Page 131 of Mad Girl

“Well, I don’t hate it nearly as much right now,” you said. “But come January, I’m over it.”

We continued going to therapy, often rushing home to thaw by the fire and start on our homework. Garland watched over us while we huddled on the sofa with steaming cups of tea, the magnolia-and-pinecone garland giving him that cheery quality you preferred, rather than one so formal and stiff. You helped me study for the SAT, and I hated it, but not nearly as much as I hated coming home one bitterly cold day to find Sienna in my kitchen, sitting at the island with Michael, her legs draped over his lap as they scrolled through their phones.

I stopped mid-stride, blinking at them. “Wait a second. Did I travel back in time?”

What a weird and prophetic thing for me to say, considering what would happen the following Christmas—the one with all the oranges.

Michael rolled his eyes at me.

“You know there are other girls who would gladly go out with you,” I said to him. “And probably all of them are less of a bitch than this one.”

Sienna laughed dryly. “Nice to see you, too, Elliot.”

Nothing kickstarted my rage quite like the sight of that bitch, wearing her cropped red sweater and loose-fitting jeans, her taut midriff on display. I walked up to Michael and greeted him with a smile, then dragged my thumb down the scar on his top lip. He glared up at me—and so did she, which only encouraged me to do it again. If Sienna only knew the things he and I had done together over the summer, she’d turn as red as her sweater. I half-wished I could tell her.

Actually, what I really wanted was to call her out for the way she’d deceived Michael, but I couldn’t do that without spilling your secret. So I was forced to keep all that damning knowledge to myself.

As I pulled my thumb away from Michael’s face, you tossed me a look over the island that said, Cut it out.

“How was therapy today, guys?” Sienna smiled sweetly as she glanced between us. “It’s so cute that the two of you go together.”

I ignored her question and asked one of my own. “Have you ever been to therapy, Sienna?”

That bitch took a swig from one of the water bottles Michael had given her from my fridge. “Nope,” she said with a smug smile.

“Too bad,” I said. “You’re a therapist’s dream.”

She cut her eyes at me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean⁠—”

“Okay.” You tossed an arm over my shoulders and led me away. “Let’s get started on our homework, shall we?”

Later, I deliberately left one of my textbooks downstairs so I could text Michael and ask him to bring it up to me.

“Here.” He handed me the book. When I chucked it on the other side of my bed, he narrowed his gaze.

“What’s she doing here?” I demanded. “Are you back together with her?”

Michael stuffed both hands in his pockets. “We’re just hanging out.”

“Exclusively hanging out?”

He shrugged. “Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“What does it matter?”

“I don’t want you seeing her.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I hate her. I want her gone.”

Michael laughed. “So you don’t want to be with me, but you don’t want me with anyone else, either? Is that how it is?”

“I don’t want you with her—just her. She’s no good for you.”