Letter Twenty-Nine #2
Nic’s eyes drifted closed as John’s threat settled over him. He stood there, hands flexing, silent for a long time. “Do what you have to do,” he said at last, “because I can’t, John. Not right now.”
With a regretful look tossed my way, Nic walked out the door, taking the coward’s way out. As always.
Michael swore under his breath.
“Why can’t you tell me?” I asked John.
“Because it’s not my place,” he said, staring after Nic. John had the sunken look of a man who’d just given up everything.
“Then I guess I’ll never know.”
“He’ll come around,” John said, hands flexing between his knees. “He’ll do what’s right.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said, pushing up from the couch.
John rose, too. “Don’t go. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
But I was already halfway across the room, grabbing my bag.
Before he could stop me, I bolted—out the door, into the hall, into the waiting car with Hal—where I didn’t stop shaking until we pulled up to the house twenty minutes later.
I stayed in bed for hours, drifting in and out of consciousness, ignoring the multiple pings from my phone. John and Michael, both checking on me. One from my dad, too. It said only: I’m sorry.
That night, I ventured downstairs for food but found you instead, sitting by the fireplace with a book, absently stroking the page with your thumb as you stared into space.
I hovered in the doorway. “Are you really leaving? Are you moving back to England?”
You shrugged. “There’s no point in me staying here.”
“There are three.”
You removed your glasses. Took your time folding them. Looked at me. “I’ll keep in touch. I’ll visit—few times a year, probably. I won’t drop from their lives completely.”
I could barely push the words out. “And what about my life?”
You shrugged again. Like that part didn’t matter. Didn’t even warrant a response.
“My dad won’t let you leave.”
“He can’t stop me.”
“He will.”
“I’m grateful to Nic, and I’ll work tirelessly to pay off the debt I owe him, but he can’t force me to do anything.”
“What about college?”
“I’ll apply to one in London. Finish my education there.”
I walked forward, arms crossed, fingers digging into the fabric of my sweater. “Tell me what to do,” I said, voice breaking on the words. “Tell me what to do to make you stay.”
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing. “Tell me why you stayed with Michael last night.”
“It’s complicated.”
“No, it’s actually quite simple.” You set the book on the coffee table with deliberate care, then gently placed your glasses on top. “You start talking, or I leave—and I don’t come back.”
The words had come out soft. Brutal. Final.
“You can’t leave because of me,” I said, head shaking.
“You spectacularly fucked me up,” you replied, rising from the chair, “and you still haven’t told me why.
I kept hoping you’d come to me in the middle of the night.
That you’d crawl into bed with me and beg for my forgiveness, and all you’d have to say to be forgiven was: it wasn’t a mistake.
That’s how devastated I am—I would’ve forgiven you instantly.
” Head shake. Brief glance off to the side.
Tattooed hand brushing over your mouth. “Then I come home to find you tucked up against my brother, clearly having cried to him. And just when I think this nightmare can’t possibly get any worse, you have it out with your dad, and I find out you’ve gone to Michael again. ”
“You were gone. You left.”
“You could’ve texted me.”
“I had to get away from him.”
Your gaze flashed. “I would’ve met you—anywhere. If you needed me, I would’ve come to you—immediately. But you ran to Michael instead. Why?”
“It’s just—the stuff with my dad. It’s all so…”
Where to begin? How to explain the nightmare I’d been living in since Michael gave me a missing piece of my childhood? How could I tell you about John without making you think you were partially to blame?
“Complicated?” you guessed.
I nodded.
“Right.” With a bitter laugh, you grabbed your things off the table and brushed past me.
“Casey, wait—”
You twisted back around, eyes flashing so bright my gut clenched. “He shouldn’t get to wipe away your tears. Those are mine.” You jabbed a finger at your chest. “They belong to me.”
You were done hiding, alright. Just standing there, cracked wide open, full of hope I’d run to you and put us back together. And right beneath the hope: the palpable fear I wouldn’t.
And I wanted that, too, Casey. I wanted to be brave enough to break us completely, even if it meant I’d have to grovel like hell to win you back.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I whispered, and you went still, hand dropping to your side. “I’m the mistake.”
Your jaw tightened. “There you go with the cryptic bullshit again. Why, Elliot? Why are you a mistake?”
You sounded like my dad when he’d asked why I couldn’t let you love me: fed up.
I stared at the rug beneath my socked feet.
“Listen,” you said, “I’m not begging you to believe you’re worthy again.
I’m not begging you, period. You want me to stay?
You’ll have to tell me what the hell’s going on with you.
You’ll have to give me a reason”—you paused, voice cracking as you finished—“because right now it feels like there’s no longer a future for me here. Not one worth staying for.”
You looked at me one last time, searching for something: a flicker of hope, the reason you wanted, anything.
The time couldn’t have been more perfect. We were all alone. No reason to wait. Here was my chance to tell you: I’ve been hiding a few things.
But I didn’t.
So you walked out, and the moment vanished.
You know what I remember most about that time period? How much darker the house felt. Not only dimmer—but suffocating. Like it used to feel before you moved in and breathed life into everything.
You stayed in your room, and I kept to mine, cataloging every sharp thing within reach: the scissors in the drawer, the razor in the bathroom, the corner of my desk.
Not making a plan. Just…taking inventory. Trying to prove I was the one in control, not that little voice in my head.
My dad barely surfaced, sleeping throughout the day, shutting himself in his office at night. No music downstairs. No dinners. No footsteps in the hall. Just that damn grandfather clock, chiming the empty hours as they passed.
We were more like housemates than a family, all the warmth of the last three years quickly seeping out.
Nic wouldn’t fix it. He’d made that clear. Which meant I had to be the one to step up, had to give you a reason to stay.
But I couldn’t do it without Michael.
On my way out, I passed Nic’s office, saw him sitting at his desk, staring at nothing, the light from his desk lamp casting a shadow across his face. He looked older than his forty years in that dark room. As if all his choices—both good and bad—had finally caught up with him.
At Michael’s, he rushed to speak the minute I stepped through his door. “My dad’s serious, Elliot. He asked my mom for a separation last night. He told her he’s moving out.”
“It’ll be okay,” I said, leading him over to the couch. “Because we can give John something my dad can’t right now—the truth about Casey.”
Michael closed his eyes. “That’ll just make everything worse.”
“No. John’s right. Secrets don’t belong in this family.” I clasped Michael’s hand, tears filling my eyes. “So here’s mine.” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to say what I should’ve told him a long time ago. “I’m in love with Casey.”
Michael turned his head, the hit instant. A sharp, devastating blow.
“We’ve had something going on for a while,” I confessed. “Since Halloween—sort of. We would be together right now if I hadn’t ruined it.”
“God,” he said with a choked laugh, pulling his hand from mine. “What an idiot I’ve been.”
“You’re not an idiot—I am. For lying. For leading you on.
” Our entire history flashed before my eyes.
The late nights with our parents. Happy summers on the Cape.
Watching the snow fall from his bedroom window, the cold pressing in.
Him crawling into my bed, making me feel safe and warm.
My palm, at eight years old, pressed to his chest, taking comfort in the steady beat of his heart. You’re still here.
I know you won’t like it, Casey. But my history with Michael matters, and I don’t regret any part of it—except hurting him. Except lying to you about what we really were to each other.
“You want to know the worst part of all this?” Michael asked hoarsely.
“For years, I’m hopping from one girlfriend to the next, but I’m secretly harboring this massive crush on you.
Then I meet him, and we hit off, and he has no one, so I bring him over to Nic’s.
I watch you meet him, and I see it—this tiny spark of something—but I choose to believe it’s only because he’s new and attractive and girls just generally have that reaction to him.
I tell myself I have nothing to worry about.
I think, Surely she won’t fall for the first guy I ever bring to brunch. ”
I watched his eyes fill with tears that he instantly blinked away.
“But you did,” he whispered. “And in a cruel twist of fate, that guy turns out to be my brother. If my life were a book, what a fucking plot twist, right?” He laughed, but the sound was devastating.
All wrong. “My long-lost brother swoops in out of nowhere, and the girl I’ve loved my whole life falls in love with him.
I got the dad, but he gets the girl. I got the better childhood, but he gets the future I wanted with you.
He just had to come over here and take that away from me. Take the one thing I wanted most.”
“And he’s been beating himself up over it the whole time. He hates hurting you.”
“Didn’t stop him from taking you, anyway, did it?”
“It stopped him from telling John the truth. He doesn’t think it’s possible for him to have me and a place in your family, too.”
“How considerate of him,” Michael said, voice dripping with contempt. “So—what? I’m just the asshole who’s keeping him from his real dad?”