Letter Twenty-One #5
“Wait.” I threw my hands up. “Hold on—”
“No, no,” you said, pointing at me. “You’ve just admitted it.”
“What I mean is, people think you’re British. Because of the accent.”
“They also think I’m British,” you said slowly, “because I’m from a place in Great Britain called London, England.”
“Yes, but you didn’t originate there and neither did your parents—or your grandparents. So I’m sorry, but technically you’re not British.” I gave you a smile like, Aha! Got you there. I’m right.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” you muttered with an eye roll.
“Anyway, as I was saying, me and my dad are the only ones who know that you were actually born in Boston.”
“You forget there’s one other person who knows that,” you said, giving me a look. “Sienna.”
Damn. Somehow, I had forgotten about that bitch, despite Bree’s revelation a few days prior. “But you never told her the results of the paternity test, right?”
“Right. She thinks I’ve given up the search for my biological father now that I know he’s not Nic.
But she’s very clever. She might start to question why I still don’t want Michael to know how we met.
” You wiped a hand down your face and groaned.
“What if she slips and says something to someone? What if she slips to Michael?”
“That’s why you need to be the one to tell the Harrises,” I said, “and you need to do it soon.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple. Just do it, Casey. Get it over with.”
You scoffed at this. “Right in the middle of Libby’s campaign?”
“Yes. You’re just using that as an excuse to put it off, anyway.”
“And if she wins? What then? What do I even say? ‘Congrats on becoming mayor, Libby. I’m John’s son, by the way. Good luck keeping me a secret for the next four years.’”
“Maybe they won’t want to keep you a secret. Maybe they’ll fully embrace you being John’s son. This happens all the time. Men find out they have children they weren’t told about, and it’s not a big deal.”
“But it still sheds John in bad light, doesn’t it? That he got two girls pregnant in college?”
“So he was young and stupid…and obviously sucked at using protection. It has no bearing on who he is now, especially if he were to publicly acknowledge you. People love this stuff—families coming together, a son finding his biological father.”
“But even if John were willing to acknowledge me, there’s still the problem of Michael. He’s going to be quite angry with me when he finds out who I am. Maybe for a while.”
I sighed. “Casey, you have to move past that.”
“I can’t move past it, Elliot. He’s my best mate.
We talk every day, and he trusts me implicitly.
To tell him the truth means I have to go and shatter his entire image of me.
I have to shatter it completely. And you’re telling me to simply…
get that over with? Like it’s nothing? Like it won’t upend everything I’ve built with him over the last two years? ”
“Casey—”
“Imagine having a perfect connection with someone, only to find out they’ve been lying to you since the very beginning. Imagine having that connection lost—possibly ripped to shreds forever—because of one secret.”
Obviously, I could imagine—I felt the same way about you. We had a perfect connection, too, but my secret history with Michael threatened to destroy everything we’d built so far.
“But he’s your brother,” I said, “and he also feels that connection. He told me so once. He said he feels more comfortable with you than he’s ever felt with another guy.
He feels something there, but he doesn’t know why.
He doesn’t know what it is. Once you tell him the truth—once you explain your reasons for lying—that connection he feels? It’ll be what makes him forgive you.”
You pondered this a minute. “Sometimes, I think that, too. But then I remember how hurt he was when I told him I was adopted, and I’m afraid the fallout’s going to be terrible. I just—I don’t want to lose what I have with him.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I grabbed your hand and rested my head on your shoulder.
The following week, we were walking home from therapy when I finally spotted her again: the mystery woman, walking along the opposite sidewalk, keeping back a small distance.
She wore the same big sunglasses and Red Sox ball cap she’d worn that first day I’d spotted her.
Only this time, dark hair fell loose over her shoulders.
At the house, I rushed inside, headed straight for the dining room window, and hid behind the drapes.
I watched as the woman walked to a different tree and leaned against it, angling her body at our townhouse.
She reached back, pulled something out of her back pocket, then lifted a hand to her mouth.
When she pulled her hand away, I saw what it was: a cigarette.
She lit the end with a small lighter, then blew a long stream of smoke into the air.
“She’s back, I see,” you said over my shoulder.
I opened the camera on my phone, zoomed in, and snapped a picture of her. Something about her appearance that day made me prickle all over. It wasn’t excitement I felt, but a feeling similar to déjà vu.
“Come on,” you said, draping an arm across my shoulders. “Let’s not worry with her.”
As I allowed you to lead me away, though, I couldn’t seem to tear my gaze away from her picture on my phone. I stopped at the island while you walked over to the fridge.
Vaguely, I heard a key in the lock. Someone entering through the back door. Michael. The sound of his voice. Something about one of his classes. It was kicking his ass. He said something to me, but the words sounded warped and indistinct, like he’d spoken them under water.
The ball cap. The sunglasses. The woman’s dark hair, spilling down her shoulders. The crowd in the background. I’d waved at her. She hadn’t waved back. The hard set of her mouth. She’d been angry.
“Oh my God,” I gasped. “Oh my God.”
You and Michael both, at the exact same time: “What?”
I lifted my phone. “I’ve seen this woman before—at the Red Sox game. That time I got separated from my dad? When I was little? She was there. She was the woman who took my hand.”
“Elliot,” Michael said. “She’s just a reporter.”
“But I saw her when I was little,” I insisted, pointing at the picture. “This exact woman.”
“How can you be sure?” you asked. “She’s wearing a cap and sunglasses. She could be anyone.”
A crackle of excitement burst across my chest. “What if she’s my mom?”
“What?” you both said in unison.
Michael sighed. “Why would you even think that?”
“The way my dad acted that day—at the Red Sox game, then later with your parents? It wasn’t normal, Michael.
And he totally overreacted that day she took a picture of me.
You both saw. That wasn’t normal, either.
Something’s up with this woman. Why would she be at that game when I was little, only to reappear all these years later?
Why would she follow us home from therapy today?
If it’s Libby she’s scoping out, Michael, shouldn’t she be watching your parents’ house instead of mine? ”
Michael tossed me a serious look. “I get what you’re saying, but that woman’s not your mother. And, by the way, my parents’ house can also be seen from where she’s standing.”
Michael was right. Still, I said, “But don’t you see? She’s following me. She took a picture of me. Me—not Libby.”
“Elliot,” you said gently. “Michael’s right. That isn’t your mum out there. It’s just some woman looking for a story.”
“You don’t know that,” I said, slamming my phone to the counter. “I’m going out there.”
You quickly leapt out, grabbing hold of my arm. “Oh, no, you’re not.”
“Let me go,” I said, trying to free myself from your grasp. “I just need to see her face.”
“Not happening.” You tightened your grip, dragged me over to the stool, and practically forced me to sit.
Michael watched this go down with a look of wry amusement. He walked around the island and took a seat beside me. “You know what I think?” he said, picking up my phone. “That you’re making this woman out to be someone she’s not to distract yourself from something else.”
I stopped struggling against your grip. “What are you talking about?”
Looking deep into my eyes, he dropped my phone to the counter.
“Pretty soon,” he said softly, “it’ll be one year since you went through something awful.
And you don’t want to think about that, so instead you’re choosing to focus on this woman.
You’re creating this fantasy where your mom’s come back and she wants to see you, but Nic won’t let her.
When, really, it’s just you grasping at pain that’s more familiar so you don’t have to think about that other thing.
So you don’t have to deal with the pain of what happened last Halloween. ”
By then, you’d loosened your grip on my arm. Michael reached over, began stroking my braid.
“What the hell, Michael?” I swatted his hand away, then yanked my arm free of your hand. Fuck being treated like some fragile little girl who needed to be coddled. “That’s not what this is.”
“Elliot,” Michael said. “You sit in your room every day, just staring out the window.”
“How do you know what I do in my room?”
“Bree and Tinsley,” he said. “They say that’s what you do when you’re hanging out with them upstairs. They say you won’t leave the window seat. They say you’re obsessed.”
“Does everyone just…discuss my behavior behind my back?”
“They’re concerned,” you told me.
“Seriously?” I demanded, anger building in my chest. “It’s bad enough that my dad keeps me on lockdown like a crazy person.
Now all my friends are talking about me like I’m a crazy person?
There’s a woman out there who’s watching my house.
She followed me home from therapy—she took a picture of me! —and I’m the crazy one? I am?”
“No one’s calling you crazy,” Michael said.
“You just implied it!” I yelled.
“Okay,” you said, voice wary. “Let’s calm down.”
“No. You know who’s crazy, Michael? You are.”
He reared back. “What?”