Page 133 of Mad Girl

“It isn’t like that with us.”

“Yeah, right,” he said, gaze drilling into mine.

“It isn’t,” I claimed. “And even if it were, I wouldn’t be good for him, either.”

“Except with him, I doubt that would be enough to stop you. He’s irresistible like that.”

Like the year before, we regularly cozied up on one of the sofas to watch Christmas movies while we studied or slogged through reading for school. One day, we were doing just that—you in your black glasses, reading Jane Eyre for a literature course, fingers brushing over your lips—when you finally glanced over and caught me watching you.

“What is it?” you asked, hand dropping from your face.

“Can I have it back? Please?”

You narrowed your eyes, confused.

“The cardigan, Casey.” I reached over the empty space between us to sweep my fingertips over the soft brown sweater that I loved and missed.

You smiled, already slipping your arms from the sleeves. “It’s all yours.”

I pulled my mom’s Harvard sweatshirt over my head, but in doing so, caused my camisole to ride up. You went very still, the cardigan only halfway removed, your gaze riveted to the creamy white lace of my bra. I shoved the camisole down while you finished removing your sweater and cleared your throat. You handed it over, never taking your eyes off me, watching as I took the cowl neck, pressed it to my face, and breathed in your scent. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you said huskily, grabbing the pink origami heart that had fallen out of your book, then putting it back.

Out of all the bookmarks I’d slipped into your books over the last year, you used the pink origami hearts the most.

“Do you plan to spend the holidays in England again?” I asked, already sad about you leaving. When you were gone, the house felt darker. Colder. Lifeless. It wasn’t just our daily tea routine, or you greeting me in the kitchen every morning. It was the gentle melody of the classical music you sometimes played over the speaker system downstairs. The easy banter between us as we moved throughout our day. You, entering a room and suffusing it with light.

But more than any of that, when you were missing, it felt like part of me was missing, too.

“Your dad asked me to stay for Christmas this year,” you said. “So I’ll leave two days after and return just before my classes resume.”

I smiled really big.

“What’s that smile for?” you asked, smiling back.

“I’m just glad we get to spend Christmas together.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Me, too,” you said.

“Is Claire okay with it, though?”

You nodded. “She wants me to spend Christmas with my real dad—my real family—now that I know who they are. She’s quite happy for me.”

“But they still don’t know,” I said carefully. “Why won’t you tell them?”

You turned to stare at the TV. “I’m afraid they’ll be angry when they find out how far I’ve gone to deceive them. And Michael—I don’t think he’ll take it too well.”

“Michael might be mad at first, but he’d get over it,” I said. “He really cares about you, Casey. You’re one of his best friends.”

“But that’s just it,” you said. “He thinks I’m his friend. He thinks I’m trustworthy and reliable. What happens when he finds out that isn’t actually the case, because I’ve been lying to him—all along—about who I am? How do I even say it? Oh, by the way, Nic moved me in because he thought I was his son. Turns out your father is mine, too, and I’ve known for months now, but I’ve been too chicken to tell you.” You cast me a serious look. “How would Michael feel to know you’ve been keeping something this huge from him?”

“He’d be upset,” I admitted. “But, Casey, John would be happy to know you’re his son. He’d talk to Michael and get him to come around.”

“Would he? Or would John side with the son he’s always known and turn his back on the one who lied?”