Page 102 of Mad Girl

But I didn’t want that sweet moment to be a blur. I wanted to remember it forever.

And the painful reality, Casey, is that I’m absolutely certain I will.

LETTER FOURTEEN

72 WEEKS LEFT

One of the worst parts of being in jail?

No leisurely strolls through the park. No colorful canopy of leaves overhead or stoops decorated for fall. No pumpkins or gourds or chrysanthemums. No window boxes full of pansies in deep burgundy or yellow or purple-black. No drizzly fall days where you hold the umbrella, and we huddle close against the early-morning bite in the air. No red leaves stuck to the bottom of my shoe when I get to school.

My only consolation in here is you. Our hour together on Tuesdays. How devastatingly gorgeous you are in each of your suits, all of which have been tailored to perfection.

When you leave me, I spend hours thinking of all the other suits I’m missing. And the walks. And the feel of my arm looped through yours. And your cardigans—a soft brown one in particular.

So maybe seeing you isn’t a consolation, after all. Maybe it’s just torture.

“You look very British today,” I commented earlier, referring to the navy tweed three-piece you’d paired with a light blue dress shirt and patterned burgundy tie. And wouldn’t you know it? Socks with your shoes. Ones with little squirrels all over them—a Christmas present from me last year.

You smoothed a hand down the tie and vest. “I am British.”

“No.”

“Yes,” you said, still standing firm on this.

“Technically? You’re American.”

“Absolutely not.” You brushed imaginary lint off your sleeve, head shaking. “I do not identify as that. No.”

“You were born in America. To two Americans.”

“Irrelevant.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll never understand how a person can cross the Atlantic for the sole purpose of discovering his identity…only to deny it.”

Naturally, you ignored this. Then you sat forward, blue eyes lighting up, and said, “I’ve been dying to tell you—they’ve just opened the most charming bookstore in Beacon Hill. It reminds me a bit of Kathleen Kelly’s little bookshop in You’ve Got Mail—that’s how charming it is. You’ll absolutely love it. There’s a children’s room with kid-sized furniture and a little secret red door in the wall that reminds me of the one across from your bedroom, and a train that goes round the ceiling between rooms. It doesn’t look like any bookstore you’ve ever seen. It’s more like sitting in a home library—beautiful fireplaces, charming sconces throughout, cozy nooks with cushions everywhere. There are three floors, and on every single one, I kept thinking, Elliot will adore this place. I can’t wait to take you there when you get out.”

The bookstore sounds lovely, and I hate that I’m missing it. But your enthusiasm made it seem as if things might actually be somewhat normal when I’m released. “You think I’ll be able to show my face in public when I get out of here?”

You stopped to consider this. “We’ll disguise you a bit. Hair down. A pair of sunglasses. A ball cap, maybe? We’ll figure it out.”

And there it was—the bleak reality of my future. That’s when it hit me, too: my life will never be normal. I’d say again, but my life was never really normal to begin with, was it?

“Right,” I said, voice cracking. “Sounds wonderful. I look forward to it.”

“Hey,” you said, gaze softening. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You reached for my hand, but stopped when the guard behind you said, “Don’t even try it, pretty boy.”

You twisted to the side, shot her a dirty look, and muttered, “Stupid rules.”

Sometimes, the sight of you makes my heart swell, and I think it’ll be okay. You’ll be there when I get out, and you’ll make whatever backlash I face more bearable. But then I remember how, when I get out of here, I’m supposed to hand you these letters. How it’s going to be so much harder than I thought it would be when you read what I’ve written here, and I might have to release you.

For now, though, I’m holding on—to what little of you I still have. I might never get to touch you the way I want again, but at least we have this.

Tuesdays.

Roughly seventy-two left.