Letter Fourteen #6
You brought me water and ibuprofen, then sat down next to me at the island. “How badly did they hurt you?” you asked, gaze so heavy with remorse that it made my chest ache. “Please be honest with me.”
“They just roughed me up a little,” I said, but my voice wavered. “I promise.”
“Will you show me where he kicked you?”
I peeled your cardigan back and lifted my shirt.
You studied the bruise—a big, reddish-purple mass underneath my right breast—and winced, then gently tugged the shirt back down, the backs of your fingers brushing my stomach, cold against my skin.
I shivered from the contact, and I guess you noticed, because you pulled the cardigan closed again and cinched it high around my neck, as if you were wrapping me in a blanket.
“You need tea,” you said, as though tea alone could make it all better. “Let me warm you up with some tea.”
But I grabbed your forearm before you could stand. “I’m okay for now.”
Lines of concern formed between your brows as you gently brushed your thumb over the bruise on my cheek. “If he’d—if you’d—I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”
I clasped your wrist. “But he didn’t. I’m okay.”
You tugged my turtleneck down to examine the bruise around my throat, wincing again. “We should be getting you checked out by a doctor right now, and after that, talking to the police. Not sitting here.”
“Are you kidding? We aren’t doing any of that. I’m fine.”
“You’re not, Elliot—I can see it in your eyes. As soon as your dad comes home, I’m telling him what I’ve done.”
I snatched your hand from my face. “Don’t you dare. He takes everything from me. I won’t be able to handle it if he takes you, too. I need you.”
I drew back immediately, shocked by my outburst. I’d put an embarrassing amount of emphasis on the word need.
“Need me?” Holding my gaze, you tangled your fingers in my hair, unbraided and draped down my shoulders. A prickling sensation rippled across my scalp. “For what?”
I tried backtracking. “Well, like, who would make my eggs in the morning? My dad’s eggs are decent, but they aren’t as good as yours.”
You lifted both eyebrows. “So…eggs? You need me for eggs?”
“And tea. I’ve gotten used to having afternoon tea now, so who would make my tea?”
“You just—you pour boiling water over a tea bag. It’s quite simple, really.”
“But that isn’t how you do it. You have this whole routine—with loose tea leaves and a thermometer. I’d never get it just right.”
“Well, that’s probably true,” you agreed. “You are shockingly inept when it comes to working a stove. Or any household appliance, for that matter.”
“Exactly.”
“So that’s it, then?” you asked softly, gaze focused on my hair, a lock of which you’d twirled around your finger. “Tea and eggs?”
“Of course not.” Your gaze slid to mine again, and I swallowed, a fizzling sensation rippling across my chest. The hair twirling.
The low hum of your voice. The hopeful way your eyes searched mine.
Despite the circumstances, you were making me nervous.
“I mean, obviously, now that you’re here, you know, I can’t—um—I can’t really…
like…imagine…you not being here.” I cleared my throat. “I guess.”
“Wow,” you said, fighting back a smile. “You know, I find it quite adorable that you put this much effort into pretending you don’t actually—and dare I say thoroughly—enjoy having me here.”
“Shut up.” I nudged you in the sternum. But you grabbed my hand before I could pull it back and secured it over your heart, pounding at a furious pace beneath my palm. My heart matched the pace of yours. Pounding, too.
“Promise me,” I said, gripping your chest. “Promise me you won’t tell my dad about the party.”
That’s when you brought my hand to your face, pressed your lips firmly against my palm, and kissed the bottom of my hand.
You nodded, eyes shining, and I knew—right there in the kitchen, with a certainty that rocked me to my core—that if this was the way you made promises, I wanted to ask you to make promises to me for the rest of my life.
I stood and stepped between your legs, then wrapped my arms around your neck. I felt you nuzzle your face into the crook of mine as you slipped your arms inside the cardigan to hug me back, careful to avoid my bruised ribs. You whispered, “I hate seeing you hurt.”
I sometimes wonder how differently that charged moment might’ve ended if Tinsley hadn’t walked into the kitchen just then. When we jerked apart, she had the biggest smirk on her face as she said, “What’s going on here?”
Later on, when my dad came home, I hid out as long as I could, but he saw my face the moment I entered the dining room for dinner and demanded an explanation.
“Tennis,” I told him. “Tennis ball—right to the face.”
Nic narrowed his gaze, turning to you for confirmation. When you nodded, he dropped it.
But I caught him studying that bruise on my cheek all night. Almost as if he didn’t believe us.
Around ten that evening, you left the house with Michael, and it should’ve made me happy. You guys were finally hanging out again. But neither one of you could look me in the eye when you mumbled your goodbyes.
Fearing the worst, I decided to sit up with Garland and wait for you to return home. I curled up on the sofa with a blanket, sitting close to my dad. He stayed up late to watch TV with me, maybe sensing that I needed the comfort of his presence.
While an episode of Friends played in the background, I longed to be a kid again, back when he had the power to take my pain away with a simple hug or a scoop of ice cream or even just a conversation, his voice steady and loving and the most reassuring sound in the world.
It didn’t seem possible that he could take away this kind of pain, but I wanted to let him try.
Wanted to cry on his shoulder and confess everything.
Wanted to feel the sharp, sure comfort of his voice when he said things like, I’ll take care of it.
Wanted to let him handle this situation—handle those boys—like he handled everything else in my life.
At one point, I nearly did confess—nearly decided to cover for you and say I snuck out and Here’s what happened and I’m not okay, Dad, please fix it—but I lost my nerve when Nic met my gaze and said, “What’s wrong?”
Everything, I thought. “Nothing,” I said, dropping my head on his shoulder to hide the tears. “I missed you, that’s all.”
He kissed my hair. “I missed you, too.”
Sometime later, after Nic had gone to bed, I was reaching into the fridge for my water bottle when your key turned in the lock. Michael entered the kitchen with you.
But you rushed past me without making eye contact and headed upstairs. Odd, I thought, stomach clenching. A prick of unease worked its way up my spine.
Michael armed the security system—another oddity, since that was supposed to be your job. Then he sunk into a stool at the island and dropped his head in his hands. His body began to shake, and that’s when I knew: something bad had happened.
In a quiet voice, I asked, “What did you do?”
Michael lifted his head, face streaked with tears. “We couldn’t let you go after those assholes. So we took care of them ourselves.”
“Greer and Rory?”
Michael nodded.
“How did you find out it was them—those two boys specifically?”
“Willoughby caught them last night, coming out of that room together. He said Rory got wasted and wouldn’t stop talking about how scared he was of getting in trouble, and Greer kept telling him to be quiet.”
“So you took care of them,” I said. “By doing what?”
“We fucked them up pretty bad.”
“Casey, too?”
“Him more than me.”
I drew back. “What do you mean?”
Michael’s eyes grew big. “I’ve never seen him like that. I didn’t know he had it in him. He went somewhere else. He was…” His eyes glazed over, remembering. “It took me and Willoughby both to pull him back—to make him stop.”
“You got Willoughby involved?”
“He helped us—not that he had a choice. Casey wasn’t giving him a choice. Willoughby invited them over to hang out, and we confronted them.”
I picked up Michael’s hands, examining them closely. They were unmarked. Totally clean.
“We didn’t get our hands dirty. We didn’t have to.”
“Then how did you hurt them?”
“It’s best if you don’t know all the details,” Michael said. “All you need to know is, we took care of them. That asshole? Greer? He’ll never touch you again.”
“When you say you went too far, what does that mean?”
“It means I need to stay here tonight. I need an alibi.”
My heart sank. “How could you?” I backed away, clutching my sore throat. Craving the pain. Feeling nothing but rage. “I asked you to let this go, Michael.”
“I know,” he whispered. “But we couldn’t, Elliot.”
I fled upstairs, careful to be quiet so I wouldn’t wake my dad. I paused on your landing and stared at your door, debating whether or not to burst in without knocking. In the end, I did, only to find you lying in bed. On top of the covers. Fully clothed.
You lifted yourself up by the elbows to look at me.
“How could you?” I demanded. “I asked you to let it go.”
“I’d do it all over again,” you said—not ashamed, but angry. “I broke both his fucking hands, and I might’ve killed him, too, if Michael hadn’t stopped me.”
I shook my head, disbelieving. “I told you I’d handle it. I said I would.”
“Yeah? How would you handle it if he got you pinned to the ground again? How would you get away?”
“It’s not your job to step in and fight my battles.”
“It’s my job to protect you.”
“It’s your job to keep an eye on me.”
“It’s my job,” you said, voice trembling with anger, “to make sure you don’t do anything reckless or stupid, and thinking you could go after that Greer guy—after he nearly killed you—was both.”
You threw both legs over the side of the bed and lunged forward, catching me by the forearm. One quick tug, and I was close enough to smell the crisp night air on your jacket. “What makes you think you are any match for a guy like him? For someone who’s bigger and stronger than you’ll ever be?”