Letter Twenty-Seven #3
I laughed, still breathless. “That’s it? That’s all you needed?”
“God, yes,” you whispered, moving up my body for a kiss.
I pushed you back. “What about you?”
You pressed your forehead to mine. “I’m so close.”
You reached between us to free yourself from those black joggers, and I marveled—because of course, Casey.
Of course you were perfect everywhere. Perfect in every way imaginable.
I watched you stroke yourself, momentarily lost to the beauty of it.
How many times had I dreamt of this? Seeing the deepest, most private, most intimate parts of you?
But I had other dreams, too.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I said, smacking your hand out of the way. “That’s my job.”
You drew in a sharp breath as I took you in my hand, and I marveled again.
At the ragged moan I pulled from your throat.
At your face, buried in my neck, your lips sweeping urgently across my skin, breath warm as you panted against my pulse.
At the way you looked at me when I pushed you back, wanting to see your face: like the world had condensed to this.
To us. To a feeling so strong I couldn’t deny it, even if I wanted to.
It was there, sparkling hot and bright between us.
Three little words. Eight letters. They should’ve been easier to say.
But like Chuck—who couldn’t bring himself to say the words to Blair—I couldn’t push them past the growing lump in my throat, either.
“I’m yours,” you whispered—just another way of saying the same thing. “Tell me I’m yours. Say it.”
You were mine. The proof was heavy in my hand, heavy all around us. It wasn’t quite like your fantasy, but so close. Close enough that, for one dangerous second, I let myself pretend I could keep you.
You dragged your lips across my jaw, your breathing growing more erratic with each stroke of my hand. “Say it,” you pleaded. “Tell me I belong to you.”
“You’re mine,” I whispered back, the raw need in your voice breaking through my hesitation, finally coaxing the words loose.
“You can do better than that, darling,” you rasped, thrusting into my hand. “Say it like you fucking mean it.”
Darling spread through my veins like wildfire. “You’re mine,” I said in a deep throaty voice, wishing it could always be true. Because I wanted you like this forever. Falling apart in my hands. Letting go for me. Wholly and undeniably wanting to be mine.
“Yes,” you groaned, coming completely undone, the weight of those words shuddering through you, too.
After you cleaned us up, and I slipped back into my shorts, we lay facing each other: tangled, quiet, your hand caught in my hair, the other one heavy at the small of my back.
“You know what I’m afraid of?” you asked eventually.
“What’s that?” I asked, pushing my fingers through your hair.
“That he’ll hate me no matter what I do.”
“Who?”
“Michael. He’d probably be happier if I just…left.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” you said wretchedly. “I had so many chances to open up to him last summer—he kept trying to talk to me about my dad, about how it affected me—but I didn’t want him to see me cry over how shit my life was back home.
I didn’t want to look even weaker in front of him, not after he’d spent weeks watching me take the verbal and mental abuse like I’ve always done.
Then he found out about my adoption, and he was…
” You drifted off with a swallow, shaking the memory aside, as if you couldn’t bear to revisit it.
“He tried to leave in the middle of the night—that’s how unimportant I’d made him feel—and it’s been weird between us ever since.
He’s stopped texting me, stopped asking to hang out.
When I show up at his, it feels like…he’s just waiting for me to leave.
He still comes over here, but only to see you—and I know he missed Christmas because of me.
I’ve been texting him every day, but he won’t reply.
He’s fed up. He’s opened up to me loads since we met, but I’ve rarely done the same for him. ”
I stroked your jaw with my thumb, waiting for you to continue, wishing things could be different. Simpler, for everyone’s sake.
“And I know,” you said softly, gaze conflicted as you searched mine, “how to fix it. The best way to show him how much he matters to me is to let you go. To say, ‘Look, Michael, this is how I feel about her, but you matter more. Let me prove it to you.’ But it’s also the one thing I don’t want to do, because I’m always with you.
We’ll be at school together in the fall.
And someday—if I take Nic up on his offer—we’ll work together at the firm.
How can I be near you all the time, knowing I can’t have you? How can I live like that?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered, bringing your hand to my lips. I kissed your tattoo. Repeatedly. Frantically. Reverently. “I don’t know what the answer is.”
Another lie. I definitely knew the answer, but it required me to give you up. To tell you everything. To make the decision so much easier for you. It was something I didn’t want to do, either. For all the same reasons.
How could I see you every day, knowing I couldn’t have you the way I wanted you?
That wrinkle deepened between your eyebrows. “You’ve bitten yourself,” you said, gently passing your thumb over my bottom lip.
“Oh,” I said. “Must’ve done it trying not to cry out.”
You stared at my mouth, transfixed. Something flashed across your face, there and gone in an instant. Then you pulled me close, tucking my head underneath your chin.
I often wonder: if it had registered to me right then—the significance of that bite on my lip, exactly like the one you’d noticed the week we were all snowed in together, when I’d done the same thing with Michael—and the guilt had clouded my face, would you have figured it out? That night? In my bed?
My most damning secret?
The following morning, when I tried texting Michael again and he left me on read—again—I nearly hurled my phone against the wall.
While you’d slept soundly the night before, I’d lain awake for hours, replaying everything you’d said about Michael.
Sure, you guys had issues that had nothing to do with me—the lack of transparency being a pretty big one—but I was the reason Michael couldn’t let those other issues go.
The reason he’d missed Christmas. The primary reason he would ever hate you, if he were capable of hating you at all.
Despite what my dad said, I needed to talk to him. I didn’t have a plan, really—other than convincing him to give you another chance.
That’s why you caught me in the entry hall after lunch, donning my coat and scarf.
I claimed Hal was taking me to Tinsley’s.
But Hal didn’t take me to Tinsley’s.
Hal took me to Michael’s. I pounded my fist against his door, only to come face-to-face with Sienna, who immediately drew back, surprised to see me. “Elliot?” She leaned forward, peeking over my shoulder. “What are you doing out by yourself? Where’s Casey?”
Stay cool, I warned myself, drawing in a deep breath. Don’t do anything illegal.
But I still shoved that bitch out of the way as I entered his apartment. “I’m here to see Michael.”
Sienna stumbled back in her black leather Chelsea boots, grinning like an idiot, and I remember thinking that pretty odd. What was so funny about being shoved aside by your nemesis?
Michael walked out of the kitchen. “What are you doing here, Elliot?”
“Wow,” I said, looking him over. “You don’t look sick at all.”
“Sick?” repeated Sienna. “When were you sick?”
Michael studied me a moment, then glanced at Sienna, who stood off to the side with her arms crossed, cleavage practically shoved up to her chin. “Elliot and I need to talk. I’ll catch you later, okay?”
Sienna didn’t looked miffed or homicidal or even remotely bothered at this turn of events—all of which I’d be if my boyfriend asked me to get lost so he could talk to another girl.
She just grabbed her coat off a nearby chair.
“See you later, babe,” she said with a smile, letting her bright red talons drift across Michael’s chest on her way to the door.
It was only much, much later that I’d fully comprehend how Sienna could be so agreeable and downright cheerful that day.
“Eww,” I said the moment the door shut behind her. Eyeing Michael, I removed my scarf and mittens. “You missed Christmas.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t really care to see Casey fuss over you the whole day. The little glimpse I got of you wrapped in his arms was more than enough for me.”
“He was upset about you, so we talked.”
“I bet,” Michael said, walking over to the couch. “Looked like a whole lot of talking took place before you guys fell asleep.” He glared at me as he took a seat. “Just talking—definitely.”
“You were really mean to him. You said you’d apologize.”
“You told me nothing was going on between you two. I guess we both lied.”
“We were sleeping, Michael. We slept.”
“Bullshit,” he said, all sharp edges and stiff suspicion. And it killed me. Was this it? The moment I finally lost him forever?
“You have to apologize.” I took a seat on the chair next to the couch, angling my body toward his. “You have to make things right with him.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” he said, cocking his head at me. “Why is this so important to you?”
“Because he’s your friend.”
“He’s not my friend if he’s fucking around with you.”
My stomach lurched at the venom in his voice. At the cold, hard glint in his eyes. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“It’s been over between you and me for a while now,” I said shakily. “Besides, our dads will never allow us to be together.”
“How convenient for you,” he said, voice so cold and quiet it sliced through me, sending a shiver up my spine.
“This isn’t about me. This is about what’s best for you—and that’s your relationship with Casey. You have to fix it.”
“Sure,” he said with a shrug, hands clasped together between his knees. “But I need you to do something for me first.”
“What’s that?”
“Admit you have feelings for him.”