Letter Twenty-Three #5
I hopped off the bed. “Fine,” I snapped, grabbing my clothes.
I pulled up the skirt with jerky hands, throat tight.
This is what happens when you ask for too much, I thought.
When you ask for the wrong thing. And I could see it so clearly: how you might one day look at me the same way.
How you might pull back when the dark parts of me stopped being charming or mysterious and became too real.
Just like Willoughby. “But this is over. I’m ending it right now. ”
“Elliot,” Willoughby said. “Come on.”
I tossed the sweater over my head, yanking my braid free when it got caught. “This is the last time I let you reject me.”
“But I asked how important this stuff was to you, and you claimed it wasn’t. You lied.”
“So did you, Willoughby. You said you wanted the real me, but that wasn’t ever true.
You wanted the best parts. The soft parts.
The parts you could be comfortable with.
You wanted to pretend the dark parts of me didn’t exist, so I had to tuck them away—I had to hide—and when I couldn’t do that anymore, you made me feel like a freak. Just like everyone else.”
I snatched my stuff off Willoughby’s bed and headed for the door.
He stopped me, his brown eyes sad. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Me, too.”
As I pushed past all the partygoers on the landing outside Willoughby’s room, I fought back tears, the whiskey hitting me fast on an empty stomach. I staggered downstairs, limbs pleasantly loose, heart rattling in my chest, scanning the crowd for you.
Tinsley. I spotted her first. Right off the kitchen. Talking to a guy I’d never seen before, cradling a black cup to her chest.
Then I saw you, standing in the entryway, your back to the wall, hands jammed in your pockets, some girl in a sexy white astronaut costume chatting you up. Wavy blonde hair. Pretty profile. Tits bursting at the zipper of her skintight bodysuit.
A guy decked out in Celtics gear accidentally rammed her in the shoulder on his way down the hall, and she wobbled precariously in her thigh-high stripper boots—white vinyl, to match the costume—trying not to spill her drink.
You put a hand out to steady her, and it was just like you to do something like that.
But then…most people would, wouldn’t they?
Except me.
I would’ve let that bitch topple to the floor.
I gripped Willoughby’s newel post, rap music pounding, thumping hard and fast, vibrating in my chest. I ground my teeth together, trying not to let the harsh beat of the music faze me, but my skin tingled with it: the same panic I’d felt the year before, encroaching, licking up my spine, burning hot at my back. Too close.
And, yeah, I could’ve pulled you away from Astronaut Girl and watched the look of disappointment flit across her pretty face when you left with me instead of her, but the whiskey hadn’t dulled my senses at all—just heightened them—making me extra emotional.
If you looked at me with that little groove of concern between your eyebrows, I’d burst into tears, and that’s the last thing I needed right then: to lose face in front of anyone else.
What happened with Willoughby had been humiliating enough.
So I turned in the opposite direction and stumbled out the front door, shrugging into my trench coat as I descended the porch steps.
Nestled in the little flowerbed between Willoughby’s brownstone and the one next door, one of those stupid campaign signs taunted me: ELIZABETH for BOSTON. I kicked the sign over, then stomped it into the ivy and dirt. Out loud, I said, “Elizabeth is a liar.”
That’s when it came to me: the idea to mess with them.
Mess with her. That greedy bitch, who pretended to be the perfect wife when, in fact, her husband wasn’t good enough so she had to sleep with my dad, too.
That fake-ass bitch who pretended to love me, but wanted me shipped off to Arizona, where I couldn’t tarnish her perfect reputation.
Heart trilling with excitement, I strolled back inside Willoughby’s, careful to avoid you and Astronaut Girl, making a haphazard beeline for the kitchen drawer. I’d spotted a bunch of pens and other random stuff inside the last time I’d visited. Being nosy definitely had its perks.
“Elliot!” Tinsley said, sidling up to me, brown eyes glossy and slightly unfocused. She was tipsy, for sure, maybe already drunk. “What are you doing down here?” She clutched my arm. “Wait. Are you and Casey leaving?”
“Yeah. My dad wants us home now,” I lied, rifling through the mess in the drawer until I found something sufficient—a giant black marker.
“What do you need that for?” Tinsley asked, leaning over the counter.
I dropped the marker inside my coat pocket. “Hey,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Be safe, okay? Text me later.”
Heart pounding, I weaved through the crowd in the kitchen, everyone drunk and laughing, people trying to talk over the music. Out back, in Willoughby’s courtyard, a discarded mask sat on the patio table. I picked it up.
Simple white plastic. Flaming black eyes. Black flames, like tears, licking down each cheek. Black lips curled into a wicked smirk. I carried it with me as I slipped out the back gate.
In the alley, I pulled my braid free, letting my hair fall in loose ringlets around my shoulders. I donned the mask and set off.
The nippy night air bit at my bare skin as I took the long way home through Back Bay, avoiding the high-traffic areas close to the park.
Only a few stragglers were left from trick-or-treating, older kids, barely dressed up, laughing with their friends as they loitered home.
At the first sign I saw, I knelt low to the ground—as if to tie the laces on my boots—and pulled the marker from my coat. Quickly, I scribbled across the front.
ELIZABETH HARRIS for MAYOR became ELIZABETH HARRIS IS A LIAR.
At the next townhouse, ELIZABETH for BOSTON became ELIZABETH IS A FRAUD.
On and on I went, telling the truth:
ELIZABETH LIES
ELIZABETH HIDES
ELIZABETH HARRIS IS FAKE
ELIZABETH HARRIS HAS SECRETS
Halfway down Comm Ave, I received a text from you: Have you left? You’ve left without me, haven’t you?
I replied, See you at home. Have fun with astronaut girl.
FFS, you replied, tacking a rolling eyes emoji on the end. I smiled, feeling lighter already.
By the time I made it home, I sort of regretted leaving you at the party, especially if it meant you’d get in trouble with my dad. I’d wait for you out back so we could walk in together, one whole hour before curfew, and Nic would be none the wiser.
On the stone bench that faced the kitchen window, I sat with my legs crossed, the cool night air caressing my skin through the mask. I kept it on. A little Halloween treat for you. Me, shrouded in darkness, the white of the mask glinting beneath the silver glare of the moon.
Less than five minutes later, the back door opened, and there stood my dad, frozen in the doorway, staring out at me.
So much for not getting caught.
Slowly, Nic descended the steps, and in a terrifying voice I’d only heard him use once before—“I would never have let her take you away from me, you’re mine”—he said, “What are you doing here?”
My skin prickled as Nic crept closer, his body coiled tight, hands flexing by his side. Because he didn’t look like my dad, Casey. He wasn’t the man I knew, not out there in the dark. He was someone else. Someone stone-faced and grim. Someone ready to pounce.
I gripped the edge of the stone bench, frightened of him.
“Answer my question,” he said, the low growl of his voice sending a chill up my spine. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I swallowed. “I live here.”
Nic stopped cold. All at once, his shoulders relaxed, his expression softened, and he looked like my dad again. “Elliot?”
I pulled off the mask. “Who did you think I was?”
“Why are you out here in the dark?” he asked, ignoring my question. He glanced around. “And where the hell is Casey?”
“I snuck off and left him at the party,” I admitted. “He’s on his way.”
“Damn it, Elliot.” Nic pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can’t do that. I sent him with you for a reason.”
“Was that reason to keep me from knocking a bitch out? Because, believe it or not, I stopped myself from doing that all on my own.”
He eased himself down beside me. “What’s going on? Why’d you leave the party early?”
“Willoughby and I ended it.”
Nic sat with this for a minute before saying, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, you’re not. You don’t even like him.”
“I don’t like him. But I still care how it makes you feel.”
“Did you care earlier when you threatened to lock me in my room? Did you care how that made me feel?”
“I shouldn’t have done that, but I’m still not over what happened to you last year. It gives me nightmares, too. I worried about Greer showing up at Willoughby’s tonight.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, staring up at the house, where our bedroom windows were aglow—warm golden rectangles cut into brick—each one surrounded by ivy. For a prison, it looked pretty damn charming. “If that were the case, you would’ve mentioned it earlier. Before you threatened me.”
“Why? So you could live in fear? Like I do every day?”
I rolled my eyes at how dramatic he sounded. “Like you don’t know exactly where Greer is. A million bucks says you’ve been following his movements for weeks.”
Naturally, Nic didn’t comment.
“You know,” he said after a minute, staring up at the house, too, “when I was your age, what I wanted more than anything was a family.”
I cut my eyes at him. “You had a family.”