Page 183 of Mad Girl

At dinner one night, a spectacular sunset painted the ocean a bright orange. Waves, like flames in a fire, licked at a peachy horizon, only slightly loosening the ever-present knot of resentment in my chest.

Libby sat a big bowl of salad on the back patio table and put her hand to my forehead. “Are you feeling okay, sweetie? You’ve been extra quiet lately.”

I responded with a shrug.

“She’s fine, Lib,” Nic said, palming a tumbler of scotch. “She just misses the boys.”

Nic kept his eyes on the water, the glass resting loosely in his hand. A wistful expression settled over his face, as if the horizon had pulled him somewhere far away. Since I’d skipped graduation, he’d barely spoken to me, even on the rare occasions I chose to sit with him.

Libby tugged on my braid. “I miss the boys, too. It isn’t the same without them here, is it?”

I thought it interesting that she’d lump you in with her own son, even though Libby definitely seemed fond of you. On more than one occasion, I’d caught you two having tea together, swapping recipe tips, or discussing her wardrobe before public appearances. Still, I sometimes wondered if her fondness would stand once she found out you were the result of her husband getting a second girl pregnant in college.

Speaking of John, I’ll admit the ways I messed with him that summer were a little—okay, fine, very—childish.

Bored one day, I spotted a biography on Ulysses S. Grant lying on the coffee table, so I swiped it for safekeeping in my room. John spent two full days searching for the missing book, totally baffled by its disappearance. A frustrating event for him, to be sure, but for me? Pure entertainment.

Like you, John also wears reading glasses. When no one was paying attention, I moved his glasses to different spots of the house, which caused him to spend a decent portion of each day searching for them.

A few times, I hid his earbuds, and he missed his daily run, so unwilling was he to run without music. And when he ordered a new copy of the Ulysses S. Grant book to replace the missing one, I used a box cutter to slice random pages out of it. I caught him flipping back and forth a few times, frustrated and confused. I hid behind the cover of my own book so he wouldn’t catch me smirking.

Then, one day, I came down early for breakfast, and I looked your dad in the eye, and I said, “Hey, John. Is Libby the only serious girlfriend you’ve ever had?”

John lowered his fork. “I guess so. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” I speared a piece of pancake. “So there was never anyone else special? The one who got away, maybe?”

Coffee mug now lowered, Nic narrowed his gaze at me.

“The one who got away?” Libby laughed as she leaned over to clutch John’s bicep. “If anything, it was the reverse, sweetie. John was the one who got away for at least a couple of girls.”

“What about that girl who looked like my mom?” I asked. “The one Libby said you used to flirt with at the bar? Did you ever hook up with her?”

“Elliot,” Nic said sternly. “These questions are extremely invasive—not to mention none of your business.”

“Actually, Nic,” Libby said, gripping my dad on the shoulder so he’d stop talking, “I’d also like to know the answer to this question. That girl was absolutely gorgeous. Did you ever do more than flirt with her, John?”

John folded his arms over a navy robe and heather blue t-shirt. “She and I might’ve hung out some that summer before sophomore year of college.”

“Oh, really?” Libby said. “And by hanging out, you mean…”

John smiled. “Libby, you’d just broken up with me, and Nic had run off to Europe with Victoria for the summer. I was all alone. I got bored.”

“I bet you did,” Libby said, narrowing her gaze at him. Then she leaned back, eyes big. “Wait a minute. So you hung out with this girl—for an entire summer—and you don’t remember her name?”

“I never said that,” John said.

“You did, actually,” I said, more than happy to remind him. “Last summer, you said you didn’t remember her name.”

John smiled tightly, rubbing at his jaw. “Look, I don’t see why it matters now, but her name was Cassandra, okay? Sweet girl. Easy to talk to. We had a good time, but it wasn’t”—he paused, rubbed his face again, cleared his throat—“it wasn’t all that serious.” Or so he claimed, but I definitely caught a wistful expression flash across his face as he lifted his coffee cup. “Can we drop this, please?”

But I couldn’t. Something about that conversation niggled at me, long after my dad had changed the subject. And, anyway, it did matter. Because you mattered. You were the six-foot-two consequence who sat near him at brunch on Sundays and longed to be recognized as his son.

After breakfast, I texted you: Wish you were here.

You responded quickly. So do I.

Heart pounding, I typed: Do you have any idea how much you matter to me?