Letter Twenty-Nine #4
“Yes. I have to get to him before she does,” I said, heading back to the entry hall. I pulled on my sneakers, grabbed my crossbody bag off the newel post, and tossed it across my body.
“Wait,” Bree said. “I’m coming with you.”
My hand hovered over the doorknob. “Why?”
“I promised Casey I’d stay with you tonight,” she said. “Unlike some people, I don’t lie.”
Arguing with her would get me nowhere, so I flung open the door and sprinted for the car, nearly busting my ass on the cobblestones along the way.
We slid into the Range Rover, and I peeled out of the parking spot.
Boston traffic, as always, proved hellacious. Primarily because my driving experience was limited to the open, winding roads on the Cape.
Horns. Taillights. Pedestrians darting between cars. I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ached, foot twitching with every red light. I needed to go faster, but the traffic prohibited it. No wonder everyone honked like crazy in this city.
My skin prickled, even with the heat blasting, my nerves on high alert. Only then did I realize I’d left the house without a coat, wearing only leggings and my cropped Harvard sweatshirt. My heart had one singular command pulsing through it: Get to Casey before she does.
Forty minutes later, we pulled up to the house, and I parked along the curb, butterflies swarming in my stomach. I took a deep breath in an attempt to calm my nerves, then looked at Bree.
“Whatever you’re doing,” she said, “do it quick. If you’re not done in twenty minutes, I’m coming to get you and we’re going home.”
As I marched up to the house, I felt sick, heart slamming against my ribs. Music thumped behind the door. Low. Pulsing. Vaguely…classical? A trio of guys stood outside with red Solo cups, already half drunk.
The middle one gave me a slow once-over.
Messy blonde hair, suspiciously tan for Boston in the winter, warm brown eyes that lingered on my goose-pebbled midriff.
He wore a vintage tweed coat with the collar popped and a thick cashmere scarf.
He looked like the type of guy who frequented tropical locales during the winter and regularly summered in France.
“Name?” he asked, a slow grin curving his mouth.
The guy to his left snickered into his drink. “Cute sweatshirt.”
I did not have time for this. “I’m here for someone,” I said, charging forward. “Get out of my way.”
The blonde guy pushed me back. “Hold on, sweetheart. You may be hot, but you’re not getting in without a name—maybe not even then.”
“Call me sweetheart again and I’m kicking you in the balls. What the hell is your name?”
“Julian,” he said, gaze sparkling.
The cold sank its teeth into my bare skin, but I held myself still, refusing to let them see me shiver. “You get off on playing gatekeeper, don’t you, Julian?”
“Absolutely. Tell me your name.”
“Elliot Bancroft.”
They all laughed. “Bancroft? Yeah, right.”
“Hey,” one said, elbowing Julian. “I heard a rumor Nic Bancroft’s kid got into Harvard and took a gap year.”
“Yeah,” said the other one, “the real Elliot’s probably in the Maldives or Bora Bora right now.” He frowned. “Figured Elliot was a guy, though.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I muttered, rifling through my crossbody bag. I pulled out my driver’s license, then shoved it at Julian.
He blinked, his smile evaporating. “Oh, shit.”
The other two guys looked over his shoulder, their expressions shifting fast, mirroring his disbelief. “Damn,” one said, gaping at me. “So the real Elliot’s not a dude.”
Julian stepped aside just enough for me to squeeze past, but his gaze followed me, much sharper now, more curious than amused. “You’re not what I expected, Bancroft,” he murmured, low enough that his friends couldn’t hear. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I rolled my eyes and pushed through the heavy door.
Inside, the air smelled of candle smoke and something sweeter—weed. I knew the smell from late summer nights on the Cape, drifting through the house whenever our parents lit a joint before bed.
The lights were turned low, the ceilings pitched high, the walls lined with mismatched oil paintings in antique frames.
A familiar nocturne played: Chopin, looped over a deep bass line, the sound vibrating in my chest. I walked past books stacked on the floor like furniture.
Past wine bottles lining the stairs, most of their corks popped.
At the landing, a girl with smudged eyeliner sobbed into her cup while a guy in a corduroy blazer tried to comfort her.
Sienna had called it a literary bacchanal, which apparently meant: black turtlenecks, red wine in Solo cups, and enough ego to fill the Library of Congress.
A guy in suspenders gave a dramatic reading of “Howl” off the foyer while two girls in silk slip dresses smoked on the balcony.
Someone had written THIS IS NOT A PARTY, IT’S A RECKONING in red lipstick across the mirror over the fireplace mantel.
It was all so deeply ridiculous that I almost laughed.
This is what I’d been missing all year? This flagrant display of pretentiousness?
And there—half-visible through the crowd—I spotted you, standing underneath an old crystal chandelier beside a second fireplace, holding a drink in your hand.
Sienna stood next to you, too damn close for my liking, laughing at some guy who was talking and gesticulating wildly with his free hand.
The laughter and chaos bled into static. All the sharp things I’d spent the week cataloging in my room came rushing back at once.
I didn’t even think—just moved. Shouldered past a guy holding a wine bottle. Dodged an elbow. Stepped around a girl dancing in socks. My heart hammered as I crossed the room.
The second you spotted me, your expression morphed into something flat and lethal. You handed your drink to Sienna and stormed forward, cutting through the crowd. “How did you get here?”
“You think you can run off with Hal, and that’ll be enough to stop me?”
“You’re unbelievable. You are the most maddening…fucking…this is unacceptable.” You grabbed my arm. “Let’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you hear me out.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “Right. Because now’s the perfect time for a heart-to-heart. In a room full of people.”
“Then take me somewhere else.” I looked up at you, pleading with my eyes.
You glanced around, exasperated, then pulled me down a hallway off the back room, steering me past a couple making out against a dark paneled wall.
At the end of the hall, you opened the door to what looked like an old study—dark wood paneling, heavy curtains drawn shut, a desk cluttered with books, a lone lamp casting a soft amber glow over everything. You stepped in after me but didn’t shut the door all the way, leaving it open just a crack.
The moment felt fragile. Suspended. Thick with tension.
You leaned against the wall, jaw set, black sweater pushed up to your elbows. Cheeks flushed. Hair tousled. Eyes tired and sad.
We could’ve been in my bed, basking in the luxury of an empty house. Free to be loud. To be reckless. To do whatever we wanted to each other.
Instead, we were here, so far apart it hurt like hell to be in the same room with you.
“You have ten minutes,” you said, shoving both hands in your pockets. “Talk.”
I hesitated, intensely aware of my own heartbeat, hands shaking by my sides. “All that horrible stuff I said to you after we—?” I swallowed. “I didn’t mean any of it.”
“Right,” you said, voice catching as you looked away.
I crossed the room slowly. Placed my hand to your face. Gently pulled your gaze back to mine. I would’ve given anything to keep us there—in that fragile space we still occupied together—where we were still us. Darkness, made softer by the light.
“I’m being honest, Casey. I pushed you away because I was scared to tell you the truth.”
“And what’s the truth?”
How to say it? How to put three years into words? How to tell you that it was so much more than fate?
You arrived right when I needed someone to pay attention the most.
To notice the drowning.
To see the clawing.
To hear me screaming.
And you did. You paid attention to everything.
Take that question you asked Hal when you first moved in: What makes her happy?
You, Casey. You made me happy. In a thousand different ways, both big and small.
That wasn’t fate. That was a choice you made.
And to a girl like me, it felt like salvation.
“I love being stuck in that dark dungeon of a house with you,” I said. “Before you came along, I was lost in there. That’s why you can’t leave. I need you.”
You pulled my hand from your face, head shaking. “It’s not enough for you to need me, and that’s not a good enough reason for me to stay. Tell me why you called it a mistake.”
You weren’t making it easy on me, and I didn’t blame you.
“It wasn’t a mistake. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced—because it was you. But it wasn’t perfect, either. It couldn’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve been lying to you.”
“About what?”
“You need to build a relationship with the Harrises. Once you’ve done that—if you still want to be with me—it’ll be different.”
“You’ve lied to me about what, Elliot?”
“You were right about me and him.”
Before you could respond—before I could finish—the door creaked open behind us. “Sorry to interrupt,” came Sienna’s voice, light and casual. “But Casey? I need you to take a look at your phone.”
You glanced over my shoulder, already irritated. “I’m in the middle of something, Sienna.”
“This is really important,” she said. “I promise.”
My whole body tensed. “No,” I said, stepping toward you. “She’s trying to—”
“Right now, Casey,” she said, tapping the screen of her phone. “Take a look.”
“Casey,” I begged, panic flaring hot in my chest. “Just wait a minute, okay?”
You glanced between us. At me, flushed and panicked. At her, cool and collected. With a sigh, you pulled your phone from your back pocket and looked down at the screen. Your shoulders tensed as you pinched the screen to zoom in on my shoulder.
On the bite mark.
Irrefutable proof.
Sienna backed out with a devilish grin.