Letter Twenty-Seven #6
Then he left us, footsteps heavy as he marched to the kitchen. The back door slammed.
You rushed to my side, glass crunching beneath your shoes as you yanked my chair out and pulled me up, taking me into your arms.
“Elliot, what was that?”
I cleared my throat, nudging you back. “We should clean this up.”
I crouched down, plucked tiny pieces of glass from the rug, and piled them in the palm of my hand.
You knelt down, too, and placed your hand over my wrist. “Let me do this.”
“It’s my fault. I’ll do it.”
A long pause. I could feel you watching me. “When did Nic say those things about you?”
“Right before Thanksgiving.”
You took my chin, gently turning my face toward yours. “Well, you’re not broken, okay?” you said, stroking my jaw with your thumb. “You’re not messed up. Neither of those things are true.”
I pulled away, throat tight, then grabbed another shard of glass. A sharp sting made me hiss. I jerked my hand back, watching blood seep from my finger, a blooming red dot.
“Sure they are.” I thought of Michael—the way I’d left him earlier, still in shock. I expected him to storm over at any second. Shout at you. Throw a punch or two. Go off on my dad. It was only a matter of time. “I really do ruin everything.”
“Nonsense,” you whispered, taking my hand, your eyes holding mine as you brought my finger to your mouth.
My breath caught as your lips closed around my cut, as you gently sucked, stopping the bleeding with a tenderness I didn’t deserve. It felt wrong to have this moment—to be comforted by you at all, to feel anything but shame—after what I’d done.
“Leave this,” you said, dropping my hand from your mouth. “I’ll clean it up.”
You were so damn good to me—and I’d just betrayed you in the worst possible way.
You tried helping me up, but I clutched your arm and jerked you back down, my fingers digging into your sweater. Your name left my throat all warbled, a choked plea: “Casey.”
You narrowed your gaze, concerned. “Hey—don’t cry again. What is it?”
What I tried very hard to say was: I told Michael your secret. Please don’t hate me.
What came out instead was: “You have to tell the Harrises.”
You closed your eyes, tried nudging me up again. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Today. I want you to tell them today.”
Your gaze flashed. “That’s not happening.”
“Before New Year’s, then.”
“Absolutely not. We’ve already—”
“You have to.”
“I’m not getting into this with you right now. Let’s—”
“If you don’t tell them, I will!”
You drew back, gaze fierce. “You do that, and I’ll never forgive you, Elliot. Never. Consider this your warning.”
There it was. My answer. Succinct and brutal. You wouldn’t forgive me for telling Michael. Of course you wouldn’t. I sprang up, tried walking away, but you stood, too, and grabbed my arm.
“Listen,” you said softly, bringing your face close to mine. “Nic and the Harrises have just made up. It isn’t the right time.”
“It never is,” I said, shrugging you off. I fled upstairs.
Later that night, we lay in bed together, staring into the darkness. Michael hadn’t stormed over or sounded the alarm—yet—but it did little to quiet the dread festering inside me. The only thing I wanted—besides to undo it—was to fold myself into your arms.
But how could I?
After doing the one thing you deemed unforgivable?
“I heard you talking to Claire yesterday morning,” I said, breaking the unbearable silence. “She missed you at Christmas.”
I heard your head shift against the pillow.
“You should go for New Year’s. Go see her and Rhys.”
A beat of silence, thicker and more unbearable than before. “But we had plans for New Year’s,” you said, a definite edge to your voice. “I can go at spring break.”
I shook my head, unable to meet your gaze.
The best way to punish myself was to send you away.
Where you couldn’t kiss my forehead or sweep your fingers through my hair or tell me we belonged together.
Where you couldn’t fill my heart with hope and almost make me believe it.
“We can stay up till midnight watching TV anytime.”
“Sure,” you said tightly. “If that’s what you really want.”
I forced the words from my mouth: “That’s what I really want.”
“So that’s it,” you said with a huff. “No explanation for why you’re shutting me out again. This is all I’m getting from you.”
I blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. If I gave in, they’d consume me.
With a sigh of resignation, you turned onto your side, pulling part of my duvet with you. And I hated myself for it. For being such a coward that I couldn’t tell you this awful truth, either.
When I woke late the next morning, you were already gone. I found your handwritten note on my nightstand: Couldn’t sleep. Caught a last minute flight out. I’ll miss you. Text me later. xx
Since Libby’s duties as mayor kept the Harrises from having dinner with us on New Year’s Eve like they normally did, they came on New Year’s Day instead. Except Bree, who’d gone to her new girlfriend’s house.
Michael eyed my dad throughout the meal, making me too tense and nervous to eat.
If Michael decided to confront Nic in your absence, I’d be responsible for slipping your secret to John, too, and I couldn’t stomach the thought of that happening.
So I excused myself before dessert and went upstairs to my room.
Twenty minutes later, I glanced up from my book. Michael stood in the doorway with one hand jammed into the pocket of his navy slacks. We stared at one another, my heart pounding as he walked over and crawled into my bed.
“Did you confront my dad? Did you tell them?”
“No,” he said, positioning his body perpendicular to my outstretched legs.
“Don’t you have plans with Sienna tonight?”
“No.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Are you still mad at me?”
“Yes.”
“Can you give me an answer that isn’t yes or no?”
“I broke up with Sienna,” he said. “For good this time. It’s over.”
Thank God, I thought. “Does she know I told you the truth about her?”
“I didn’t give her an explanation. Just told her it wasn’t working and handed her a box of all her shit to take back to her dorm. I never want to see her again.”
I hesitated. “And Casey?”
Michael stared at my bookcase. “I thought we were friends. I trusted him. I never thought he was capable of lying like this. Not to me.”
“You’ve lied to him, too—about us.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said with a sigh. “I feel bad about what I said to him on Christmas Eve. I am a dick. It’s just—everyone loves him.
My mom asks him for fashion advice constantly, like she doesn’t have a ton of friends she could ask instead.
And he gave her this fancy English tea to try, so now she drinks it more than coffee. ”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and I’m always catching Bree on FaceTime with him. She talks to Casey more than she talks to me. In fact, she’s been giving me the silent treatment for months now.”
“She’s been giving me the silent treatment since Halloween.”
“Really? Me, too. Or maybe it started right after Halloween.” Michael thought for a second. “Anyway. My dad? He and Casey text all the time.”
“They do?” I loved that for you, Casey. But why had you never mentioned it to me?
“My dad says they text about books and music and other random stuff. Not that long ago, he said, ‘Michael, I’m so glad you’re friends with someone like Casey.
He’s such a great influence on you.’ And I was like, ‘What’s that supposed to mean, Dad?
Shouldn’t it be the other way around?’ I told him about all the drugs Casey’s done—all the one-night stands he’s had—and my dad immediately excused all of it.
Says I have no idea what it’s like to lose one parent only to be treated horribly by the other one.
Says Casey has good character and that’s what matters.
But if Casey had grown up in his house? My dad would never have put up with him doing any of that shit.
Me, for example? I got the third degree after every party I ever went to, chewed out for trying pot that one time in high school, and he fucking lit into me for trying to share my girlfriend with Casey.
He gave me this long spiel about what healthy sexual relationships are supposed to look like.
And now that I know about the one he shares with Nic and my mom, that conversation is one I badly want a lobotomy to forget.
” Michael narrowed his eyes. “Thanks for outing me on that, by the way.”
I winced. “Sorry.”
“I wonder what my dad would think about Casey’s past if he knew Casey’s actually a Harris.”
Somehow, it was the first time I’d ever thought of you like that: Casey Harris. It had a better ring to it than Casey Anderson, which had always sounded wrong when you said it out loud, and now I knew why. It was a borrowed name.
Your real name had been here, waiting for you in Boston.
“That’s one of the things Casey’s worried about,” I said. “Being an embarrassment to your family.”
Michael scoffed at this. “Please. Casey would give him that please-don’t-hate-me look and probably get all teary-eyed or some shit, and my dad would eat that up.
But me? I have to be absolutely perfect.
I’m never allowed to screw up. He clearly has a soft spot for Casey—and he doesn’t even know who he is yet.
According to him, Casey can do no wrong. ”
“Ah, sibling rivalry,” I said. “So it begins.”
“Shut up,” Michael whispered, giving my knee a little shove.
I leaned over my lap. “Isn’t this good, though?” I asked, stroking my thumb down his scar. “You wanted to claim some part of Casey as yours, and now you can. He’s your brother. He’s yours for life.”
Michael shrugged. “But I still can’t get over how he used me in the beginning. Everyone uses me, but he seemed different. He didn’t seem to care about my last name—just me.”
“He did care about you. He does. Surely you can see that.”