitated, but ultimately said, “John.”
My mouth dropped. “John Harris?”
“Yes.”
“John’s your biological father?”
“Yes.”
“John got two girls pregnant in college?”
“Apparently so,” you said.
“So that makes Michael and Bree…”
“My half-siblings.”
“Okay, back up,” I said, hand slicing through the air. “How is any of this possible? You’re from England. You grew up there.”
“Grew up there, yes. But I was born right here—in Boston.”
“I need you to elaborate.”