Letter Twenty-One
Back in Boston, I was able to sleep in my bedroom again, the crushing anxiety gone, somehow dislodged over the summer.
While Bree started her senior year of high school and the rest of you went to college—you and Michael back to Harvard, Willoughby and Tinsley to UMass Boston—I got coffee with my dad.
Then volunteered at a local animal shelter…with my dad.
Then sat around the house—yep, you guessed it—with my dad.
For three whole days a week, though, I had you all to myself for nine glorious, uninterrupted hours.
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were my Casey Days.
We got coffee most mornings, too—can’t beat those late summer strolls in Boston or the early morning temps, which hovered in the sixties that August—often taking the long way through the Common to one of our favorite coffee shops.
Once, I convinced you to try my iced latte, then rolled my eyes at the face you made as you handed it back. Like any true Brit, you said, you preferred your coffee the proper way: hot.
“Oh, please,” I said. “For the hundredth time, you are not British.”
You scoffed. “Why do you insist on being right about this?”
“Because I am right.”
You huffed out a laugh. “You are not.”
“Casey, you’re like the boy who was raised by wolves.
Sure, he acts like a wolf. He has quirky wolf habits.
He eats the same weird shit a wolf typically eats.
He even howls like a wolf. He sounds just like one.
But at the end of the day, when he looks in the mirror”—I shot you a sympathetic look—“is he a wolf? Or is he actually just a boy?”
You blinked hard. Lifted the latte to your lips. Took a delicate sip. “Bit harsh,” you muttered, lowering the mug back to the table.
Smiling, I reached for your arm, but you snatched it out of reach.
“Don’t touch me,” you said, eyes twinkling, a small smile tugging at at the corners of your mouth.
I laughed so hard the woman next to us shot me a dirty look.
Not that I cared.
Because mornings like that? They made everything feel okay.
Maybe I didn’t get to go to college like you guys. Didn’t get the life experience, or the cramped dorm, or the student ID.
But I got this: a table, a latte, a boy who made me laugh so hard I forgot what I didn’t have long enough to remember what I did.
After the coffee runs, we fed the squirrels in the park. Watched Gossip Girl. Ate lunch together. Drank multiple cups of tea. I actually grew a little wistful sometimes, watching you do your homework.
Within a couple of weeks, we’d adjusted to our new routine, and things were going great…until Willoughby started dropping by the house after his classes ended for the day.
To everyone’s surprise, my dad okayed him being there, and Nic never said I couldn’t take Willoughby up to my room. So we hung out upstairs a lot, which meant we were mostly just making out.
At dinner one night, you said to Nic, “Do I really need to be here when Willoughby’s over?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’d still like you to be here, Casey. That’s part of our deal. You stay with Elliot until I get home.”
Heaving a big sigh, you stabbed at a piece of roast. Then, despite your surly mood, Nic informed us we had appointments for therapy the following week.
You dropped your fork. “What if I choose not to go?”
Nic slowly leaned back, put off by your tone. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t want to go,” you said. “I’ll sit in the waiting room until Elliot’s finished.”
“You’re going, Casey.”
“You can’t force me to talk to someone, Nic. I’m an adult.”
“Oh, really? Prove it.”
You scoffed at this. “Prove I’m an adult?”
“Yes. I’ll call John and Michael over to the house. The four of us will sit down together, and you’ll finally tell them who you are.”
On either side of your plate, you’d clenched your hands into tight fists. Nic had you there. You stared at him with your jaw twitching. “I’m not ready to tell them.”
“It’s been a year,” Nic said. “You’ve known a whole year now.”
“I realize that.”
“You can’t keep this a secret forever. It’s not fair to them. It’s not fair to John. He’s your father.”
“I get that,” you said. “But I’m not ready yet.”
“And that’s one of the reasons you need to go back to therapy. You need to talk about why you keep putting this off.”
“You already know why,” you snapped. “You know all the reasons why. It’s not as fucking simple as you make it out to be.”
“Casey,” he said gently, leaning forward to grip your wrist. “Not one of those reasons is insurmountable.”
You shook your head. “You don’t know that.”
“I do know,” he said. “You can trust me on this. Therapy might help you overcome your fears, so you can tell them. What you keep pulling on your birthday? Being forced to spend time with your adoptive dad over the summer? You need to talk about those things, too. This is important.”
“Come on, Casey,” I said gently. “If I go, you go. Remember?”
You snatched up your fork, gaze dropped to the table. “Fine.”
Four days later, we resumed therapy. I went back to the same lady, and you went back to the same man.
Everything had finally gone back to normal—except us. Something had definitely shifted between you and me.
For one thing, you stopped telling me about your therapy sessions on our walks back to the house. You stopped talking to me in general, becoming more and more distant with each passing day.
It probably didn’t help that we sometimes found Willoughby waiting for me on the front stoop. Whenever this happened, you’d march right past him and unlock the door, then retreat to the kitchen or upstairs to your room. And I wouldn’t see you again until Willoughby left.
After a particularly hot make-out session with Willoughby one day, I wandered down to the kitchen for drinks. You stood at the stove, stirring what smelled like onion and garlic in a stainless steel pan.
“Hey,” I said, propping one hip against the counter.
You responded with a grunt.
“Casey.” I ducked, trying to catch your gaze, but you continued stirring without answering me. “Why are you ignoring me?”
“Not ignoring you.”
“You clearly are. You won’t even look at me right now. What’s wrong with you?”
You dropped the wooden spoon, letting it clang sharply against the pan. Your eyes, when you finally looked at me, were a piercing shade of dark blue. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? What are you even doing?”
I shifted against the counter. “What do you mean?”
“What is he to you?” you asked, gesturing at the ceiling, in the general vicinity of my bedroom. “Your boyfriend? Your fuck buddy? What?”
I laughed. “Oh, you’ve got some nerve…”
“Do I? Really? For asking what you’re doing with a boy you don’t even like?”
“Of course I like him.” What wasn’t to like? Gorgeous brown eyes. Hot body. Skilled tongue. That last detail might’ve been what I liked—no, deeply appreciated—about Willoughby the most.
“Like him enough to make him your boyfriend?”
“I don’t know about that. We’re just having fun.” That’s when it struck me: I sounded exactly like Michael back when he and Sienna were “just having fun.” Who the hell had I become?
“Meaning what?” you asked, biting out a laugh. “He’s free to be with other girls when he’s not with you?”
“I guess so.”
“And you’re okay with that sort of arrangement? You, of all people?”
“Well, I have to be, right? I can’t go over to his place or sleep over.
He still parties all the time, and I’m not allowed to do that, either, even if I wanted to—which I don’t, because I’m still traumatized by what happened at his Halloween party.
My only stipulation is that he doesn’t have sex with anyone else, and he promised he wouldn’t. ”
“And you trust him to uphold that promise?” you asked, incredulous, both eyebrows shooting up. “Do you have any clue how difficult it is for a guy to resist a girl who’s enthusiastically giving him her consent?”
I didn’t. I especially didn’t like the authority with which you’d said that—as if you were speaking from experience.
“He’s heard that story about me stabbing Michael a gazillion times throughout the years, so I’m pretty sure he took me seriously. Like I said, we’re just having fun.”
Your tortured gaze held mine for a long time, stripping away every ounce of my confidence.
“Got it,” you said eventually, turning back to the stove.
I didn’t appreciate your attitude, Casey, or the sudden line of inquiry about Willoughby. He was only there in the first place because you had rejected me. So I said, “Do you realize this is the first time in my life that my dad’s allowing me to have something normal?”
“I do,” you said, jabbing at the pan. “I get it.”
“Then why’re you trying to make me feel bad about it?”
You chopped a slice of onion in half.
“You’re the one who rejected me, Casey. You’re the one who said no.”
You dropped the spoon. With one hand propped on your hip and the other clenched into a fist, you said, “I didn’t reject you. I didn’t say no. I said not yet.”
“So I’m supposed to wait around and remain single until you’re ready to be with me? Whenever the hell that is?”
“No, Elliot. By all means, go upstairs. Be with Willoughby.” Was it my imagination or had your voice cracked? “Have fun.”
“You kissed me. You made me feel things. You told me it was irresponsible of you to do that right now, then you sent me all those mushy texts over the summer, and after a little while, you put an end to those, too. And now I have a boy in my room, and you’re jealous, and I feel like shit, even though you’re the one who chose this, Casey. You did.”