Page 10 of Mad Girl

Then Nic would read both letters in front of me at the dining table, where I’d have to discuss those reasons a third time.

Then Nic would call that nanny back to our house, where I’d be forced to read my letter of apology to her and repeat those reasons a fourth time.

And when that woman refused to accept my apology, I would beg her to forgive me.

And by the end of the whole process, I would be all cried out, emptied of the darkness, wrung so dry I’d vow to never be bad again.

But the darkness always trickled back in, didn’t it, Casey? You eventually saw that about me, too.

LETTER THREE

95 WEEKS LEFT

You keep coming back.

If I were talking, I’d ask you why.

Why are you here? How can you look at me? After what I’ve done?

But there you are every Tuesday, waiting for me at that steel table. Loyal to a fault. That’s the only explanation for it. Your presence shoots through me each time, an instant surge of pain. Because you should still be furious with me. You should’ve given up by now, like any sane person would. Let’s be honest: anyone else would’ve given up on me a long time ago.

Instead, you fret over my new living conditions: “Are they treating you well? What do they feed you in here? Are you eating enough? How often do they let you outside?”

Toward the end of our visit last Tuesday, you complained that it’s been weeks of this nonsense. “This is mental, Elliot,” you said, tossing up your hands. “You’ve got nothing to say to me? Nothing at all?”

When I stared blankly, silent as always, you changed tack.

“Everything’s gone to shit without you—just so you know. Just in case you’re wondering. We don’t do brunches or dinners anymore. Your dad and I? We don’t eat together at all. No one can bear to see your empty spot at the table.”

I wanted to scream at you to stop, and you wanted that, too. You wanted to make me speak to you.

“It’s a bit like you’ve died,” you said, “and the only thing that keeps me going, personally, is this. Seeing your face. Seeing that you’re not gone, not really. Just temporarily lost. But the rest of them, they aren’t doing so great. They’re also lost. Lost without you. Even Eleanor, she⁠—”

I shoved my chair back, marched up to the guard, and held out my wrists, desperate for her to get me out of there before the tears fell.

You’re not allowed to break me, Casey. Not allowed to make me cry. Not allowed to talk about them, because I’m not allowed to know how they’re doing.

I didn’t think you’d return after that, but there you were, waiting for me again today, sitting at the table, your hands loosely folded on top of its gleaming silver surface. Only, for the first time in weeks, you didn’t ask questions or beg me to talk or speak to me at all.

For the entire hour, you stared over my shoulder, your blue eyes devoid of emotion. You were there, but not really. Not where I could feel you, seeping back into me with every rise and fall of your voice, touching me with every concerned sweep of your eyes, brushing over my face and hands.

I’ve done a lot of pushing in my life, but I’ve never pushed you that far, never seen the light inside you switched off, never known you to stop trying to tug me back. And in that dark place where the unshakable Casey I know should’ve been, I discovered something I didn’t expect: your voice has been one of the few things keeping me going.

I want the words back. I want the questions. I want the deep, soothing lilt of your accent.

For you to keep it from me feels like another punishment, and I’m not sure how much more I can take.

After our encounter with the cigarette, Michael brought you to brunch one Sunday, and all the adults made a fuss.

Libby gave you one of those cheek-to-cheek kisses. Eleanor took your coat. John hopped up from the settee with his coffee.

Michael had never brought a guy friend to brunch. A girlfriend here and there, sure. But even that was rare. You were an anomaly, and that made the adults curious. My dad, in particular, never took his eyes off you, probably still trying to figure out what made you so damn special.

Somehow, during his election party a few weeks prior, no one had introduced you to Michael and Bree’s dad.

John Harris has kind eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and they crinkled especially deep as he smiled at you. He reached for your hand, but stopped short of taking it when you said your name.

“Casey.” Something flickered across John’s face. Something there and gone in an instant. He cleared his throat, then clasped your hand. “I like that name.”