Page 139 of Mad Girl

“I like books and scarves.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But you have, like, fifty of each already.”

Your brows lifted. “So you’ve been in my bedroom counting them, have you?”

“I told you—I don’t do that anymore.”

“Right,” you said, drawing out the word. “How strange it is that things keep moving about, then.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I said, fighting back a smile.

You smiled really big, which prompted me to go ahead and smile, too.

“Go on,” I urged. “Open it.”

You pulled the ribbon loose, then pried open the box. Inside, nestled on top of white tissue paper, lay a leather bracelet. Dark brown and braided, just like my hair. You smoothed your thumb over the braid, throat bobbing as you stared down at it.

“I didn’t want to give it to you earlier—in front of my dad.”

“Why not?” you asked quietly, still staring at the bracelet.

“It just…felt like a moment that should only be shared between you and me.”

You glanced up, eyes sparkling as bright as the lights on the tree. “I love it. It’s the perfect gift. Thank you.” You leaned forward, clasped the back of my neck, and placed your lips to my forehead, lingering a bit longer than necessary. A real kiss. One that zipped underneath my skin like burning wire and lit me up everywhere.

Frank Sinatra crooned in the background, the song velvety and familiar and bittersweet: “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Judy Garland’s version, you couldn’t bear. But Sinatra’s, you tolerated. You fastened the braided leather to your wrist, placing it above the black-and-white beaded one from Claire. “For the record,” you said, clicking its brass magnetic clip into place, “no one has ever touched me quite like you have.” Your eyes flicked up to meet mine again. “Especially this Christmas.”

Through the sudden tightness in my throat, I said, “The scarf was that nice, huh?”

“I’m serious.” You said it almost pleadingly—as if you wanted me to be serious. “Our holiday tours on the way home from school, seeing The Nutcracker last week, having Christmas dinner with the Harrises for the first time, tonight, the tea, this gift…” You paused to glance around the room before brushing your gaze over my face. “I haven’t been quite this happy in ages. Not that long ago, I didn’t think it was possible to be.”

I thought of Christmases past and how I’d normally spend the evening, as the final hour—and with it, all the magic—slipped away.

I’d sit by the fire with my dad and Garland, reading. Move up to my room, read some more. Bemoan my lack of a dog. Lack of a mom. Lack of freedom.

My dad was right: you made our house a home. It had always looked like a home, but you filled it with the kind of cozy charm it often lacked unless the Harrises were visiting. You filled all the hollow spaces. You made it more.

You made us whole.

Which isn’t to say the house had never been enough prior to your arrival—when it was just me and Nic. Because it had. He’d made the Christmases of my childhood magical. It’s just that, with you there, it felt like some of the magic had been reclaimed.

I reached for the braided bracelet. “Me, too,” I whispered, twisting it once around your wrist. “I’m glad you’re here.”

And that’s when I knew: I couldn’t let Sienna take away a single ounce of your happiness. Not when you’d only added to mine, making me happier that Christmas—that whole year—than I’d been, to use your words, in ages.

When you returned from England, I’d teach Sienna a lesson. She needed to know: if she wanted to mess with you, she’d have to deal with me first.

LETTER SEVENTEEN

55 WEEKS LEFT

The day we returned to school after winter break, I told you I had plans with Tinsley.

I told Hal you’d offered to pick me up.

But I actually walked to Michael’s.

Inside his apartment, I paused, heart pounding, grateful to be met with silence. Michael had probably decided to drop by my house, having missed hanging out while you were in England, which worked in my favor. I went straight back to his bedroom and scanned the area, instantly spotting a pair of Sienna’s underwear on the floor.