Page 128 of Mad Girl

I reached across the countertop to twist your bracelet. “So I haunt your dreams, huh?”

Your expression turned serious. “Every single one.”

When I climbed into bed a little while later, still warm from the tea and the unexpected comfort of your voice, it took me no time at all to fall asleep.

Late the following morning, we were back to our normal routine: your copper kettle coming to a boil while you scrambled my eggs, me fussing that I only needed the yogurt I was already eating while you insisted yogurt wasn’t an acceptable breakfast. I’d just finished rolling my eyes when we heard the front door slam, and Nic called out my name.

“We’re in the kitchen!” I called back.

My dad rushed in and stopped, a crazed look on his face, shoulders sagging with relief. He strode over to the kitchen island, jerked me out of my stool, and crushed my body to his. Then he pushed me back, grasping me by the shoulders.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” he said, voice shaking with emotion. “Don’t you ever disappear and turn off your phone, do you hear me? Do you have any idea how scared I was? I thought I’d lost you. I thought you were gone.”

He didn’t give me time to answer.

“My entire life revolves around you. What happens to me if something happens to you? Have you ever stopped to consider that?”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said quietly.

He picked up my bandaged hand. “Do you know how it makes me feel when you do this to yourself? It hurts me, too, Elliot. It breaks my heart. Do you care? Do my feelings not matter to you at all?”

My dad, who rarely cried, was on the verge of tears, and I had caused that. I’d made him think I didn’t care about him at all.

“How can you ask that? Of course I care. I love you, Dad. I’m sorry. It’s just⁠—”

You won’t let me be free.

That’s what I wanted to say. What I always wanted to say, but I couldn’t, too scared he’d tell me why and it would confirm my worst fears about myself.

So I hugged him instead. Until your kettle whistled behind us, and we drew apart.

“Tell him about our deal,” you said, leaning back against the counter with your arms crossed.

“I promised Casey I would talk to someone if he does, too—if he promises to talk about his issues.”

Nic stepped back, impressed. “That’s great, Casey. I’m relieved you’re finally agreeing to this. Therapy will be great for you.”

“I don’t know about that,” you said. “I’m only doing it for Elliot’s sake.”

It sounded as if you and my dad had discussed therapy before—and apparently you hadn’t been on board with the idea. That you were willing to put yourself through something so invasive and uncomfortable for my sake really touched me.

“Regardless,” Nic said, walking over to grip your shoulder. “I’ll arrange everything.”

Over Thanksgiving break the following week, we went to our first sessions. I spoke with a lady therapist while you spoke to a man. Their offices were right across the hall from each other.

Afterward, we huddled close on the bridge overlooking the sparkling Lagoon in the Garden, sipping on honey cinnamon lattes while fallen leaves floated through the air, caught by a sudden breeze. Brilliant fall foliage surrounded us, reflecting off the surface of the pond. As we watched a few kids playing underneath one of the giant weeping willows nearby, I felt a pang of nostalgia. I used to play hide-and-seek under those trees—with Michael and Bree—while our parents sat on a bench, watching us.

“So how was it?” I asked you.

You turned your head and squinted off into the distance. “It was okay,” you said, gripping your latte.

I nudged your arm with mine. “I can tell you’ve been crying.”

You snorted. “I have not.”

“Have, too. Your eyes are especially blue, and your eyelids are puffy. It’s okay. You can admit it, Casey.”

You turned to the side, leaned against the railing, and studied my face. “What about you? How’d yours go?”