Page 137 of Mad Girl

That stupid, conniving bitch.

“There’s no need,” you told him. “Because I’m handling it.”

“You know what, Michael?” I asked, pulling a face. “I find this whole thing disgusting.”

“Find what disgusting?” he asked.

“That you’re willing to share your girlfriend with your”—I fumbled here—“him.”

“So? She hooked up with him first, anyway.”

“You know about that?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Jesus,” you muttered, leaning on the counter with your head dropped between your shoulders.

“Casey told me,” I said.

“Look,” Michael replied. “It’s not like I plan to marry Sienna. I’m not in love with her. We’re just fooling around. It’s college.”

“Wow,” I said, shocked at how blasé Michael—who’d had a different girlfriend every year since he was fourteen, sure, but had always remained firmly monogamous, once breaking up with a girl for blowing another guy in the restroom at a party—could suddenly be about carnal matters. “Your parents would be so proud.”

Michael rolled his eyes.

“Can we drop this now?” you asked, pushing off the counter. “Michael, grab three cups from the cupboard. Fuck’s sake.”

But I couldn’t drop it.

The drama with Sienna hovered in the back of my mind all through Christmas, even though the day itself had been merry and magical.

We woke to a white Christmas, then spent the morning with my dad, the three of us huddled close on one sofa while we opened presents, the fireplace lit, crackling beneath Garland and keeping us warm. We laughed while recounting Christmases past, my dad telling you stories about John, who strolled in a short while later with the rest of the family, wanting to know why Nic was making him out to be a troublemaker. To which Libby laughed and responded, “Well, honey, because you were.” Then she pinned my dad with a knowing look. “But what Nic’s conveniently leaving out is that he was right there with you, causing trouble, too.”

We lingered over a late breakfast: giant cinnamon rolls, bacon, Henriette’s famous Christmas quiche. The adults drained two entire bottles of champagne, followed by multiple shots of espresso to sober up.

Then, later, the magical part: when we sat down with the Harrises again, and you got to have your first Christmas dinner by candlelight with your dad. John, asking about your plans for the upcoming week in England and leaning close to hear your answer, quietly telling you he was glad to have you there, spending Christmas with us. My dad, watching you two together, sentimental and proud—maybe a touch regretful, too. Times like those, I wondered if Nic wished you belonged to him instead. Or maybe he simply wished for John to know who you really were. I couldn’t quite tell.

As I watched you with John myself, I wondered if John felt a connection there, similar to the prickling one you’d first felt with Michael. But stronger. More intense. A gut feeling, maybe. Some undeniable pull.

The way John gravitated toward you that night—the string of personal questions he asked, the gleam in his eyes when you answered—made me think he must’ve felt something. If I was right about your mother being that dark-haired girl in the picture, how could John look at you and not see her? Because you were beautiful like she was. By candlelight, Casey, you were breathtaking.

Our eyes kept meeting over a centerpiece made of fresh cedar, magnolia, and seeded eucalyptus. And when you smiled at me, a million butterfly wings fluttered inside my stomach.

After the Harrises left, I found you in the kitchen, prepping your kettle while Christmas music softly played in the background. Nat King Cole, if I remember correctly.

I’d come down bearing another gift, hidden inside the pocket of your cardigan. “You’re having tea this late?” I asked, clutching the little box to my thigh.

“It’s tradition,” you said, turning from the stove. “Claire and I always drink our final cup of the day just before midnight. My mum used to say we shouldn’t let a second of Christmas go to waste. Will you join me?”

“Do you have any bourbon creams left?” My mouth watered at the thought of dunking those crumbly chocolate cookies—sorry, biscuits—into my tea.

“Absolutely,” you said with a grin.

I smiled back. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

You prepared our tea in the little gold-rimmed, blue-and-white china teacups that were normally reserved for special occasions—it was Christmas, after all—and we moved to the Garland Room, where we sat facing each other on the cream sofa closest to the Christmas tree. The next day, you would help my dad take the Fraser fir down and carry her out to the road, so we quietly sipped our tea and took one last moment to fully appreciate her. The burgundy ribbons draped from her branches. The shiny glass ornaments that sparkled almost as brightly as the lights. The crafty reindeers and Santas and angels my dad still insisted on hanging every year, much to my embarrassment.

“You know what I’ll miss most about Christmas?” you asked.