Letter Twenty-One #3
The pleading look on my dad’s face—his hand shaking slightly as it grasped mine—was so out of character for him that some of my anger drained away.
I considered the toll your secret had already taken on him, and how much worse a toll it would take if that secret fell into the wrong hands.
And while I resented the implication that I might slip your secret (again), I certainly understood the importance of not allowing your news to be revealed to the Harrises in such a public way.
I thought of how that might impact my dad’s friendship with John and Libby if your identity were first revealed to them through the media.
I thought of how it might also affect you, your relationship with the Harrises, your relationship with Michael.
I thought of how my own friendship with Michael—with Bree—might be shaken by a revelation like that, especially when they discovered I’d known for a whole year.
None of us might ever recover from it. So, for everyone’s sake, I forced my resentment aside and nodded at my dad. “I won’t go near her. I promise.”
Nic’s shoulders sagged as he squeezed my hand. “Thank you.”
On our morning walks to get coffee, however, I searched for the woman, scanning every street corner and bench in the park, the steps of every building and brownstone, even the cars parked along the road.
On our walks home from therapy, I searched for her again.
But a few weeks ticked by, and she never reappeared.
One day, I’d been sitting in my window seat for hours, listening to an audiobook so I could watch the street, when someone rapped on my door and pushed it open. I glanced up, expecting to find you in my doorway.
But it was Bree.
I pressed pause on the audiobook.
“Hey, guess what,” she said, joining me on the window seat, her expression turning serious.
“What?”
“Michael’s back with Sienna.”
I blinked at her. “You’re joking, right?”
Bree shook her head, blonde hair swishing against her pale gray cardigan. “He brought her over for dinner two nights ago.”
“I can’t believe him.”
“If it makes you feel any better, my parents aren’t happy about it, either. I think my dad hates her.”
This did make me feel better. “Really?”
“Yeah. I overheard him and Michael fighting about her in the kitchen last night. He made Michael promise him he’d always”—Bree wrinkled her nose—“use a condom, no matter what. My dad doesn’t trust her motives—or her obsession with Casey. Not after everything Nic’s told him.”
This bitch. She was like a fungus that couldn’t be killed. Every time I thought we’d gotten rid of her, she sprouted back up.
Bree ducked to meet my gaze. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, resisting the urge to flood Michael’s phone with a barrage of angry texts. “Just wish Michael had different taste in girls.”
“Trust me,” Bree said. “So do I.”
For the next several weeks, my dad devoted much of his free time to supporting Libby’s mayoral campaign, leaving us on our own a lot.
I wanted to support Libby, too—after all, she’d be the first woman in history to become mayor of Boston if she won—but Nic didn’t like taking me into large crowds.
We were sitting close on the sofa, watching someone live stream Libby’s speech at a campaign rally on your phone, when I told you about it: another messed-up thing about my life.
When I finished, you asked, “So he’s never taken you to a concert, or a festival, or anything like that?”
“No,” I said, even as a memory shook loose. “Actually, he did take me to see a Red Sox game once, but I ran ahead of him in the crowd and we got separated. This nice lady took my hand and tried to help me find him.”
“How long were you separated from each other?”
“Not very long. I guess he must’ve found us before we could find him, because suddenly he was there, picking me up and pressing me close to his body.”
“Did he thank the woman?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, reaching over to twist your bracelets.
“I don’t remember what he said to her, but he didn’t sound happy.
He carried me off, and I waved at the woman over his shoulder, but she didn’t wave back.
She looked mad, like maybe she didn’t appreciate him being rude.
But I don’t think he could control himself—he was just that angry with me. ”
“You think he was angry with you?”
“Well, yeah. When he finally lowered me to the ground, he knelt down to my level and started yelling at me for running off. He shook me by the shoulders, and then…he started to cry.”
“Nic cried?”
“Yeah—then I cried, upset that I’d made him cry. He hugged me so tightly I thought my bones were going to crack. We went home after that, and it made me sad. I’d really wanted to stay. But I didn’t tell him that, because I felt like I deserved to leave the game for upsetting him.”
Other things started to surface. Other memories of that day.
How we’d gone home and the Harrises were already there, waiting for us.
How John and Libby had comforted my dad, parting on the sofa to make space for him in the middle.
How Libby, misty-eyed and pale, had grabbed my dad’s hand, and John—shaken up, too—had placed his hand over the top of theirs.
They’d watched me and Bree play dolls and dinosaurs in front of the fireplace while Michael played with a Rubik’s cube in one of the wingbacks.
Eleanor had drifted in, knelt down next to us girls, and jerked me against her bony chest. Eleanor’s hug had startled me, because Eleanor didn’t hug.
Gabe—standing opposite our parents, knuckles white as he gripped the back of the other sofa—had stared at my dad with such ferocity behind his dark gaze that it had frightened me. Then he’d left the room, slamming the back door behind him.
Something else about that day niggled at me, but I couldn’t pin down what it was, your voice snapping me back to the present. You ducked to meet my gaze.
“Libby’s finished with the speech,” you said. “It’s over.”
“Oh.” But I didn’t want to give up the warm, tingly feeling of having one whole side of your body pressed to mine, so I grabbed your phone and clicked on your feed, ever-curious for a peek into your private world.
A snapshot of Michael and Sienna popped up first, posted to her account.
This, of course, received a giant eye roll from me.
Next, a shaved Brussels sprouts salad recipe from a foodie account, latte art from a local coffee place, a picture of Rhys playing in the rain via Claire, an account devoted to books, another one devoted to food.
I scrolled and scrolled, and pretty soon, I noticed an interesting detail.
“Wow,” I said, eyebrows lifted. “You follow more than one of these fashion influencers.”
“And?”
“And they’re all, like, insanely hot guys.”
You looked over my shoulder. “I haven’t really noticed.”
I laughed out loud.
“What?” you asked innocently, the hint of a smile on your face.
“I find that hard to believe. I mean, let’s say this one right here walked up to me on the street—I’d go a little weak in the knees.”
“Yeah?”
“Definitely. What about you?”
“I’d probably…chat for a bit, then move on.”
The only reason I could remain so cavalier about this hot stranger on your phone? He lived in Vienna, and therefore posed absolutely no threat to me. “And if he asked for your number? Asked you to go out sometime?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Why are you avoiding these questions?”
You scratched at your jaw, chuckling under your breath. “Isn’t it possible I follow this person for the fashion inspiration I receive from him, and nothing else?”
“But isn’t it also possible you’re attracted to this Adonis, whose ass happens to look amazing in a tight pair of dress pants?”
“Look,” you said, reaching for the phone, “I find him attractive, alright? Can I have my phone back, please?”
“Sure,” I said, pulling the device beyond your grasp. “After you tell me why you’re being so weird about this.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You’re definitely being weird. You’re trying to avoid having this conversation, even though it’s no secret to me that you’re also attracted to guys. Among other little clues here and there, I did once hear you hit on your own brother…before you knew he was your brother.”
“Oh, God,” you groaned, tossing your head back. “Don’t remind me.”
“And we can talk about it, you know? You don’t have to hide that about yourself.”
“I don’t hide it. I just don’t see the point of talking about it.”
“Is this because of your adoptive dad?”
Your gaze flashed. “What does this have to do with my adoptive dad?”
“Michael said—”
“Michael said? Oh, please. Tell me. What did Michael tell you about my dad?” I’d hit a nerve there, though I wasn’t sure why.
“Just that he seemed disgusted by the idea of you having a boyfriend. Does he…make you feel ashamed of your sexuality or something?”
“No. He just uses it to remind me how disgusted he is by my very existence. I’m not ashamed of who I am or who I’m attracted to, Elliot. I just don’t particularly want to discuss it with you.”
Your emphasis on you stung like a bitch, Casey. “With me? Why not?”
“Because I know you. If given the chance, you’ll turn it into something that’s hugely inappropriate.”
“Oh,” I said, drawing the word out with a bitter laugh. I curled my fingers around your phone, gripping it extra tight. “Yeah? Hey, Casey, how many dicks have you sucked? How often do you, like, prefer dick?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, muttering, “Dear God. I shouldn’t have said that. I should never have said that.”
You definitely shouldn’t have. Your comment had me ramped up to be as hugely inappropriate as possible. Challenge accepted.
“Let’s bond over our mutual appreciation of dick. Dicks are fun, right? Dicks are great. Me, personally, I prefer a dick of a certain size, you know? But who doesn’t?”
You swallowed pretty hard. “So you’ve…had some experience in that area, have you?”