Page 126 of Mad Girl

I pushed my chair back and headed for the guest room upstairs, where I locked myself away and wouldn’t answer for anyone. Not Michael when he knocked, or Bree when she told me goodnight.

For hours, I lay awake, too many dark thoughts swirling through my head. My mom. The similarities I shared with her. Greer. His pale blue eyes, dead and vacant, hovering above mine.

Craving the comfort of my own bed, I packed my bags and snuck out of the Harrises’ at midnight. I knew the code to their security system, so it was easy.

When I pushed open the back door, I found you in the kitchen, standing barefoot at the stove, stirring cream into a cup of tea. You wore those blue-striped pajama pants with a white t-shirt, the sleeves of which stretched taut across your biceps. You stopped stirring and searched my face.

With a sigh, I dropped my bags by the kitchen island and pulled out a stool, too tired to run and hide. A minute later, you set a cup of tea on the counter in front of me. The gesture brought fresh tears to my eyes.

“Do the Harrises know you’ve left?” you asked.

I pulled the tea close. Wrapped my hands around the mug. Let the warmth seep into my fingers. “No.”

“Libby was over here earlier—in a full-on panic, Elliot, crying—wondering what the hell had happened to you after school.”

“Sounds like she overreacted.”

“Are you joking?” If I’d looked, I probably would’ve seen thinly veiled anger in your eyes. “She became so hysterical on the phone with your dad that he nearly called the police. I barely recognized Nic’s voice. He sounded desperate. Frantic. Almost…grief-stricken.”

I drew back, startled to hear this.

You went on. “Meanwhile, John and Michael searched the parks, hoping to find you hiding out in one of those places. Then John questioned some woman across the road who must live in one of the townhouses nearby, and he looked quite grief-stricken himself when he came back. It was only after Hal gained access to the video footage from your school and saw you leaving out back with Willoughby that they all started to calm down.”

None of this made sense. At worst, my sudden disappearance might’ve been an attempt to leave the city, but without money or connections, how far could I have gotten before my dad tracked me down?

“Sounds like everyone overreacted,” I muttered.

“For two whole hours, no one could reach you. I personally tried ringing you fifty times, for Christ’s sake. So, no, none of us were overreacting. Given your behavior lately, we were deeply concerned.”

With hot tears stinging my eyes, I studied the bowl of fruit sitting on the counter in front of me, partially illuminated by the warm glow of the light you’d left on over the stove.

“You didn’t have to disappear today,” you added, much softer. “If you’re not okay—if this is too heavy to carry on your own—I’m here.”

You weren’t accusing me of anything. Just doing that thing you sometimes did: opening a door and asking me to walk through it.

While I fought back the lump rising in my throat, your fingers brushed against my forearm, trailing downward. Slow. Gentle. Cautious.

You reached my hand, waiting a moment before carefully sliding it across the counter. And even though I kind of wanted to, I didn’t have the strength to pull away.

My heart sped up as you turned my palm over in yours, thumb grazing the edge of my bandage. But you didn’t ask what had happened, which meant you already knew.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Michael told you what I did at dinner.”

You nodded, staring down at my palm.

“I’m glad he’s talking to you again,” I said, “but I don’t appreciate you two talking about me behind my back.”

“He’s worried about you. I am, too.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. And I don’t want you hurting yourself like this, so I want to make a deal with you.”

“What deal?”

“If you agree to talk to someone, I will, too. I’ll see someone for my issues, and you’ll see someone about what you experienced at that party.”

I lifted my chin, skeptical. “You’d really do that?”