Page 134 of Mad Girl

“John’s not like that. Trust me, he forgives easier than most, and he would never turn his back on one of his kids. He didn’t even turn his back on me—after I attacked Michael at my birthday party. Plus, you’re forgetting my dad. He’ll make sure John understands your reasons for lying.”

“Or maybe John will be angry with Nic, too, for going behind his back and keeping me a secret.”

I thought of what Libby had said at dinner that night, just before I’d grabbed the dinner knife. The three of us don’t keep secrets from each other.

What secret was bigger than this one?

Clearly troubled, you returned your gaze to the TV. So I slid over on the sofa, rested my head on your shoulder, and threaded my fingers through yours.

“It’s all such a mess,” you said, laying your head on top of mine. “I’ve fucked up everything. Like I always do.”

I didn’t understand what you meant, but I didn’t think it was fair of you to say that about yourself.

“That’s not true,” I said, pulling back to meet your gaze again. “Look at what you’ve done for me. You’ve made my life, like, a gazillion times more bearable than it would be with some cat-embroidering nanny, which means I’m not picking fights with my dad as often as I used to. And you convinced me to go to therapy, so now I’m finally starting to feel better about what happened at Halloween. I hate to admit it, but Eleanor was right. Having you here…has actually been great for me, Casey.”

Your eyes sparkled extra blue. “You really mean that?”

“Of course I do. Also—my dad. He loves having you here. If he had it his way, you’d never go back to England again. He gets mopey when you leave.”

You smiled. “He does not.”

“He does, actually. Even if you never tell John he’s your dad—and you definitely should, I’m not saying that—my dad will always consider you family.” I playfully rolled my eyes. “I guess I will, too.”

You squeezed my hand, then separated our thumbs to twist the ring you’d given me for my birthday around my index finger. “So you admit it, then.”

“Admit what?”

“That you were wrong.”

I leaned back. “I’m sorry?”

“When I moved in, you said we’d never be friends, but we are friends. You’ve let me in. More than let me in, I’d say—you need me,” you said dramatically, pressing a hand to your heart. “Can’t stand the thought of losing me. Your life would be utterly unbearable without me⁠—”

“Okay, don’t push it, though,” I said, snatching my hand from yours to nudge you in the side. But a traitorous little smile tugged at my lips.

A couple of days later, we dawdled on the way home from school, bodies pressed close to ward off the cold, my arm looped through yours. Red noses. Chapped cheeks. Snowflakes caught in our hair. I looked forward to throwing on your cardigan at home and warming by the fire with a cup of tea, your classic Christmas playlist playing softly in the background while we did our homework, the tree twinkling in the corner.

But my mood instantly soured when we walked through the back door and found Sienna sitting at the kitchen island all by herself. When Michael came over, he fell naturally into our routine, but Sienna didn’t like tea. Sienna couldn’t concentrate on her homework with music playing. Sienna wasn’t fond of Christmas movies—“I’ve seen this one a hundred times” and “Who watches black-and-white movies anymore?” and “This one’s so lame.”

“Where’s Michael?” I asked her.

“He was just here,” she said, lazily scrolling on her phone, “but he had to run something over to Libby. He’ll be back soon.”

Annoyed, I rolled my eyes and stomped upstairs. Once I’d changed out of my school clothes and donned your cardigan with some leggings, I texted Michael: You leave your bitch unattended on my turf? Anything I say or do is fair game.

On my way back to the kitchen, my ears pricked at the sound of Sienna’s voice—low and throaty, flirtatious—filtering into the hallway.

Naturally, I stopped to listen, hackles already rising. Was she seriously flirting with you? On my fucking turf?

But nothing could’ve prepared me for the level of hostility I would feel when I peered around the corner.

You, leaning against the counter with one hand. While she—tits jutting out—pressed her body to the front of yours.

As she pushed her bright red claws through your hair, I caught the tail end of her saying, “…upstairs real quick. Before he gets back.”

“I don’t think so,” you said, plucking her hand from your hair.

“What if I stay at my dorm tonight? Tell my roommate to get lost for an hour?”