Page 187 of Mad Girl

“I found this book about birds in my dad’s library when I was a kid one summer,” John said, “and it had all these fascinating facts about hummingbirds. So I set up a bunch of feeders around our house and studied them—for months. They’re bold and aggressive. They’re pretty damn feisty, but those very characteristics are what make them so resilient and special.” He paused, blue eyes sparkling bright next to the ocean. “Sound familiar?”

“Are you about to compare my personality to that of a feisty bird?” I asked.

“I am, actually,” he said with a chuckle. “Hummingbirds are known to be resilient because, even in the harshest conditions, they fly their little hearts out. They persevere. They have this amazing ability to overcome the greatest obstacles in their path. That’s why, throughout your entire life, whenever I see one”—he paused here, nodding his head lightly, choking up, eyes filled with tears—“I think of you.”

I quickly dropped my gaze, trying not to cry, too. I stroked a tiny hummingbird wing with my thumb.

“I’ve been saving these earrings for a couple years now,” he said. “I planned to pull you aside and give them to you before we left for your graduation, because I wanted to tell you”—he paused again, unable to speak for a few seconds, and reached for my braid—“that you’re the strongest person I know. You might not be my daughter by blood, but I love you like you’re mine. I always have, since the very first time I held you. I want to see you happy more than anything, and I don’t think the answer to that will ever be Michael. I’d hate to see you get mixed up with him just because he’s safe and familiar, and miss out on something so much greater. But the hard no comment was out of line, and I deeply regret leaving you to feel hurt by that. I’m very sorry.”

“I forgive you,” I whispered.

“Hey,” he said, ducking to meet my gaze. “I plan to do better from now on, okay?”

I nodded. “Okay.”

We chatted some more, mostly about the upcoming year. He asked about you, curious to know how often we chatted when you were gone, then I ran inside to grab his Ulysses S. Grant book from my nightstand drawer. Back downstairs, I slid it across the kitchen counter. “This is the original. None of the pages are missing.”

John set aside his coffee mug to pull me into a hug. “Thank you.”

As we drifted apart, a disheveled Bree walked in, still wearing her pajamas, but she’d come from the opposite wing of the house—the wing where the parents slept. She cast me a hard glare as she stumbled through the kitchen on her way back to the kids’ wing. I drifted upstairs to ask her why.

“Like you don’t know.” She glanced over her shoulder at Amber, who sat cross-legged on Bree’s bed and didn’t look so happy herself.

“I really don’t,” I said.

“So you didn’t tell my dad we’ve been fooling around at night?” Bree asked. “That we’re so loud you can’t sleep?”

“That’s not…exactly how I put it.”

“Well, whatever you said upset him enough that he’s making me sleep in the spare bedroom from now on. He says it isn’t fair to you.”

“Why would you tell on us?” Amber asked.

“Because,” Bree said, arms crossed over her fuzzy lavender robe. “Her dad doesn’t let her have anything, so she has to take stuff from other people, too.”

Over the next couple of weeks, things stayed pretty quiet. Bree stopped talking to me. My dad let me drive us to town in his Roadster a few times, but I remained distant—despite how hard he tried to draw me out of my dreary mood by taking me whale watching, hiking on our favorite trails, or for ice cream. He didn’t seem to understand that what had worked on me at ten no longer cut it at eighteen. I needed him to be honest, not distract me with sweets and wildlife observation. I only agreed to go into town with him for the driving experience—and maybe for the ice cream, too.

When Nic wasn’t dragging me around the Cape, I lounged by the pool with a book, watched the tide roll in at dusk, streamed shows on my laptop, or texted with you. Occasionally, you and Michael FaceTimed me together from your sister’s couch, sitting shoulder to shoulder, arms pressed close.

One day, Michael—in a white t-shirt and Celtics ball cap, pulled down low—said, “I’m learning all these fascinating things about Casey while I’m here.”

You—also clad in a white t-shirt, dark stubble covering your face—closed your eyes.

The stubble, Casey. I wanted to rake my fingers through it. Feel the rough scrape of your jaw against my palm. I smiled, hoping to hide the blush creeping across my cheeks at the mere thought. “Oh, really? Do tell.”

“Half the time, he showed up to class completely shit-faced, so it shocked everyone when he aced his A-levels.”

You tossed one hand out. “I mean, it shouldn’t have come as a shock to anyone. Sober or not, I’m really quite smart.”

“Get this, Elliot. Casey went streaking at a big soccer game once.”

“No. No. No,” you groaned. “She doesn’t need to know about that.”

I laughed. “Oh my God. No way. Streaking? Casey?”

Michael lifted his brows. “It was televised and everything.”

“Holy shit,” I said. “Is there a video of this somewhere?”