Letter Nineteen #8
The rest of you stood there, in shocked silence, as I made my way to the kitchen for breakfast.
Later that night, long after my classmates had graduated without me—after I’d fielded texts from both Tinsley and Willoughby, both asking why the hell I’d never shown—you called out to me in the semi-darkness.
I turned over, meeting your gaze over the coffee table.
“Why wouldn’t you go to your graduation ceremony?” you asked.
As hurt as I was about our kiss, it didn’t seem very prudent to shut you out again, not when we were about to be separated. For months. “I didn’t want to go.”
“But your dad, Elliot—he’s quite upset.”
I shrugged like I didn’t care. But the truth was, when Nic had come home from the Harrises’—to use your word—properly drunk, which he never got, at least not to that extent, I knew I’d gone too far.
And that’s before I spotted him in the Garland Room, lightly swaying in front of the bookcase, holding a framed photo of me at my kindergarten graduation.
Seeing him like that gutted me. So much so that I kept picturing the serrated edge of a knife. How those sharp, jagged edges might gleam against my palm. How those edges might feel when I closed my hand around them. Like tiny teeth, breaking the skin.
“It seemed like you meant to take today from him,” you said, “but you also took it from yourself. That’s something you can’t ever get back.”
“It’s a piece of paper, Casey. They’ll ship it to me in the mail. I still graduated. I just got to do it without the added humiliation of my name being called and very few people clapping for me.”
“What do you mean? I’d have yelled and clapped louder than anyone. Michael, too.”
I smiled. Because I could totally see you guys doing that.
“Aren’t you sad you missed it?”
Sad that I hadn’t gotten a picture with Tinsley. But all I said out loud was, “Right now, missing my graduation doesn’t rank very high on the list of things I’m sad about.”
“I hate that we won’t be spending the summer together,” you said.
“I heard Michael’s going with you to England.”
“Yes. Claire’s excited to meet him—despite the circumstances.”
“Will your dad know who Michael really is?”
You shook your head. “Claire thought it best not to tell him. He knows Nic isn’t my real father, but he knows nothing about the Harrises. He’ll just think Michael and I are friends.”
We lay in silence for a while, staring at each other.
Your voice sounded a touch gravelly when you said, “You know I’ll miss you terribly, right?”
My throat squeezed. “A whole summer without you following me around and annoying the hell out of me? Sounds like heaven.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“No,” I whispered. “I’ll miss you, too.”
“You’ll text me? Keep in touch?”
“I might text so often I start to annoy you.”
“Impossible,” you said. “Text me every day—about anything and everything.”
The day you and Michael left, Hal carried your bags out to the car while we all said our goodbyes. You got a kiss on the cheek and a hug from Libby, the same from Bree, then one of those guy hugs from your dad.
John pulled back, gripping your arms, leveling his gaze with yours. “Hey. Don’t be a stranger this summer, okay? Let us know how you’re doing. We want to hear from you, too.”
“Yeah,” you replied, giving him a small smile. “I’ll be in touch. Definitely.”
Libby, all teary-eyed, clung to Michael, who playfully fussed at her to let him go. Then John forced the matter when he pried her loose and hugged Michael himself, his hand cradling the back of Michael’s head.
I watched you, watching them—a father-son moment you’d never gotten to experience with John yourself—and the deep yearning behind your gaze hurt my heart so much that I practically slammed my body against yours.
You chuckled, lowering your face to the crook of my neck and whispering, “Promise me you won’t hurt yourself this summer. ”
“I promise,” I whispered back. “Remember what we talked about this morning? This is the perfect opportunity to tell Michael the truth. Promise me you’ll try?”
You didn’t respond right away. “Yeah,” you said, breath warm on my shoulder, your grip tightening. “I’ll try telling him this summer. I promise.”
We pulled back, smiling at each other, my eyes rapidly filling with tears.
Saying goodbye to you was harder than I anticipated, too many tender feelings banging around inside me at once, and I wasn’t sure how to articulate any of them, so I turned to Michael and buried all those emotions in the crook of his neck when he bent down to hug me.
When we drew back, I stroked my thumb down that scar on his lip.
I couldn’t not do it, and besides, with our dads watching, it felt like an act of defiance.
Which is why I did it twice. “I’ll miss you so much. ”
Michael smoothed my braid between his fingers. “I’ll miss you, too.”
I turned to face our dads, standing side by side, their stances identical, hands jammed in their pockets. What you didn’t see, Casey, was the death glare I shot each of them before I stalked back into the house.