Letter Twenty-One #4
“Oh my God,” I said with a grin. “Loads of experience. You have no idea.”
A huge lie. A definite exaggeration.
Wisely, you remained skeptical. “Really? Because I’m wondering how that’s even possible, unless you were sneaking off with random guys for the last two years rather than hanging out with Tinsley like you’ve said.” You eyed me carefully. “Or were you lying about that, too?”
“Not lying, no. I just had this wild habit of blowing guys in the utility closet at school. It was a real problem, actually. An addiction, some might say.”
You laughed. But the tone of your voice, when you spoke next, sounded sort of ominous. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Totally joking. Never happened. Not one time. “What, like you’ve never blown someone in a utility closet?”
You ignored my question to ask one of your own. “And Willoughby’s alright with that, is he? This…addiction of yours? Where you claim to have blown several of his mates?”
“What reason would Willoughby have to complain when it clearly benefits him? A girl’s gotta perfect her dick-sucking skills before she heads off to college, you know what I mean?”
You did not know—or maybe you just hated the implication. Because the way you looked at me, Casey, could bring a girl to her knees.
(Ha! See what I did there?)
“Hey,” I said, “maybe you could give me some new pointers. The way you kiss, I bet you know your way around a dick.”
“Wow,” you said, eyes wide, jaw ticking. “I mean, my God. That mouth of yours really knows no bounds, does it?”
I had you squirming a little on that sofa, Casey. Had you fighting to keep your composure. Had you shocked, angry, and maybe even a little turned on.
“Look,” you said. “I know you were never sucking people off during your free period, okay? So stop it with that shit.”
“Fine. Enough about me. Let’s talk about you. If I were to check your DMs right now, would I catch you exchanging dick pics with a local hottie or two? Or maybe some full-frontal nudes?”
“Right,” you said with a snort. “That’s all I need—pictures of my dick floating around.”
At the mention of your dick, my throat tightened. “So you’re saying you’ve never taken a nude photo of yourself?”
“Call it intuition, but sharing nudes with someone has always seemed like a monumentally bad idea to me. And, anyway, I find it sort of sleazy to even ask a complete stranger for photos like that in the first place.”
This surprising information caused me to forget myself for a moment.
You and I didn’t talk about things like this.
We never veered into the racy or ribald.
This topic of conversation had given me a rare glimpse into the treasure trove of things you hid about yourself.
Things I desperately wanted to know. The deep stuff. The intimate stuff. The real Casey.
“Okay,” I said. “So you’re a prude.”
“Definitely not a prude,” you said, confidently enough that my stomach flipped. “I just don’t see the point of sneaking a peek into a package I haven’t actually received yet. I prefer to be surprised”—you passed your thumb seductively over your bottom lip—“when I go to rip into it.”
The husky drawl of your voice—your heated gaze, holding mine captive—caused a dangerous thrill to shoot through my body.
And I didn’t like that. Because I’d forgotten myself alright, when the whole point of this hugely inappropriate conversation was for me to mess with you, not the other way around.
It took me a few seconds to respond. “Interesting,” I said, hearing a slight tremor in my voice. “I, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoy a good dick pic.”
Just like that, your composure cracked, too. “Who the fuck sent you dick pics last year? And what did they ask for in return?”
“Chill, Casey. You think any of those guys would ever trust me with a picture of their dick?”
You squeezed your hand into a fist. “Just a moment ago, you wanted me to believe that quite a few of them trusted you enough to stick their most prized possession into a place as potentially hazardous as your mouth.”
I badly wanted to comment here—to ask how much you prized your possession—but forced myself to move on. “Touché,” I said. “But Tinsley’s the one who always got the dick pics, not me.”
“Right. Well. I feel I’ve heard the word dick leave your mouth quite enough for one day. Now, please, hand over my phone.”
“Fascinating. All the trouble I went through to get you kicked out by throwing that party over here, when I probably could’ve gotten you to leave on your own by just following you around and talking about dicks.”
“Elliot, for Christ’s sake. You’ve made your point. I said something you didn’t like, and now I’ve been rewarded with a thoroughly”—eyes squeezed shut—“shocking conversation I’m unlikely to ever forget. I’m not obligated to share every last detail of my life with you.”
“Are you kidding? It wasn’t what you said—it was that you singled me out as the one person you refuse to talk to about that part of yourself, which fucking hurt my feelings. So, here, take your fucking phone back.” I slammed the phone against your chest. “And fuck you.”
I slid over on the sofa, fighting back tears.
You reached for me, but I slapped your hand away.
“Hey,” you said quietly.
“Get away from me. It’s impossible to fully know you, and I’m done trying.”
You slid over until your leg touched mine. “Don’t say that. You know me better than anyone. You’re the only person—apart from Nic—who knows my secret. You’re the only person I can talk to about it.”
“Yeah, only because I snuck into my dad’s office and found it for myself.
You never would’ve volunteered that information on your own.
Just like you won’t tell me the truth about that tattoo on your hand.
Or what you did to make your adoptive dad dislike you so much.
I’ve shared some really mortifying stuff with you, and you can’t even tell me who you’re attracted to.
The things you don’t share with me? They far outweigh the things you do.
It’s the same stuff my dad does—deflect, avoid, hide—and I’m sick of it. ”
I fought the lump in my throat, my cheeks prickling with heat beneath your steady gaze. I hated how exposed I felt.
“Charlotte,” you said.
“What?”
“That’s what the C on my hand stands for.
Charlotte. My mum. She had this fancy way of signing the C in her name, so I had it tattooed on my hand, where I’d always see it and be reminded of her.
But when people ask, it’s easier to tell them the C’s for my name rather than hers.
Otherwise, they’ll be tempted to ask more questions, and I don’t especially want to talk about my dead mum with strangers. ”
“But I’m not a stranger, Casey. We’ve lived together for two years, and you’re just now telling me.”
“I know.” You glanced down at the tattoo, swallowing hard. “It’s just really painful for me to talk about her. So I avoid talking about her, even though I shouldn’t. But I’m supposed to be working on that. I’m supposed to be telling you things.”
“You’re supposed to?”
“Yes. My therapist says I need to be more open with you.”
I straightened, my heart quickening despite the circumstances. “You talk to your therapist about me?”
“Yes,” you admitted. “Probably too much.”
This both moved and delighted me. “Well, I feel validated to know your therapist and I agree on something.” I plucked your hand off your knee, brought it over to mine, and studied the tattoo with fresh eyes.
“Thanks for finally telling me the truth about this. I liked it before, but now I see it in a whole new light, and it’s beautiful. ”
Our gazes locked as I stroked your tattoo with my thumb.
“Honestly?” you said. “I’ve been with quite a few guys. And yes, actually, I have blown someone in a utility closet.” You winced. “Not one of my finer moments.”
I blinked, still clutching your hand in mine, jealousy raging through my veins. “Quite a few?”
You sighed. “Yes.”
“What about girls?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
Starved for details, I wanted them all, even if they hurt me. The real you. The hidden you. The dark you. “Yes. How many?”
“More than quite a few.” You winced again. “Quite a bit more.”
“Wow. So you know your way around the whole damn block, don’t you?”
“That’s”—eyes narrowed, little throat clear here—“one way of putting it.”
“I don’t like that.” I pushed your hand off my knee, shifting my body away from yours.
You flinched as I slid across the sofa. “I don’t, either.
I’m ashamed of it. I didn’t think it would ever matter, because for the longest time, I didn’t think”—hard swallow—“I mattered. I didn’t think anyone would ever care.
Then I met you, and now I wish I’d done”—a pause here, your gaze probing mine—“everything differently. I look at you, and you’re—”
“Don’t you dare say innocent. I’m not nearly as innocent as you think, and my level of experience—compared to yours—isn’t by choice.”
But that wasn’t entirely true. Take Willoughby, for instance, and all those make-out sessions in my room. Every time we got close, I pulled back, heart beating too fast, terrified to continue.
“No, I know,” you said. “I wasn’t going to say innocent. I meant to say—you’re the first person to make me feel I don’t want that anymore, going from one meaningless hookup to the next. It isn’t worth it.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, Casey, so I said nothing at all. It’s not like your feelings mattered, anyway. If they did, you’d stop me from seeing Willoughby.
“Hey. Do you think—?” You stopped. Closed your eyes. Shook your head. “Never mind.”
“No, tell me. What is it?”
“Maybe it’s not you Nic didn’t want at the rally, but me. I’m a liability, you know? To the Harrises? Maybe he wants to keep me hidden until the election’s over.”
“But there’s no way anyone would ever suspect you of being who you are. Everyone thinks you’re, like, my companion or bodyguard or something.” I rolled my eyes. “Also—you’re British.”
You leaned back, mouth agape, a smile creeping across your face. “Oh, am I now?”