Letter Twenty-Five #5
“I might believe that if Jake were some stranger you met on campus, but he’s someone you grew up with, Casey.
Someone who knows you better than anyone knows you here in Boston.
What if I told you I’d been hooking up with Michael for the last few years?
Would you believe he and I could hook up without sharing an emotional connection? ”
“Have you been hooking up with Michael?” you asked, something bright, sharp, and possessive flaring in your eyes.
My stomach dipped. “You know I haven’t.”
“I don’t, actually. I know I’ve caught your head in his lap twice now.
I know he’s jealous of all the time we spend together.
I know you’ve been dragging your thumb down his lip the whole time I’ve known you—and every time I watch you do that, by the way, I feel a little stab”—you jabbed at your heart—“right here.”
“How do you think I felt when I learned you were hanging out with this Jake guy all summer while you texted me things like, I miss you so much I can hardly bear it?”
“It wasn’t all summer. Just a handful of times.”
“Oh? Is he a handful, Casey? Is he a mouthful, too?”
“Okay,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“Is he hot? He sounds hot. Let me see a picture of him.” I wanted a clearer mental image of this guy. Wanted to torture myself with it: this person you knew like I knew Michael. Only better, because you knew him in the flushed, feverish way I’d never known anyone.
“Elliot,” you pleaded, turning a bit pale. “Come on.”
I swiped your phone off the counter. “You’ve seen mine,” I said, handing it over. “Now show me yours.”
On a hard swallow, you took the phone. Your fingers shook as you clicked and scrolled, searching for a picture.
And I liked that.
How nervous you were.
How scared.
Seconds later, you handed it back, and I took a deep breath before glancing down at the screen.
Majestic snowcapped mountains. Rolling green terrain. Sparkling blue lake. Then him—front and center—Jake.
Dark red hair and overgrown stubble. A chiseled jaw.
A nice smile, perfect teeth. Big biceps, but not bulky.
Washboard abs. Tattoos that curled and twisted and licked across his pale skin, including one that disappeared inside the waistband of his shorts.
I bet you know exactly where that tattoo ends, don’t you, Casey?
I wondered then—and still wonder now—how many of those tattoos had been traced by your fingers, your lips, your tongue.
I lifted my gaze to yours, glaring so hard my left eye twitched.
“He hasn’t always looked like that,” you said. “The tattoos are a more recent development.”
“All the hell you gave me for being with Willoughby,” I said, head shaking, “after you hooked up with this guy? You’re unbelievable.”
I leaned back against the counter, suddenly wishing I’d never asked for that damn picture. Jake’s perfect body would haunt my dreams, his tattoos my every waking hour. I dropped the phone in your hand.
“But I didn’t hook up with him over the summer,” you said desperately, arm brushing mine as you deposited your phone back on the counter.
“He wanted to, but I told him no. I said, ‘This can’t ever happen again. If I want to be with her, I can’t do this anymore.
’ I told him how much you mean to me, and he was happy to hear it, because he doesn’t have feelings for me, either.
Which is more than I can say about my brother. ”
“Oh my God,” I muttered.
“Michael has feelings for you,” you said, gaze flashing bright.
“It’s why he doesn’t give a shit when Sienna flirts with other guys.
Why he keeps going back to her, despite the fact he doesn’t actually like her very much.
Why he allows you to put your thumb to his lip—again and again—despite how inappropriate it is. ”
I shifted against the counter, recrossing my arms. “Okay, I’m sensing you have a problem with the lip thing.”
“Big problem,” you said, deeply enough that I flinched.
“But you’ve never said anything.”
“I’m saying it now. Because we should be talking about these things. It’s high time we get everything out in the open.”
My stomach clenched. “He’s my best friend.”
“And that’s fine. It’s the lip thing specifically I take issue with, particularly when you’re snuggled up next to him in the dark.”
“The lip thing isn’t inappropriate,” I argued.
“It’s hugely inappropriate,” you said, cutting your eyes at me, “and I want you to stop doing it.”
“Are you kidding?” I tossed my arms down and clutched the countertop, fingernails digging into the marble. “You can’t ask me to stop doing anything. We aren’t together. You saw to that when you jumped ship at the first sign of trouble.”
“Wow,” you said, stepping so close I had to tilt my head back to look at you.
“You’re awfully devoted to stroking my brother, aren’t you?
” You dragged your thumb down the center of my mouth.
Slow enough to feel tender, but firm enough to make my breath catch.
My traitorous heart stuttered. “What does this intimate little gesture do for you that’s got you all teary-eyed and trembling like I’ve just asked you to kill a puppy? ”
I slapped your hand away. “Why couldn’t you pass up staying out all night with Jake?”
“You want me to stop seeing him? Done. Stop being with anyone who isn’t you? Done. See how easy that is? How little everyone else matters? Why can’t you do this one small thing for me?”
“After all the heartache you’ve caused?”
“I’ve been an idiot, and I’ll make it up to you. Tell me you’ll stop.”
“I’m done with this conversation.” I shoved past you, desperate to hide in my room, where you couldn’t touch me, analyze me, or whisper sweet apologies in my ear.
“Oh? Who’s jumping ship now?” You were right behind me. “Is touching my brother really that important to you? Or do you have feelings for him, too?”
I stopped and twisted around. “I’m jumping ship because every time I think I know you, I learn you’re still hiding things from me.”
“I could say the same about you,” you said, so quiet my skin prickled. “Have you been completely honest with me about anything?”
No. The regret—the lies—rooted my feet to the floor.
“The fight you had with Nic before Halloween—you said he did something horrible to you, but you’ve never told me what it is.
You got too real with Willoughby, but you wouldn’t say how.
Was it the bruise? Or something else? On Halloween, you stopped me going down on you.
” You gestured at the kitchen island. “You were scared—scared of where it was going, or of me, I don’t know—but you could’ve told me you needed to slow down.
You didn’t have to make it about your dad walking in.
And then later, on the sofa, I worried I was coming on too strong again, so I pulled back.
And I get it—I have a hard time confiding in you, too, but I feel I’ve confided in you way more than you’ve ever confided in me.
I suspect that what I actually know of you barely scratches the surface of who you are. You won’t let me see you.”
“Right,” I said through the knot in my chest, backing up, closer to the stairs. “Which is why this doesn’t work. We’re too damaged. Too scared. Too closed off to be anything more than friends.”