Page 186 of Mad Girl

“I’ve been messing with you since we got here.”

“I know you have, Elliot.”

“And you don’t think that’s crazy?”

“You’re angry. I get it. I can see how the words I chose that night were hurtful to you, and I definitely could’ve chosen a better way to get my point across.”

“But you didn’t,” I said. “You chose the harshest words possible, and the worst part is, you didn’t bother to check on me afterward to see if I was okay. Typically, you’re one of the few people I can count on to take my feelings into consideration, but this time, it seemed like you didn’t care how I felt at all.”

“You’re right,” John said. “I never apologized for hurting your feelings, and there’s no excuse for that. I never meant to imply you’re unworthy of Michael. What I meant was: there are better people out there for both of you, and you’re better off as friends.”

John’s attempt to smooth things over had come too late. I was far too angry. I’d grown used to my dad making me feel bad about myself, but not John. It had hurt more coming from him, and I couldn’t let it go.

“We were snowed in for days,” I reminded him. “You had plenty of opportunities to take me aside and say this stuff then, and you chose not to. It feels like you’re only saying it now to keep me from losing it.”

I tossed the bag of chips on the table, not hungry anymore, already walking away.

“Where are you going?” Nic asked.

“To my room.”

Nic stood, hands propped on his hips. “Or maybe you could stay—so we can finish this conversation.”

“I’m done with this conversation,” I said, backing up. “The more I talk to you two, the angrier I get. My new therapist? She says I should walk away before I reach a point where I want to hurt myself, and I’m already there. I’ve been there. I want to take something sharp and drive it through my hand right now. So I have to go.”

I stayed in my room for the rest of the day, refusing to open up when Nic knocked on my door later that night with dinner.

But hunger prohibited me from falling asleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about that conversation with our dads, so I yanked my phone off its charger and texted you. Do you think I’m crazy?

Less than a minute later, you responded: Crazy competitive? Crazy stubborn? Crazy beautiful? Yes, yes, absolutely yes.

My heart skipped a beat. Beautiful? Did you go out last night? Are you still drunk?

You quickly replied: Can a guy not tell a girl she’s beautiful without her thinking he’s intoxicated?

I smiled. Not this guy. This guy rarely tells the girl what he REALLY thinks of her. He keeps a lid on his feelings, screwed on tight.

It took a few minutes for you to respond: I think you’re beautiful. I miss the freckles that dot your face after you’ve been out in the sun, the adorable way your nose crinkles (sort of like a bunny’s) when you smile, the way your voice changes—becomes softer—when it’s just you and me. I miss you so much I can hardly bear it.

My throat squeezed as I typed my reply: You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known—both inside and out. I miss you so much it hurts.

Then you put a swift end to those sappy, line-blurring text messages by telling me to sleep. You literally said, I’ve just realized how late it is there. Go to sleep.

The following morning, I sat on the red stairs leading down the stone embankment to the beach, watching the sun rise over the ocean, a cup of hot tea cradled between my hands. You’d gotten me an electric teakettle to use over the summer and stocked me up with plenty of tea bags, making it much easier for me to make my own tea. That morning, I’d made myself a cup of Earl Grey.

The stairs creaked behind me. I briefly peeled my gaze away from the sunrise, glancing over my shoulder.

“Good morning,” John said, slipping past. He lowered himself to the stair two steps below mine and sat a small brown gift box, tied with dark brown ribbon, beside me.

“What’s this?” I asked, hesitating to reach for it.

“Well, it was supposed to be your graduation present.”

Eyeing him, I lifted the box, untied the ribbon, and pried open the top.

Earrings, of course. Little gold hummingbirds with pavé diamond bodies, wings that shimmered in the sun, and tiny black stones for the eyes.

They were beautiful.