Page 165 of Mad Girl

“It isn’t because you’re trying to keep me away from Michael? Or Sienna?”

“It has nothing to do with them. You’ve had a rough year. You need a break.”

“But I’m fine,” I said.

“What happened to your finger?” he asked, glancing down at the dark red line that marred my skin.

“It’s just a paper cut from a few days ago,” I said, tucking that hand into my lap.

“A few days ago,” he repeated, because we both knew what had happened a few days ago. The punching. The spitting. The crying. “I think you gave yourself a paper cut because you’re having a hard time coping. So it would be wise if you took this time—if we both did—to slow down and work on a few things.”

Fighting back tears, I turned my face back to the screen, selected the checkbox, and quickly submitted the form before I could change my mind. I slammed the laptop shut and wrapped both hands around my latte.

That settled it. I’d defer a year like he wanted. Because I wasn’t fine. Clearly.

He clasped my wrist. “I’m so proud of you.”

Through the window, I watched a couple laugh as they rushed through the rain to the door, the guy holding his jacket over the girl’s head, and wondered if he was just saying that to make me feel better.

The following weekend, Nic took the three of us on a trip to New York. We stayed at The Plaza, saw a show on Broadway, ate at the fanciest restaurants, and drank some of the best coffee the city had to offer. We did lots of sightseeing—for your sake, mainly, since you’d never been to The Big Apple—and shopped at my favorite stores, where Nic bought me all those dresses that were lower cut than the ones I normally wore. He wanted to buy you things, too, but you adamantly refused, saying you’d taken advantage of his generosity enough as it was.

On the first day of our trip, the weather was phenomenal: high fifties, blue skies, the cherry blossoms and magnolias in full bloom, clusters of pink and white draping over the sidewalk. Signs of spring were everywhere. Yellow tulips and daffodils. The sweet scent of honeysuckle catching on the breeze in Central Park. The sun beamed brightly overhead as we walked down East 79th Street with my dad, who suddenly stopped, turned on the sidewalk, and said, “Hey, there’s an art gallery up ahead. Want to check it out?”

Beside me, you smiled good-naturedly and said, “Sure.”

I, however, stopped on the sidewalk, eyeing my dad pretty hard. John’s birthday had recently passed, literally the only reason I could see for Nic—whose appreciation for art was limited to the finger-painting variety I’d done as a kid and that vintage portrait of Garland over our fireplace—being so eager to visit an art gallery. But he strode forward with purpose, face lit up as he held open the big ironclad door of a townhouse—French neoclassical, stucco—with columns and arched windows. You took the door from him, allowing me to enter first, your fingers grazing the small of my back.

My pulse quickened at the unexpected contact.

Inside, the gallery looked exactly like one would expect: brightly lit, light herringbone floors with stark white walls, the featured artists separated by rooms. My dad hung back, letting us walk ahead of him. You passed the first couple of rooms, then came to an abrupt halt at the third one. Together, we wandered into a wide-open space full of large oil paintings. Portraits of women, mainly. But a few men, too.

Just faces. Their eyes closed. Their heads tossed back. All of them suspended in chaos. Each one floating in a sea of heavy brushstrokes. The paintings looked remarkably similar to the giant one of that woman in John’s study. But a quick glance at the artist’s nameplate revealed the artist to be a person named Annette Sterling, while the one in John’s study was signed only SS—a detail I only remembered because I’d studied the painting my whole life, often wondering if the subject was real or a figment of the artist’s imagination.

I cocked my head at one of a dark-haired woman, elegant neck splayed for the observer, her eyes closed, random brushstrokes the color of midnight surrounding her, some dripping down the canvas. “They look like they’re pleasuring themselves,” I observed, cocking my head to the opposite side. “Or maybe…being pleasured.”

My dad leaned past you to cast me a stern look. “Elliot,” he said. “Come on.”

“Interesting choice of words,” I said dryly.

Nic, heaving a heavy sigh, wandered a few feet away into the next room.

You leaned over and said, “I agree.”

“That they’re pleasuring themselves?”

“Maybe,” you said. “Or maybe they’re just letting go. Which is the same thing, isn’t it?” You cast me a sideways glance.

“I…guess so,” I croaked, a sharp thrill zipping through me at the thought of you, all alone in your bedroom—Nope, I told myself. Not going there.

“Either way,” you said, “they’re beautiful.” You walked over to another one and stopped, hands tucked inside your pockets. I followed.

You were unbearably handsome that day, wearing ecru pants with a chambray shirt, tucked in, the top few buttons of which you’d left undone. The brown tweed blazer you wore fit a little snug, of course, and your dark hair, thanks to the breeze between skyscrapers that day, happened to be deliciously windswept. Like you’d just crawled out of bed or—nope, not going there, either.

“Are you okay?” you asked, breaking me out of my reverie. “You seem…out of sorts lately.”

“I’m fine.”

You sighed. “No, you’re not. And you know what? I’m not fine, either.”