Page 157 of Mad Girl

Satisfied, she curled closer, resting her head on my shoulder and her arm across my chest. While I lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, she swept her fingers through my hair.

We woke to more than eighteen inches of snow, the sky bulbous and gray, more snow predicted.

In the kitchen that morning, my dad and the Harrises lingered over their coffee, Eleanor worked on a crossword in the sitting room, and the rest of us sprawled in front of the fire, watching movies with Garland. Us girls crowded together on one sofa while you and Michael sat on the other one, your heads buried in schoolwork.

Michael worked through a giant stack of notes he’d taken for some philosophy class he deemed both torturous and bullshit, and—given the number of times he sighed and groaned and tossed the notes aside to take another break—it must’ve been torture, at least for him. You, on the other hand, remained calm, fingers brushing your lips like they did when you read for pleasure, gaze steady behind your black glasses.

I couldn’t help feeling this horrible stab of guilt at the thought of the night before: I’d been wearing your cardigan while I made out with your brother, and you were sitting on the very sofa where all the kissing (and biting) had taken place. Michael’s thoughts kept drifting there, too, because his scorching gaze kept catching mine over the coffee table.

At dinner later, while we helped ourselves to a hearty beef stew (made by you and Libby), you stopped me at the stove, put your hand to my chin, and tilted my face up to yours. “What’s happened to your lip?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said, pulling back. “Slipped on the stairs, coming down too fast.”

Nic walked over and did the same thing, narrowing his eyes on the cut, his thumb lingering on my chin. “You need to be more careful, Elliot.”

I swatted his hand away. “I’m fine.”

As we took our seats at the dining table, John caught my gaze. “Have you heard from Harvard yet?”

His question sent a jolt of anxiety through me. “Not yet.”

“Her interview went great,” Nic said with a confident nod. “She’ll get in.” A look passed between him and John—between him and Libby, too. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, turning his gaze back to me. “What if you take a gap year?”

I smiled, like he’d just told everyone a joke. “Why would I take a gap year?”

Nic—arms folded on top of the table, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up—gave a casual shrug. “Harvard will be pretty grueling, you know? Then there’s business school after that and work at the firm. You’ve worked really hard the last four years—it might be nice to take a break. Rest while you can. Travel a bit. We can go anywhere you want.”

“We,” I repeated with a small laugh. “As in, me and you?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Because most people don’t take a gap year to travel with their dad.”

Over the rim of her wineglass, Eleanor shot Nic a look that said, The girl’s got a point.

Nic smiled. “Oh, come on. With the right view, how bad could it be? A little more time with me—that’s not exactly suffering, is it?”

“So instead of being stuck with you here,” I said, “I’ll be stuck in Europe—or, like, on a yacht in the Mediterranean somewhere—while Tinsley and everyone else goes off to college?”

Nic grasped his heart, as if wounded. “Stuck with me?”

Libby reached over to squeeze his shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetie. My kids don’t like hanging out with me, either.”

“How come no one ever proposed this idea to Michael?” I asked.

“I did propose the idea to Michael,” John said. “I definitely gave him that option.”

“And I wanted to take him up on it,” Michael said, “before my mom shot him down.”

“But that doesn’t mean it isn’t still an option,” Libby said, raising her wineglass. “As a matter of fact, Harvard highly encourages students to take a gap year.”

Michael perked up. “Really? So I can take one?”

She sipped her cabernet, and John shot her a look from across the table. “Before law school, maybe,” she said. “We’ll see.”

John turned to me. “Hey,” he said softly, catching my gaze. “I took a gap year, and it was great.”

“Because you had a brand new baby to take care of,” I said. “That’s way different. You were busy doing something, not just…sitting around the house.” I glanced across the table, where you happened to be staring at me with a little groove of concern between your eyebrows. I looked at Nic. “When Casey’s at school, and you’re at work, what would I do?”