Letter Twelve #5
Still, I untangled myself from John and crawled into Nic’s lap, repeating “I’m sorry, Daddy” over and over and mopping the tears from his face.
When he didn’t respond, I grew frantic, pulling at his shirt and begging him to speak.
John grabbed my dad by the jaw, pressed his mouth to Nic’s ear, and whispered something sharply—and only then did my dad wrap his arms around my trembling body to hold me.
The three of us sat there forever, huddled together on the floor, and at some point, I gathered the courage to apologize, tearfully asking John if I’d killed Michael.
Did I kill him? Is he gone? And John said, “No, sweetheart. He’ll be okay, but he’s seriously hurt.
We need to have a talk about why you did that, because it’s not enough to say you’re sorry—not this time. ”
I didn’t want to tell him. The truth seemed small and insignificant compared to what I’d done.
But John lowered his gaze to mine, brushed his hand over my hair, and—in a voice that was gentle and warm and everything I needed to feel safe in that fragile moment—coaxed the truth loose.
It spilled out of me, in sobs and broken sentences, Nic’s arms tightening around me as I confessed, and when I was finished, Nic finally spoke.
He told me he was sorry. He repeated it over and over, his body relaxing against mine.
You see, Nic couldn’t face what I’d done until he knew why. Until he understood the stabbing for what it was and not what it looked like. It wasn’t cold and callous. I had a reason, and the reason made sense to him.
I went on to write that letter of apology to Michael, and read it aloud, and afterward Nic stuffed the letter—the whole incident—away in a drawer, where he liked to pretend it had been forgotten.
But it’s never been forgotten, Casey, least of all by me.
The stabbing happened in a flash—fueled by rage and jealousy—and I barely remember doing it. But being treated like a monster by my own father?
That’s something I’ll never forget.
The thing I can’t stop punishing myself for.
I’d done something so horrific my dad couldn’t unlock the door and let me out himself.
All this to say, you were familiar to me from the very beginning, familiar because you reminded me of John—and that’s not a bad thing. John’s often been a dependable and reassuring presence in my life. It’s just that he had to be. Because sometimes my dad couldn’t.
Like you, Casey. Always showing up to visit me in jail, now that I’m something my dad definitely can’t face anymore: a killer.
Anyway, I promised to give you everything. Even the darkest things. And the office incident matters.
For you to understand me—my relationship with Nic, everything I did during our time together—you have to understand this first: that incident shaped me.
And I would learn much later that it wasn’t the only one.
Back to that Sunday.
While I searched for the similarities between you and your family, I noticed Michael had barely spoken throughout brunch or touched the food on his plate.
He looked a little sick, actually, like he might’ve been hungover.
The adults had just left the table when you leaned in and said to him, “Hey. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, man.” He shoved his chair back, gaze flicking across the table to me. My heart squeezed.
As Michael stalked off, you stared after him with that groove of concern between your eyebrows. You started to follow him, but Eleanor called your name from the sitting room across the hall, diverting your attention. So I went after him instead.
In the kitchen, I found him grabbing a water from the fridge. “Hey,” I said, leaning my hip against the counter. “Can we talk?”
Michael wouldn’t look at me. “Talk about what? There’s nothing left to say.”
“Don’t be like that. I need to know how to fix this.”
“What’s to fix? We were just having fun. That’s all it was.”
“Are you kidding? Fun? Don’t reduce it to that.”
Michael’s eyes finally flashed up to meet mine. “What do you want me to call it, then?”
“It meant a lot to me, Michael. You mean a lot to me.”
“Please,” he said, a look of pure disgust on his face. “Don’t try to placate me by saying shit like that. You knew what you were doing.”
I stepped back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Willoughby wouldn’t touch you, then I told you how I felt. You saw an opportunity there, and you took it. We didn’t go all the way, but in the end, you got what you wanted, right?”
I crossed my arms. “What did I get exactly?”
“Pain. Out of everything I could’ve offered you, that’s what you wanted most: pain. Pain from me. A way to punish yourself.”
I flinched at his accusation—and he noticed.
“Oh, come on, Elliot,” he said, voice soft but cutting, a dagger to my heart. “You think that slipped by me? You think I didn’t know what you were really asking for every time you asked me to bite you?”
“Why are you acting like this?”
“You told me you loved me, and you didn’t mean it.”
“Of course I did. I do love you.”
“Not the way I want,” he said thickly. “Not the way you said it. You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”
I reached out to him, but he backed away, and that stung like hell. How could I have screwed him over so royally?
“I’m sorry it’s not exactly the way you want,” I said, voice trembling, “but I do love you. Just tell me how to fix this. You’re my best friend, Michael. I can’t lose you.”
“Don’t worry.” He backed up, closer to the door. “I’ll be here like I always am. What other choice do I have? I wouldn’t be able to escape you if I tried.”
When Michael left, I fled upstairs before anyone could see me crying. At the time, I didn’t see a way we could ever go back to what we were. It felt like I’d lost him forever, and it crushed me.
But that’s nothing compared to the heartache I feel today.