Page 138 of Mad Girl

“What’s that?”

“The little craft angel up top,” you said, gesturing toward the tree. “She’s my absolute favorite.”

I pulled a face. “Oh, God. She’s made out of a toilet paper roll. She’s awful.”

“She brings me great joy, actually,” you said with a smile. “Her little eyes are slanted so intensely that I half believe she might launch off the tree to attack me.”

“Stop it,” I said, laughing so hard I gripped my cup to keep hot tea from sloshing over the rim.

“You know what she looks like,” you said seriously, both eyebrows raised. “A bit like you did when I first moved in.”

“Shut up.” Still laughing, I nudged your arm, which rested atop the back of the sofa, agonizingly close to mine. Your knee, too. “I already told you: I wasn’t the happiest kid.”

You made a pouty face. “Poor thing. If I’d been here, I would’ve made it my personal mission to make you laugh every day.”

“I believe that.” My gaze held yours as I sipped my tea. “Did you have a good Christmas?”

“Yeah,” you said, glancing off a minute, the glimmer of a smile still on your face. Your C tattoo winked at me as you raked that hand through the dark waves of your hair. “I mean, almost nothing can top meeting my nephew for the first time last Christmas. But even that was…”

“Was what?”

“Nothing,” you said, lifting your cup for a sip. “Being here was great, yeah.”

“I’ve been wanting to ask,” I said carefully. “Did you handle the Sienna situation?”

Your face clouded over, almost making me regret the question. “Not exactly.”

Those two little words set my teeth on edge. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m still in the process of handling it,” you said tightly.

“Does it also mean you’re not going to sleep with her?”

“It means I’ve got this, and you can stop worrying about it. Do we really have to discuss this right now?”

I bristled at your tone—at the annoyance, clearly manifested on your face—not to mention the complete dismissal of my feelings. Before I could stop myself, I said, “Yes. I don’t want her touching you.”

My statement caused your head to lurch back, your teacup to lower.

I cleared my throat. “I mean—just—I know you don’t want that.”

“I don’t want it,” you said, leaning over to place your tea on the coffee table. “What I suddenly want very much”—you pushed up the sleeves of a navy cardigan, eyes narrowed—“is to know why you can’t let this go.”

I squirmed against the sofa, made nervous by the intensity of your gaze as it swept over me from head to toe. Were you monitoring my body language that night, Casey?

“Because it’s Sienna,” I said, “and I hate her.”

“Yes, but you seem quite upset, even though I keep telling you there’s no reason to be.” A little head tilt here. “What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything. I just…” Wanted to be sure you weren’t sleeping with her. To know she’d never touch her devious fingers to your bare skin again. To feel less ragey, just thinking about it: all the secret pieces of you—so deeply coveted by me—that had already been revealed to her, and how she might add a new piece. A dark piece. One you might carry forever. Because, no matter how hard you’d try, you’d never be able to carve that piece back out.

I knew all about dark pieces like that.

But to say any of this would be to admit I had feelings for you. So I set my tea aside and reached inside the pocket of my—your—cardigan for the little emerald green box with gold ribbon. Heart thumping especially hard, I handed it to you.

“What’s this?” you asked, eyebrows slanted in confusion. “Another gift?”

“You didn’t think I’d only give you a book and a scarf, did you?”