Letter Twenty-Four #2
That’s when I noticed Michael standing off to the side.
He walked closer, glaring at me. “I thought that was you in the video,” he said, head shaking.
“You realize what you did was illegal, right? If you’d gotten caught, you would’ve been looking at a misdemeanor, Elliot. Possible jail time. No Harvard.”
“I didn’t get caught.”
“Yet,” Michael said. “What if someone identifies you?”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
“Risks aside, I can’t believe you would do something like this to my mom the day before the election. She’s over there crying. Do you even care?”
“She manipulated my dad. She tried to have me sent away,” I reminded him. “She’s not the person she claims to be. She is a liar.”
Michael said, “Yeah, well, I’m starting to think she might’ve been right about Nic needing to get you some help.
Because you can’t stop doing stuff like this, can you?
She’s the closest thing you’ve ever had to a mom, and she did not deserve the very public way you chose to humiliate her, Elliot. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You don’t want her to win, anyway!” I accused. “You want your own mother to lose!”
Michael laughed. “You’ve got me there. I’m an asshole. But at least I’m not the asshole who thinks up cruel and unusual ways to hurt every person who ever dares to piss her off.” His gaze washed over us, eyes slightly narrowed, before he cast one final blistering look at me and left the room.
We continued to sit in perfect silence long after we heard the back door slam. Then, in a voice so quiet it made my stomach clench, you said, “Why won’t you look at me?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“I think it’s because you’ve been caught—and you didn’t anticipate getting caught, did you?
You did that horrible thing, then you walked in here talking about what a shitty time you were having, and I completely let my guard down for once.
I told you something—told you a few somethings, actually—I’ve never told anyone.
And you let me do that. You let me carry on, knowing how guilty you were. ”
You were right. You had no idea how very right you were. On many counts.
“I’d like to chalk this up to the rough time you’ve been having lately—to the time of year,” you said, “but there is no excuse for what you’ve done to Libby.”
I forced my gaze to meet yours. All that acceptance and softness from the night before, was gone, replaced by something so much worse than disappointment: a cold hardness that couldn’t be cracked. It crushed me. In a small voice, I said, “She wanted me out of the way during her campaign.”
“Says who?”
“Says Bree.”
“Did Bree actually hear Libby say that?”
“Well”—I scrambled to think, to recall our conversation that day in my room—“I’m not exactly sure.”
“So you did this based on hearsay,” you said.
“She’s sleeping with my dad.”
“So what if she is? What business is that of yours?”
I drew back. “Are you kidding?”
“It sounds to me like an arrangement between three consenting adults. And, from what I’ve seen of them so far, a very loving one.”
“But they hid it from us.”
“Still, that doesn’t excuse what you did—or all the awful things you said to your dad, which you’ve yet to apologize for. This is your family,” you said, head shaking. “If this is how you treat them, I dread to think what you’d do to anyone else who upsets you.”
Without waiting for me to respond, you rose from the sofa and left the room, too, leaving me alone with my choices.
That afternoon, you took your tea upstairs while I sat in the kitchen with mine and wondered where we stood.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, you’d wanted us to be together and it had truly felt like we were—like we would be—but sitting by myself, watching the steam curl up from my tea, it felt like we’d never been further apart.
On Election Day, my heart galloped when you entered the kitchen wearing a fitted blue suit that matched your eyes.
You were always beautiful to me, but never more so than you were in that suit.
I longed to caress the fabric, to drag my fingers down your lapel and inspect the sheen of the suit up close.
I just wanted an excuse to touch you. To be near you again.
To somehow bridge that horrible new distance between us. But I merely said, “You look nice.”
Nice. Not the right word at all. A more accurate description would be gorgeous. Amazing. Drool-worthy.
You grabbed your watch off the spare charger on the kitchen counter, ignoring me, the suit jacket stretching taut across your back.
“Why are you dressed like that?” Nic asked as he strolled in behind you, still adjusting his cuff links, his gaze flicking over my navy brocade dress.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You’re not going with us,” he said firmly.
“Are you serious?”
His head snapped back in surprise. “Are you? No way am I allowing you to feign support for Libby after what you just did.”
Eleanor arrived just minutes later, making it clear I’d be watching the election with her—from home. Nineteen years old, and I was back to being treated like a child. Back to being left with my grandmother.
That night, Eleanor and I sat on opposite ends of the sofa, barely talking.
I stared blankly at the TV while she worked on a crossword, one of our blue-and-white teacups sitting on the little brass cocktail table nearby.
Years of staying with Eleanor had taught me, however, that the lack of steam wafting from her cup meant she wasn’t actually enjoying tea with her crossword, but her favorite brandy—brought to our house via a tarnished silver flask, tucked inside her bag.
This, I’d learned as a result of my snooping skills, which I’m sure you’ve already guessed.
Every now and then, Eleanor lifted her gaze, checking the results of the election as they unfolded on the local news.
Bostonians of every race, age, and walk of life were there, gathered on Libby’s behalf, wild with excitement, their glowing smiles aimed at the empty podium onstage, awaiting the results.
Even from my living room, I could feel it: the contagious buzz zipping through our city—the electric current of monumental change crackling in the air—as a newswoman interviewed several of Libby’s supporters.
A silver-haired grandma-type who was happy to see a woman, finally, in the running.
A local college girl who grabbed the mic and said, “Elizabeth Harris is paving the way for the rest of us.” A young history teacher, there with his students, grinning widely as he said, “I don’t just want them to learn about history. I want them to be a part of it.”
In the end, what I’d written on those signs hadn’t stopped Libby from winning the election.
In fact, they might’ve helped, because she won by a landslide, gaining more than sixty-four percent of the vote.
I rolled my eyes at the horde of supporters behind her onstage, waving her campaign signs in front of a giant American flag.
A sea of red, white, and navy blue. The camera panned to John and Michael, standing off to the side, handsome in their navy suits.
Bree, standing between them, pretty and pristine in a cobalt blue dress that flared at the waist. All three of them clapped and smiled, three sets of blue eyes trained on Libby.
Elizabeth Harris: the first woman to be elected mayor of Boston, radiant in bright red and pearls, bright lights flashing as she beamed and waved at the crowd. History made.
I felt a stab of sympathy at the thought of you standing somewhere in the crowd. How you must be feeling as you watched her victory take place in person. A victory that would make sharing your news with the Harrises so much harder.
And I wasn’t there to hold your hand, like you’d asked me to.
“Well,” Eleanor said, peering over her cat-eye reading glasses. “She’s done it. And to think, I used to tell her it was awfully bold of her to tell everyone she would.” She gasped, bony hand flying to her chest. “Dear God, I suppose this means I owe her an apology now.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Oh, when they were kids, Libby used to drone on and on about all these lofty goals of hers—how she’d be the first female mayor in Boston’s history, how she’d personally see to it that a Harris became president someday”—she rolled her eyes, fingers waggling in the air—“et cetera, et cetera.”
I considered this, my gaze riveted to Libby onscreen.
Eleanor went back to her crossword.
“Hey,” I said, twisting my body to face hers. Another perk of Eleanor’s special “tea” was that she could be prompted to speak freely about topics she’d ordinarily avoid. “Did Libby and my dad ever—were they ever together at some point?”
Eleanor cackled at that. “Ha! Were they ever. Lost their virginity to each other, apparently.”
I drew back with a grimace. “Gross, Eleanor. Why would you tell me that?”
“Well, now, dear,” she said, lowering her glasses to eye me, “you asked.”
“I didn’t ask for details.” I shivered, thoroughly repulsed. “How do you know that about them, anyway?”
Eleanor tapped her earlobe. “I have a knack for discovering these things.” She obviously noted the grimace still present on my face, because she added, “I once overheard Libby saying so to a friend, Elliot. I’m not depraved.
” Her gaze drifted back to the news. “Oh, when they first met, your dad was head over heels for Libby—invited her to the house on breaks, asked her to spend entire summers with us, even traveled to Iceland with her family once. He and Libby were inseparable during their time at boarding school together—during college, too. All three of them were. Your dad, Libby, and John.”
“But my dad and Libby were together first?” I asked.