Letter Twenty-Six #4
I caught you, Michael, and Bree exchanging looks with each other. So I wasn’t the only one who found their behavior strange.
Nic helped me up from the sofa, yet another dizzy spell requiring me to grip his arm for balance. Bree slowly made her approach and hugged me, too, but I barely caught a whiff of her vanilla-scented shampoo before she pulled away, giving me a forced smile. “I’m glad you’re okay, Ellie.”
I thanked her, even though I got the feeling she’d only said it because it would seem weird if she hadn’t. Michael hugged me last, his grip extra tight. When he pulled back, I got the feeling he wanted to say more than he was able with everyone in the room.
That night, our families ate dinner together, the parents back to their normal selves, except for the occasional concerned glance thrown my way across the dining table.
After dinner, my dad and the Harrises nursed their nightcaps by the fire, Michael stuck to my side on the sofa, my hand captured between both of his.
My head felt impossibly heavy, so I rested it on his shoulder, drifting in and out of consciousness the whole evening.
I have this hazy memory of you scrolling through your phone across from us, your gaze snagging on our joined hands for a moment before it drifted up to pierce mine.
Two days later, despite your many attempts to keep me entertained, I’d indeed grown very bored, complaining—exactly like you said I would—nonstop.
To boost my spirits, Tinsley brought a stack of heavily annotated books to the house, claiming the book you had chosen for us to read would bore anyone to death.
But she only made it through one exceptionally graphic love scene before you seized her book, replaced it with yours, and huskily threatened to kick her out if she kept reading “highly stimulating material” to someone whose brain needed a “proper” rest.
After Tinsley (who had also grown bored under such strict conditions) left, Henriette dropped off our weekly groceries.
You were in the process of putting them away when you noticed an entire shopping bag filled with oranges and said, “Henriette must’ve misunderstood my list. I only asked for a few oranges, not a few bags of them. ”
I pulled a bag across the island countertop, touching the oranges through the netting. “I asked for the oranges.”
That little groove appeared between your eyebrows. “You did? Why?”
“I thought we could dry out a bunch of orange slices and tuck them into everything,” I said. “Like your mom used to do at Christmas.”
Your gaze dropped to the counter as you finished unpacking the oranges.
I rushed to explain. “It’s just that I’m so bored, and it might…give us something to do for a while? Maybe?”
As you folded the shopping bags without comment, I shifted on my stool, trying—and failing—to gauge your mood. “It was just an idea,” I said, waving the whole thing away. “If you don’t want to, we’ll make orange juice instead.”
You leaned on the counter with both hands, finally lifting your gaze to mine. “No, that’s a great idea.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes—and you’re right. It’ll give us something to do today.” You pushed off the counter, then shoved up the sleeves of your cardigan—a slouchy dark green one that made me think of Christmas trees. “So let’s do it.”
“Okay,” I said, flooded with relief. “Can I have my phone back so I can Google how?”
The doctor had simply ordered me to limit my screen time, but you’d taken that to mean I shouldn’t look at a screen at all. I’d spent a good twenty minutes that morning looking for my hidden phone—as well as the TV remote—while you showered and got ready for the day.
“No need,” you said, grabbing scissors from the drawer beside the sink. “I used to help my mum every Christmas. I’m a pro at this.”
“Of course you are.” A pro at wrapping presents.
At making little mince pies with cut-out star centers.
At crafting shockingly realistic mushrooms out of meringue for your B?che de Noel ahead of Christmas—The humidity’s just right today, you’d said, so it’s best to make them now.
My idea of baking was break-n-bake cookies, and there you were, whipping up creations that would impress Martha Stewart.
“Next, you’ll tell me you’re a pro at building gingerbread houses and decorating cookies, too. ”
“I am, actually,” you said. “I once won a gingerbread house contest with Claire. It had candy glass windows and everything.”
“Of course it did.” I watched you cut through the netting on one of those bags of oranges. “As soon as I figure out where you hid my phone, I’m texting Tinsley to tell her how unbelievably crafty you are.”
“Hey.” You pointed the scissors at me. “There’s an idea. We’ll build a gingerbread house from scratch tomorrow, and that’ll keep us busy all day.”
“Oh my God,” I groaned. “I’m trapped in a Hallmark movie right now. Girl with head injury is forced into seclusion with her holiday-obsessed bodyguard. Cue the cheesy background music.”
It kills me now—how I made it all sound so lame.
But what I wouldn’t give to be back there, stuck in that dark but cozy dungeon of a house with you, drying orange slices at Christmas while Frank Sinatra crooned softly in the background.
You made my last December before coming here pretty magical, Casey. I hope you know that.
“Sounds like an ideal way to fall in love, if you ask me,” you said, grabbing a knife from the butcher block, your gaze pricking mine.
My chest ached. “Hand me a knife,” I said, forcing myself to look away, “so I can help.”
“Absolutely not. I’d rather you line the slices up on a baking sheet. The last thing we need is you getting dizzy again and slicing your finger open.”
“Fine,” I grumbled, pushing my stool back. While I lifted baking sheets out of a cabinet drawer by the stove, a familiar Christmas song drifted through the kitchen. An enchanting, slowed-down version of “Carol of the Bells,” played entirely on violin.
“I love this song on your playlist. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Mine, too,” you said, already slicing into an orange. “I miss playing it.”
“Playing it?” Then I remembered: “Oh, right. You used to play violin.”
You nodded.
“Were you any good?”
“Exceptionally good.”
“Why did I even ask?” I quietly mused aloud.
You chuckled. “Believe me, it didn’t come easily. I practiced for hours every day. I was absolutely obsessive about it.”
“So it wasn’t something to put on your college application, like it is for Bree?”
“Oh, no. I played from a young age. I hoped to play professionally—in fact, my dream was to go to Juilliard and, from there, to be picked up by an orchestra.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” you said softly. “Really.”
“If you loved it so much, why did you stop playing?”
“Because my mum died, and after that I just…couldn’t see the point of it anymore.”
“Why not?”
You shrugged.
“So you haven’t played since you were thirteen?” I asked.
“No.” The knife came down hard on the chopping block. “And I never will again.”
“What does your therapist say about that?”
“He says it isn’t the best way of coping, but you know what?
I’ve come a long way, because for years I wouldn’t even listen to violin—and now I have it on this playlist. I’ve listened to violin loads since starting therapy, and I call that progress.
” You swallowed hard, head nodding. “And I’m slicing up these oranges—exactly like we did the Christmas before she died—and we’re going to do something lovely with them like she’d have done, and that’s progress, too.
” Another hard swallow, head shaking. “That’s no small thing. That’s huge for me.”
It might’ve been the catch in your voice, or the deluge of personal information you’d unexpectedly dumped on me, or the thought of you playing violin as beautifully as the one being played throughout the kitchen, or the thought of you quitting something you loved when your mother died—or maybe all of it—but I placed my hand on your arm to stop you from slicing, then pulled you away from the counter and slipped my arms around your back.
I hugged you tight, fighting to keep the tears at bay.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“For what?” you asked, voice scratchy but soft.
“Everything,” I said, nuzzling my face against your chest. The soft cotton of your cardigan felt positively divine against my cheek. “How long will the orange slices need to bake?”
“About four to six hours.”
I pulled back. “Are you shitting me?”
“Nope,” you said with a smile, all traces of sadness gone.
“What are we supposed to do during all that time?”
“We could make orange pomanders—”
“Orange pomanders?”
“It’s where you stick little cloves inside the oranges and set them out for decoration. They fill the whole room with a warm citrusy smell you’ll love. I promise.”
“Okay. While we’re at it, though, will you please tell me more about what a giant nerd you were growing up?”
You stopped slicing to stare at me, blinking as though you couldn’t decide whether to laugh or be offended. In the end, you smiled. “Wow. That’s—okay, then.”
“Bear in mind this is coming from someone who’s been a social pariah her whole life—okay?
—but there’s no way you were one of the cool kids,” I said, smiling back.
“I picture you carrying around your violin case in a cardigan and perfectly ironed pants, then putting on your little black glasses to read the sheet music.” I pressed both hands to my heart, hardly able to contain the golden rush of emotions pooling in my chest. “Which I find extremely endearing, by the way, and it makes me feel super mushy to think of you like that—but it sounds like you probably chose to spend your weekends at home, like, drawing up plans for a kick-ass gingerbread house with your sister when you weren’t practicing violin. ”