Page 120 of Mad Girl

Only I couldn’t do that. Not in front of you.

I could barely face you as it was. I tried not to see: your concern, deeper than before. The wariness—in your eyes, too, exactly like my dad’s—as you gazed back at me.

Nic shoved my plate out of the way. “Look at me,” he said, gripping my arms. “Look at me, Elliot.”

So I did, trembling with rage.

“Deep breaths,” Nic said, breathing in through his nose. He filled his lungs. Held his breath. Slowly breathed out. “Take deep breaths.”

You see, everyone had a way of dealing with the fiery force of my rage, and this was my dad’s way: deep, calming breaths. Michael’s, in the past, was to sometimes give in to it, to give me exactly what I craved: the pain. Yours, I’d learned, was to tug me back by using that nickname: Wednesday.

I mimicked my dad’s breathing while you sat back and watched, silent.

Nic nodded, a little less wary. “Honey, you need to talk to someone about what happened to you at that party.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to go to him.”

“Not him,” Nic assured me. “Someone else.”

I shook my head again, faster this time. No way.

Nic swept a piece of hair out of my face. “What you experienced, sweetheart? That was traumatic. You’re not coping very well, and that’s okay. I wouldn’t expect you to. You must’ve been so scared, all alone in that room. It might help to talk to a woman this time—someone who can help you process trauma like this.”

Don’t think I didn’t notice the hopeful expression plastered across your face, Casey. You wanted this, too. Had probably even discussed it with Nic.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I said, jerking my arms free, “and you can’t make me.”

Later, you brought the broken phone up to my room. “Your dad says he’ll get you a new one,” you said, placing it on my nightstand.

“Don’t want a new one,” I replied, straightening against my headboard, nails digging into the cover of my history book. “I don’t even care. If he sent you up here to try to convince me to see someone, don’t bother. I won’t go.”

When you didn’t respond, I glanced up to find you worrying at your bottom lip as you plucked a ceramic bunny off my bookcase.

“I can’t stand this,” you said, tracing his ears. “I can’t bear to think of what you must’ve gone through, let alone how it’s haunting you now. I can’t stand the part I played, and I want to take it back—prevent you from ever going to that party in the first place. I know what it’s like to spiral, and I don’t want you going down that road because of a choice I made. I blame myself for what happened to you that night—for what nearly happened—and if you self-destruct because of it, I’ll blame myself for that, too.”

“Is your little speech supposed to make me change my mind? I don’t need help, Casey. I’m not like you. I won’t self-destruct or spiral. I’ll be just fine.”

“You’re already doing it,” you said. “I’ve done it myself, so I know all the signs.”

“And did you go to therapy for your issues?”

“Well”—you shifted uncomfortably, hands jammed in your pockets—“no.”

“Then why the hell should I?”

“Because everyone needs you to be okay again. I need you to be okay.”

“Your sister needs you to be okay, but you spiral, too—like what you pulled on your birthday.”

Your expression hardened as you turned to put the ceramic bunny back where it belonged. “We aren’t talking about me.”

“Maybe we should. Maybe you need help. Here’s an idea—you go to therapy for your issues, and I’ll go for mine. We can go together. It’ll be great fun.”

“My issues are a bit more complicated than yours,” you said, cutting your eyes at me.

“Are they? Or are you just afraid to talk to someone? Afraid to sit in a room with a stranger and cry?”

“You know what?” you said, jaw working as you strode toward the door. “I can see you’re not in a place to be reasoned with right now, so I’ll leave you to it. Alright?”