Page 12 of Mad Girl

“What?”

“You’ll give Casey a chance. He’s a good guy. You’d like him if you got to know him better.”

I rolled my eyes. “If it means a lot to you, then I’ll try to be nice.”

“It does mean a lot,” Michael said, tugging on the end of my braid. “Thank you.”

True to his word, Michael brought you back the next Sunday—and the Sunday after that. And I stopped giving you death glares, but we didn’t speak much, either.

One Sunday, Eleanor asked why you looked so tired, and when she said it, I noticed the dark circles underneath your eyes, too. You hesitated to offer Eleanor and the others an explanation, so Michael provided one for you. He told everyone you bartended, often working until three in the morning on weekends and picking up double shifts whenever you could, even throughout the week. Nic perked up, impressed by your work ethic. He asked if you made good money bartending, and you admitted you did. John pointed out how challenging it must be to work so often to afford rent in a place like Boston. He wanted to know how you ever found the time to hang out with Michael, let alone sleep.

You unclenched your jaw long enough to force a smile, turning your water glass around and around on the tabletop, as if you were annoyed by all the scrutiny. This, coming from a group of people who’d never struggled to make a living wage in their lives. You admitted to sleeping very little, actually, but insisted you were fine.

John asked where you were living at the moment, and when you hesitated, Michael spoke up here, too, saying you were stuck in a house-share in Somerville with four other people, two of whom were pill addicts who kept breaking into your room when you weren’t there. Libby said that didn’t sound like a safe living arrangement, and Michael insisted he’d been telling you the same thing—he’d been telling you for weeks to search for something better—but you wouldn’t listen to him. You shot Michael an imploring look that said, Please stop talking.

“You can’t keep living there, Casey. Not when some ass—” Michael glanced apologetically at Eleanor, then started over. “Not when people keep stealing from you.”

“It’s my problem,” you said, “and I’m handling it.”

“I don’t understand why you won’t get a place with me,” Michael said, the wounded tone of his voice causing me to lower my silverware.

Bree and I exchanged a look, because Michael’s comment shocked her, too. For Michael to bring a friend over was one thing, but for him to exhibit emotion over a friend? Especially a guy friend? That wasn’t like him at all.

Your friendship obviously meant a lot to him, and I’d been a bitch to suggest that he shouldn’t bring you to brunch.

Across the table, you shook your head at Michael, as if you’d already laid out the reasons for wanting to live on your own, and you didn’t want to do it again in front of everyone else.

My dad told you he owned several properties in Somerville, along with a few vacant properties in Beacon Hill, where we lived. He said he’d be happy to offer you a safer place to stay so you wouldn’t have to tolerate shared housing anymore.

“What if we work something out?” Nic suggested. “Agree on a number that’ll allow you to work less, so you have more time to rest and focus on school?”

“That’s very generous of you, but I don’t want to impose. Really, I’m managing just fine on my own, thank you,” you said, then politely excused yourself from the table. You’d promised your sister a phone call, and it was getting late in England.

Later, as the others cleared our dishes off the table, I found you with Garland, perusing the mahogany bookshelves along the back wall of the room.

“Are you okay?” I asked, arms crossed over my dress. Another Stepford-wife one, but with a houndstooth pattern instead of floral.

“Just fine,” you said, but it sounded forced. Something on the bookcase caught your eye, and you leaned forward to get a closer look. One corner of your mouth lifted as you lifted a silver picture frame off the shelf. “Is this you?”

I grimaced at the picture. “Yeah, that’s me. I was six maybe?”

You slid your gaze away from the picture to study me, and my heart fluttered.

You put the picture back, then picked up another one. “It’s—you know—you looked quite similar to that little girl from The Addams Family. The resemblance is…uncanny.”

You were right. Growing up, I’d looked very similar to Wednesday Addams. Severe hair part down the middle. Two dark braids. Collared dresses, tailored to fit the primmest of little girls. Cardigans, too, often fully buttoned up. It wasn’t until after my tenth birthday that I’d ditched the pigtails for a side fishtail braid, made to look messy on purpose.

“Don’t get me wrong,” you said. “You were very cute.”

“Cute—but scary.”

“Not scary. Just…serious. You’re not smiling here.” Your gaze drifted over the other framed photographs. “You’re not smiling in loads of these.”

“Yeah, I rarely smiled as a kid. No wonder I didn’t have many friends.”

“You didn’t?”

“I had Bree, Tinsley, and Michael. But all the other kids I knew were scared of me.”