Letter Sixteen #2
“It isn’t,” I claimed. “And even if it were, I wouldn’t be good for him, either.”
“Except with him, I doubt that would be enough to stop you. He’s irresistible like that.”
Like the year before, we regularly cozied up on one of the sofas to watch Christmas movies while we studied or slogged through reading for school.
One day, we were doing just that—you in your black glasses, reading Jane Eyre for a literature course, fingers brushing over your lips—when you finally glanced over and caught me watching you.
“What is it?” you asked, hand dropping from your face.
“Can I have it back? Please?”
You narrowed your eyes, confused.
“The cardigan, Casey.” I reached over the empty space between us to sweep my fingertips over the soft brown sweater that I loved and missed.
You smiled, already slipping your arms from the sleeves. “It’s all yours.”
I pulled my mom’s Harvard sweatshirt over my head, but in doing so, caused my camisole to ride up.
You went very still, the cardigan only halfway removed, your gaze riveted to the creamy white lace of my bra.
I shoved the camisole down while you finished removing your sweater and cleared your throat.
You handed it over, never taking your eyes off me, watching as I took the cowl neck, pressed it to my face, and breathed in your scent. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you said huskily, grabbing the pink origami heart that had fallen out of your book, then putting it back.
Out of all the bookmarks I’d slipped into your books over the last year, you used the pink origami hearts the most.
“Do you plan to spend the holidays in England again?” I asked, already sad about you leaving.
When you were gone, the house felt darker.
Colder. Lifeless. It wasn’t just our daily tea routine, or you greeting me in the kitchen every morning.
It was the gentle melody of the classical music you sometimes played over the speaker system downstairs.
The easy banter between us as we moved throughout our day.
You, entering a room and suffusing it with light.
But more than any of that, when you were missing, it felt like part of me was missing, too.
“Your dad asked me to stay for Christmas this year,” you said. “So I’ll leave two days after and return just before my classes resume.”
I smiled really big.
“What’s that smile for?” you asked, smiling back.
“I’m just glad we get to spend Christmas together.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Me, too,” you said.
“Is Claire okay with it, though?”
You nodded. “She wants me to spend Christmas with my real dad—my real family—now that I know who they are. She’s quite happy for me.”
“But they still don’t know,” I said carefully. “Why won’t you tell them?”
You turned to stare at the TV. “I’m afraid they’ll be angry when they find out how far I’ve gone to deceive them. And Michael—I don’t think he’ll take it too well.”
“Michael might be mad at first, but he’d get over it,” I said. “He really cares about you, Casey. You’re one of his best friends.”
“But that’s just it,” you said. “He thinks I’m his friend.
He thinks I’m trustworthy and reliable. What happens when he finds out that isn’t actually the case, because I’ve been lying to him—all along—about who I am?
How do I even say it? Oh, by the way, Nic moved me in because he thought I was his son.
Turns out your father is mine, too, and I’ve known for months now, but I’ve been too chicken to tell you.
” You cast me a serious look. “How would Michael feel to know you’ve been keeping something this huge from him? ”
“He’d be upset,” I admitted. “But, Casey, John would be happy to know you’re his son. He’d talk to Michael and get him to come around.”
“Would he? Or would John side with the son he’s always known and turn his back on the one who lied?”
“John’s not like that. Trust me, he forgives easier than most, and he would never turn his back on one of his kids. He didn’t even turn his back on me—after I attacked Michael at my birthday party. Plus, you’re forgetting my dad. He’ll make sure John understands your reasons for lying.”
“Or maybe John will be angry with Nic, too, for going behind his back and keeping me a secret.”
I thought of what Libby had said at dinner that night, just before I’d grabbed the dinner knife. The three of us don’t keep secrets from each other.
What secret was bigger than this one?
Clearly troubled, you returned your gaze to the TV. So I slid over on the sofa, rested my head on your shoulder, and threaded my fingers through yours.
“It’s all such a mess,” you said, laying your head on top of mine. “I’ve fucked up everything. Like I always do.”
I didn’t understand what you meant, but I didn’t think it was fair of you to say that about yourself.
“That’s not true,” I said, pulling back to meet your gaze again.
“Look at what you’ve done for me. You’ve made my life, like, a gazillion times more bearable than it would be with some cat-embroidering nanny, which means I’m not picking fights with my dad as often as I used to.
And you convinced me to go to therapy, so now I’m finally starting to feel better about what happened at Halloween.
I hate to admit it, but Eleanor was right.
Having you here…has actually been great for me, Casey. ”
Your eyes sparkled extra blue. “You really mean that?”
“Of course I do. Also—my dad. He loves having you here. If he had it his way, you’d never go back to England again. He gets mopey when you leave.”
You smiled. “He does not.”
“He does, actually. Even if you never tell John he’s your dad—and you definitely should, I’m not saying that—my dad will always consider you family.” I playfully rolled my eyes. “I guess I will, too.”
You squeezed my hand, then separated our thumbs to twist the ring you’d given me for my birthday around my index finger. “So you admit it, then.”
“Admit what?”
“That you were wrong.”
I leaned back. “I’m sorry?”
“When I moved in, you said we’d never be friends, but we are friends. You’ve let me in. More than let me in, I’d say—you need me,” you said dramatically, pressing a hand to your heart. “Can’t stand the thought of losing me. Your life would be utterly unbearable without me—”
“Okay, don’t push it, though,” I said, snatching my hand from yours to nudge you in the side. But a traitorous little smile tugged at my lips.
A couple of days later, we dawdled on the way home from school, bodies pressed close to ward off the cold, my arm looped through yours.
Red noses. Chapped cheeks. Snowflakes caught in our hair.
I looked forward to throwing on your cardigan at home and warming by the fire with a cup of tea, your classic Christmas playlist playing softly in the background while we did our homework, the tree twinkling in the corner.
But my mood instantly soured when we walked through the back door and found Sienna sitting at the kitchen island all by herself.
When Michael came over, he fell naturally into our routine, but Sienna didn’t like tea.
Sienna couldn’t concentrate on her homework with music playing.
Sienna wasn’t fond of Christmas movies—“I’ve seen this one a hundred times” and “Who watches black-and-white movies anymore?” and “This one’s so lame. ”
“Where’s Michael?” I asked her.
“He was just here,” she said, lazily scrolling on her phone, “but he had to run something over to Libby. He’ll be back soon.”
Annoyed, I rolled my eyes and stomped upstairs. Once I’d changed out of my school clothes and donned your cardigan with some leggings, I texted Michael: You leave your bitch unattended on my turf? Anything I say or do is fair game.
On my way back to the kitchen, my ears pricked at the sound of Sienna’s voice—low and throaty, flirtatious—filtering into the hallway.
Naturally, I stopped to listen, hackles already rising. Was she seriously flirting with you? On my fucking turf?
But nothing could’ve prepared me for the level of hostility I would feel when I peered around the corner.
You, leaning against the counter with one hand. While she—tits jutting out—pressed her body to the front of yours.
As she pushed her bright red claws through your hair, I caught the tail end of her saying, “…upstairs real quick. Before he gets back.”
“I don’t think so,” you said, plucking her hand from your hair.
“What if I stay at my dorm tonight? Tell my roommate to get lost for an hour?”
“Sienna.” You gently nudged her back. “The answer’s no. I’m not interested.”
“I’ve already told you: Michael’s okay with it.”
“And I’ve told you: I’m not okay with it.”
Sienna propped her hip against the counter, arms folded over the bright red spandex top that matched her leggings. “Casey, I’ve kept a lot of secrets for you. I helped you get where you are. Without me, you wouldn’t be standing in this kitchen right now.”
“And I deeply appreciate that,” you said. “But I’m not interested in being anything more than friends.”
She laughed, teeth dragging across her bottom lip. “Well, I’m still interested in being friends who fuck sometimes.” Cocky head tilt. A dramatic pause. “Gives me more incentive to keep your secrets from Michael, you know?”
Fuck sometimes? My heart sank, crashing like the Titanic at the bottom of my stomach.
Your jaw pulsed. “So that’s it, then? You’re happy to sleep with me, knowing it’s something I don’t want to do?”
“Jesus, Casey. You act like you haven’t enjoyed yourself every time we’ve been together. I always make it worth your while, don’t I?”
Heartbroken and livid, I watched that skank drag her claws down your chest as you stared straight ahead with a look of resignation on your face. She had me seeing more red than her fucking outfit that day.
“Wow, Sienna,” I said, stepping into the kitchen. “I knew you were a bitch, but I didn’t realize you were a trash human being, too.”
“Alright,” you said, nudging Sienna toward her coat—a black cropped puffer hanging on one of my stools. “It’s probably best if you leave now.”