Page 161 of Mad Girl

“And I guess my dad agrees,” I said, voice catching on the words. “I’ll never be good enough for him.”

You leaned forward, trying to meet my gaze. “Elliot⁠—”

“What happens when he decides to take the firm from me, too? What then? What will I have left? What will I do with my life?”

I tried to imagine it: a future without the firm. A future where the first girl born to a Bancroft was also the first Bancroft to screw the line of succession. Where my dad chose a successor who wasn’t a Bancroft at all.

Little did I know, that future would become my reality.

You. On Tuesdays.

All those perfectly tailored suits.

“Elliot,” you said softly, squeezing my forearm. “This’ll be a great year, no matter what you’re doing, okay? Your dad’s not taking anything. Everything will work out.”

“Easy for you to say,” I said, ripping my arm from your grasp. “You’re free to have whatever you want, and no one will ever try to take it from you.”

“No,” you said, expression hardening. “I can’t have whatever I want. That’s absolute shit. That’s not at all true.”

“Name one thing you can’t have, Casey.”

You stared at me. “I can’t have the relationship I want with my biological family.”

“Wrong. It’s there, waiting on you, whenever you’re ready. You’re choosing not to let yourself have it. They’re your blood and no one can ever take that away from you.”

You shook your head. “It’s not that simple. I’ve already screwed it up.”

“At some point, Casey, you have to let them decide that.”

“Okay,” you said, voice hushed. “Well, what about this? All those years—just lost, gone forever, time I can never get back, precious time that was stolen from me by the person who gave me up. I was never given a chance to grow up with a father who clearly would’ve loved and accepted me from the start, if what I’ve seen of him so far is any indication. If you could only see the way my adoptive father looks at me, you would understand why it’s so bloody difficult for me to introduce myself to the real one. Another thing I want that I can’t have? Everything my adoptive dad stole from me—things that are absolutely vital to a person’s self-worth and well-being, just ripped away—including himself. You want to talk about daddy issues? I have them in spades.”

“Casey—”

“And there’s this other thing I want—which I’d very much love to have. But I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to close my fingers around it. How can I? When I’ll never measure up, and I don’t deserve it, and even if I could—someday, finally—clutch it in my hand, there’s always the very real and terrifying possibility that it’ll slip away?” By then, your eyes had misted over with tears. “Because that happens sometimes, you know? You have something special, and it lights up your whole life, and you think you’ll have it forever. Then suddenly it’s just…gone. And it’s all your fault.”

It sounded like you were talking about your mom. I opened my mouth to respond, but Bree strolled up, grabbed her forgotten phone off the table, and the moment vanished. You shoved your chair back and walked off.

Bree stared after you. “What’s with him?”

I shrugged. This had been the longest conversation we’d had in weeks, and there I was, blinking back tears. “Beats me.”

“Must be cabin fever,” she mused. “Everyone’s so moody.”

That whole day, Michael’s gaze never strayed in my direction. Until the moment we all sat down to dinner, that is, and Nic said, “Elliot, you heard from Harvard today, didn’t you?”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“I have a friend on the admissions committee.”

“Of course you do,” I grumbled.

“Well, go on,” Nic said. “Tell everyone the news.”

In a voice so monotone I sounded bored, I said, “I got in.”

Everyone around the table—except you, watching me, brows pinched together with concern—beamed at my news, especially Nic and John, who gripped each other by the forearms and laughed, like they were so damn happy. Like they were so fucking proud.

“Congratulations, sweetie,” Libby said, leaning past Bree to clasp my hand. “Well done.”