Letter Twelve #3
“I’d given up after the results came back on Nic,” you said.
“He told me none of it mattered. That I belonged here, anyway. That I was his family now—whether I liked it or not.” You stared down at your bracelet and twisted it around your wrist. “I thought it was over. I’d never even considered John.
So it came as a great shock when Nic took me into his office last night and showed me undeniable proof that John’s my biological father.
Your dad wanted to be thorough, so he’d taken that sample from Michael, too.
” You heaved a big sigh. “And we’re definitely brothers. ”
That’s when it finally hit me.
The oh-shit moment.
The I’d-fooled-around-with-your-brother moment.
It was bad before, when I thought you and Michael were friends, but this was bad bad. Siblings trumped friends, didn’t they?
But we weren’t anything, you and I. Just two people who were forced to tolerate each other. That’s what I told myself—what I tried telling myself—despite the awful nagging feeling, deep in the pit of my stomach, that I’d betrayed you somehow.
I cleared my throat and swallowed. “How does it feel to know you’ve been hanging out with your brother for the last year?”
You swiped a hand over your mouth. “It feels surreal. It’s all—it’s a bit jarring, to be honest.”
“So when do you plan on telling John the news?”
You straightened and shook your head. “I don’t—and I asked Nic not to tell him, either. I’m not ready to reveal myself. In fact, I can’t see myself being ready to do that for a long time.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because, Elliot. They’re perfect as they are, and then I come along—to what? Blow up their lives? And what about Libby? How might she react to something like this? She’s planning to run for mayor next year. Did you know that?”
“Of course I know—but, Casey, John would be thrilled about this. He’d want to know who you really are.”
“Nic said the same thing, but I don’t want to be a burden.
It was one thing when I thought Nic might be my father.
He’s a single dad. His life isn’t constantly scrutinized by the public.
If it came out Nic had a son he didn’t know about, it wouldn’t be a big deal.
But with the Harrises, with John, it’s altogether different.
If this came out, it might embarrass him and his family, and I don’t want to be responsible for that. ”
“So you plan on keeping this from Michael, too?”
“For the time being, yes. I plan to tell Michael someday. But that would require me to also tell him the true nature of how we met, and I—” You paused to swallow. “I’m afraid it might be quite difficult for him to accept me as his brother.”
You stared down at your hands, twisting your beaded bracelet, like you often did when you were upset.
I hated seeing you so despondent over something that should’ve brought you closure and joy, so I slipped my hand into yours and rested my head on your shoulder.
You squeezed my hand and rested your head on top of mine.
We stayed like that, silent for a minute or two, until I had a thought.
“You know what’s really weird about all this?”
“What’s that?”
“If you’d grown up here, you’d have this…totally different accent. You wouldn’t even sound the same.”
Then you did that thing, which still makes my skin crawl to this very day.
You dropped your accent completely and said, “You mean I’d sound like this?
Like your average American guy? Talking about football and hot girls on TikTok and other, like, totally pointless shit?
I’d talk insanely loud and get fired up about topics like gun control and racism.
Oh, and I might also claim the USA is the single greatest country in the whole world.
All while drinking out of a red plastic cup, obviously. ”
I pulled my hand free of yours, slid away from you on the bed, and gaped at you in disbelief. “Okay, never—ever—do that again. It was super fucking creepy.”
You laughed.
“No, I’m serious,” I said. “I have actual goosebumps. Look.” I held my arm out and you laughed again. “You know who you sounded like?”
“Who?”
“Michael,” I said. “Almost exactly like him.” The English accent gave your voice the gentle, soothing quality it normally possessed. Without it, your voice sounded much deeper and, therefore, eerily similar to Michael’s.
“Hey,” I said, thinking of something else. “What about your biological mother?”
“Nic says he has a pretty good idea who she is, but he’s not sure of her maiden name. He wanted to do some digging, but I told him that wouldn’t be necessary.”
“Why not?”
“Because I already have a wonderful mother. Or, at least, the memory of one. So I don’t need—” You stopped to gather the right words and tried again.
“I don’t need to track down this person who decided it was absolutely necessary to give me up.
For some reason, my biological mother didn’t want me.
She handed me off to Eleanor and sent me to an entirely different country, and I’m choosing to respect that. ”
“Maybe she didn’t want to give you up,” I said carefully, “but felt she didn’t have a choice. If she was John’s age at the time, she would’ve been barely over eighteen.”
“I get that, but—”
“Wait a minute,” I said, hopping up from the bed.
“Where are you going?”
“Just hold on,” I called over my shoulder. I ran upstairs, made a beeline for the bookcase in my bedroom, removed that photo from The Secret History, then hurried back down to your room.
“Look at this.” I handed you the picture of my mom with the other girl.
Both of them dressed alike, wearing tight black t-shirts and leaning against the bar.
“Remember the girl Libby brought up at breakfast that morning at the beach? The one who looked like my mom? She said John always flirted with this girl, and now that I look at her picture again, she could definitely be your mother.”
You studied the picture.
“That’s my mom,” I said, pointing to her. “But this other girl? You actually resemble her, Casey.”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” you said, still staring at the photo. “You, on the other hand, look almost exactly like your mum.” You glanced up and gently brushed your gaze over my face. “Beautiful.”
Unexpectedly, my eyes filled with tears. “Beautiful—but likes to fuck with people. A dangerous combination. I got more than her looks. No wonder my dad keeps me locked up.”
“You’re not a prisoner with me,” you said. “That still stands. I want you to have a good year, so long as you’re not fucking with people.” You gave me a pointed look. “And you are where you say you are, Elliot. No lying—that’s still the most important thing to me.”
“Deal,” I said, then complained of being hungry since you’d abandoned my breakfast. You tossed the picture aside and suggested we remedy the situation. On the way downstairs, I asked, “What about you, though? When I’m at school this year, what will you do?”
“I’ll be at school, too,” you said. “I’m a freshman at Harvard now.”
“How’d you manage that? Did my dad pull some strings or something?”
You stopped and turned to me. “Are you saying I couldn’t have got in on my own?”
I blinked. “It’s not exactly…easy.”
“I don’t know if you’ve realized, but I’m actually rather smart.”
I let out a sharp laugh that caused your expression to go flat. Which only made me laugh harder.
“Are you finished now?” you asked.
“Well, you did weasel your way into a billionaire’s house and successfully lie to a family of politicians for an entire year—I’ll give you that.
” You rolled your eyes and started down the stairs again, but I caught your arm.
“Wait. First-years are required to live on-campus. Does that mean you’re moving out for a year? ”
“Your dad arranged it so I wouldn’t have to do that—like the Harrises did for Michael.”
So my dad had paid the hefty sum for you to “room and board” even though there’d be no rooming or boarding. The type of privilege money—and certain names, Harris and Bancroft among them—could buy.
I laughed. “Of course he did. You know my dad’s on the board, right? Some of the other board members were here—at that reelection party for John—the night we met. Makes you wonder what else he might’ve arranged, doesn’t it?”
You stared blankly at me. “You’ll never let me live this down, will you?”
“Not a chance,” I said with a smile.
In the kitchen, you put your hands on my shoulders. “Listen,” you said, dipping your head to meet my gaze. “Everything I told you? It stays between us. I want to be the one to tell Michael we’re brothers. He needs to hear it from me.”
“Of course,” I said, and I meant it. “I won’t tell your secret, Casey. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Thank you.” You smoothed your thumb down my braid, then grabbed your teakettle off the stove and took it to the sink.
My voice came out small when I asked, “Did he tell you her name?”
You switched off the tap. “Whose name?”
“My mother’s.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Isn’t it Victoria?”
I nodded. “But I don’t know if she has a middle name or what her last name is. I only know she went by Victoria, and Libby sometimes calls her Vicky. My dad won’t tell me anything more than that. No one will.”
Your head snapped back in surprise. “Really?”
“Really. I don’t know my mother’s full name. How messed up is that?”
Over the years, I’d scoured my house, the Harrises’ house, my grandparents’ house—looking for a yearbook, an old driver’s license, my own birth certificate. Anything that might tell me her legal name.
But my searches had never produced the answers I craved.
Which meant my dad had ensured those items were well hidden—where I might never find them. Probably to keep me from looking her up online.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t know her name was Victoria myself, until Libby mentioned her at the beach. Prior to that, your dad always referred to her as ‘Elliot’s mother.’ Never by name.”
My stomach sank. “Oh.”