Page 127 of Mad Girl

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes to have the old Elliot back,” you said, gazing deep into my eyes. “I miss her smile and laugh. I miss her lying about sneaking into my room and teasing me loads and fussing about…literally everything. Even if she never forgives me for nearly screwing it all up, I need her. I wish she’d come back to me.”

My throat squeezed. “But it was all my fault,” I said, voice catching on the words. “All of it.”

“No.” You squeezed my fingers. “It wasn’t.”

“I ran my mouth. I said some really mean things to him.”

A couple of tears sprung loose and rolled down my cheek. You brushed one away with your thumb. “Nothing you said gave him the right to put his hands on you.”

“If I hadn’t threatened to go after him, you and Michael would never have done what you did.”

“That’s not true. I was going after them regardless. Besides, Michael and I are responsible for our own actions.” You leveled your gaze with mine. “You didn’t deserve what those boys did to you.”

“I’m not okay,” I whispered, the words breaking free before I could swallow them back.

“I know.” As my face collapsed, you jerked my stool closer to yours and pulled me against your chest, letting my tears soak through your shirt.

The steady beat of your heart lulled me into a state of calm. It was the calmest I’d felt in weeks.

“So will you go?” you asked eventually, chin resting against the crown of my head.

“If you go, I’ll go.”

You sighed with relief. “Then we have a deal.”

“At therapy, though? They dig—deep down inside—where it’s darkest and most painful, until they find the one thing you fear about yourself the most, and then they make you look at it under a microscope. They make you talk about it until you cry. You end up crying, like, a whole fucking lot.”

You stiffened. “Are you—you’re just trying to talk me out of it, right?”

I leaned back to look at you. “No, Casey. It’s really like that. Why do you think I don’t want to go?”

Eyes blown wide, you pulled me close again, holding me tighter, like suddenly you were the one who needed comfort. I chuckled under my breath.

Later, we sat in comfortable silence, sipping our tea.

“I’m still mad at you, though,” I said, still unable to let it go.

“I know.” You traced the side of your cup, then glanced over at me. I happened to be giving you a mini death glare. “Stop it. I hate when you give me that look.”

“That’s the whole point.”

“But you’ve been torturing me for weeks now—and it’s giving me nightmares.”

I arched a brow. “Nightmares?”

You nodded. “I keep dreaming someone’s painted a portrait of you with that chilling look on your face. The portrait’s hanging on a fireplace exactly like the one downstairs, where I’m sat, being flayed and tortured by it. Every single day. And I keep thinking how strange it is that something so beautiful can torment me so thoroughly, but I can’t seem to look anywhere else. Until the actual you walks in, and she smiles at me, and her nose kind of crinkles…right here”—you touched a fingertip to the side of my nose—“and the sight of that fills me with so much light and happiness and hope that I’m not scared anymore.”

My stomach fluttered. But you know me—rarely willing to show it. “This sounds made up.”

You sighed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Elliot. It’s not made up.”

“Well, it’s not a nightmare if it has a happy ending.”

You sounded thoroughly exasperated as you said, “It’s a nightmare because it’s recurring. And creepy. And it ends well, sure, but then I wake up, and you’re bloody giving me that look, first thing in the morning—” You stopped. “Why are you smiling?”

“You’re really cute when you get all flustered. Why do you think I mess with you so much?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Jesus.”