Letter Twenty
You weren’t happy with me today.
“You struck a guard, Elliot? Why would you do that?”
“It was an accident,” I said.
You shook your head, disappointed. “So you just…accidentally elbowed a guard in the chest?”
“Yes.”
“Explain it to me.”
“I don’t have to explain anything to you, Casey.”
“Meaning you don’t plan to explain the current state of your face, either?
” you asked, grimacing at my swollen eye, busted lip, and the giant purple bruise on my cheek.
“First, you’re sent to the infirmary after someone beat the living daylights out of you, then two days later, you’re put in solitary confinement for striking a guard.
What’s going on with you? Is this to do with the house?
Because if you’re going to spiral every time I give you a bit of bad news—”
“I’ve told you—they hate me here. And striking the guard was an accident. You think I wanted to be put in solitary confinement? It’s torture. Even I’m not desperate enough to hurt myself like that.”
But you were right about one thing: I did get myself beaten up because of what my dad did to our house.
They hate me here, alright, but what’s more?
I know what it takes to push their raging-bitch buttons.
Takes one to know one. And, anyway, I am desperate enough to hurt myself if it also hurts Nic.
I wonder if he’ll write about how hurt he is in his next letter.
Not that I’ll ever know for sure because I won’t read it.
As for the guard, that really was an accident.
Sort of.
I couldn’t say the words without breaking: I just wanted a few more seconds. Without asking: How is he? Without begging: Tell me more. Don’t leave anything out.
You see, there’s a hallway in here, and at the end of this hallway there’s a big window that faces the street across from the jail.
Every single day, they lead us in a single-file line down that hallway—like we’re a bunch of first-graders—to the cafeteria for our meals, and when we’re finished eating, they lead us right back to our cells.
The day they put me in solitary confinement, I passed that window like I normally do: thoroughly dreading the slop they call a meal in here.
Only this time, I spotted a figure outside, standing on the sidewalk, and my heart—at the surprise glimpse of this person—lurched violently in my chest.
I would know the shape of him anywhere.
I know his gait and his stance. I know the curve of his shoulders and the shape of his legs. I could pick him out of a lineup with a mask covering his entire face. It was him.
Still, I needed to be sure, so I drifted out of line and wandered over to the window for a closer look.
Dressed in running gear and a black ball cap, he ripped the cap off his head as he bent over the sidewalk, trying to catch his breath.
He lifted his face to the jail. He stared right at me, though he couldn’t have possibly seen me there, not through the tinted glass.
His hair was longer—so much longer than it’s ever been—his face unshaven and tinged pink from running, but it was definitely him.
Michael.
A sob caught in my throat as I pressed my palm to the window. “There you are,” I whispered. “You’re still here.”
I didn’t lose him. Not completely. Not yet.
He’d run here, Casey. He’d run all the way to the jail, craving the nearness of me.
I know it in my bones. I know it with an assurance too raw and complicated to ever explain to you, because I know the deep, dark inside of him as well as I know his shape.
We’ve never been apart this long. He doesn’t know how to live without me.
I know, because I’m struggling to live without him.
My best friend. Sixty-two weeks without hearing the sound of his voice is a punishment far greater than being jailed.
The guard barked at me to get back in line, but I couldn’t pull myself away.
I needed more time. I needed a few more seconds to absorb the bittersweet gravity of his presence through that glass.
He hasn’t written or attempted to visit or passed a message through you, but he hasn’t let go. He still misses me, too.
So, you see, I wasn’t thinking clearly as I ignored the guard’s orders to get back in line.
I wasn’t thinking when she tried prying my hands off the window.
I wasn’t thinking as I resisted the handcuffs and my elbow came back to strike her in the chest. I was only thinking of Michael, down there on the sidewalk, so close I could feel him.
I needed a few more seconds, and she took that away from me.
That’s the real reason I spent three whole days in solitary confinement.
Because of him.
The only other time I’ve ever been separated from Michael for more than a week?
The eight long weeks he spent in England with you.
Surprisingly, I was able to sleep in my bedroom at the estate without the crushing fear I’d have another panic attack, the only silver lining to that gloomy summer.
I tried taking comfort in the salty air, the crash of the waves, and the sunset over the horizon at dusk—but none of it sparked joy.
I might as well have been viewing it all through a black-and-white lens.
To make matters worse, Tinsley had traveled to Greece with her mom, and Bree had invited her girlfriend to join us at the estate.
Amber. That bitch earned a permanent spot on my shit-list only three days into the trip, when I caught her making a comment about our parents. As we headed up to bed one night, she turned to Bree in the hallway leading to our rooms and said, “Is that kind of thing…normal for your mom and dad?”
“What thing?” asked Bree.
“Just—how close they were sitting to Elliot’s dad. The way they were acting. The way they were all, like, touching each other and stuff. Are they always that friendly with Nic?”
Naturally, my temper flared—hot enough to scorch.
So what if they’d been cozy on the couch together?
They often were, after three glasses of wine each and a tumbler full of scotch—passed between them—to end the night.
Their inhibitions were lowered. That’s all it was.
A thigh grab here and there hardly counted as risqué, which she clearly meant to imply.
“They’ve been drinking,” I snapped at her.
“And they’re friendly because they’ve been friends since they were kids, Amber. ”
“Yeah,” Amber said. “But—”
“No buts, bitch. Our parents are none of your business, the only person allowed to judge my dad is me, and if you keep going, I’ll personally see to it that you have a miserable summer here. By the way,” I said, stepping closer to her, “I better not ever hear my dad’s name leave your mouth again.”
“Jesus, Elliot,” Bree said. “Cut her some slack. She was just—”
“Don’t care. Keep your girlfriend in line, Bree.” I knocked Bree’s shoulder on the way to my room.
After that, I largely kept to myself, leaving the girls to bask in the glow of their summer romance—as long as Amber abided by my rules, that is. The last thing I felt like being, in addition to miserable, was a third wheel.
At dinner one night, a spectacular sunset painted the ocean a bright orange. Waves, like flames in a fire, licked at a peachy horizon, only slightly loosening the ever-present knot of resentment in my chest.
Libby sat a big bowl of salad on the back patio table and put her hand to my forehead. “Are you feeling okay, sweetie? You’ve been extra quiet lately.”
I responded with a shrug.
“She’s fine, Lib,” Nic said, palming a tumbler of scotch. “She just misses the boys.”
Nic kept his eyes on the water, the glass resting loosely in his hand. A wistful expression settled over his face, as if the horizon had pulled him somewhere far away. Since I’d skipped graduation, he’d barely spoken to me, even on the rare occasions I chose to sit with him.
Libby tugged on my braid. “I miss the boys, too. It isn’t the same without them here, is it?”
I thought it interesting that she’d lump you in with her own son, even though Libby definitely seemed fond of you.
On more than one occasion, I’d caught you two having tea together, swapping recipe tips, or discussing her wardrobe before public appearances.
Still, I sometimes wondered if her fondness would stand once she found out you were the result of her husband getting a second girl pregnant in college.
Speaking of John, I’ll admit the ways I messed with him that summer were a little—okay, fine, very—childish.
Bored one day, I spotted a biography on Ulysses S. Grant lying on the coffee table, so I swiped it for safekeeping in my room. John spent two full days searching for the missing book, totally baffled by its disappearance. A frustrating event for him, to be sure, but for me? Pure entertainment.
Like you, John also wears reading glasses. When no one was paying attention, I moved his glasses to different spots of the house, which caused him to spend a decent portion of each day searching for them.
A few times, I hid his earbuds, and he missed his daily run, so unwilling was he to run without music.
And when he ordered a new copy of the Ulysses S.
Grant book to replace the missing one, I used a box cutter to slice random pages out of it.
I caught him flipping back and forth a few times, frustrated and confused.
I hid behind the cover of my own book so he wouldn’t catch me smirking.
Then, one day, I came down early for breakfast, and I looked your dad in the eye, and I said, “Hey, John. Is Libby the only serious girlfriend you’ve ever had?”
John lowered his fork. “I guess so. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” I speared a piece of pancake. “So there was never anyone else special? The one who got away, maybe?”
Coffee mug now lowered, Nic narrowed his gaze at me.
“The one who got away?” Libby laughed as she leaned over to clutch John’s bicep. “If anything, it was the reverse, sweetie. John was the one who got away for at least a couple of girls.”