Page 196 of Mad Girl

Nic peered straight ahead, something like hurt—or maybe resentment—on his face. “Yeah.”

“I bet Libby would be pissed about the painting if she knew.”

“Probably,” Nic said. “So don’t say anything, okay? This stays between us.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“Are we good?” he asked me.

I nodded, even though I wasn’t quite there yet. Good. But at least he’d opened up to me about your mom. For that brief flicker of honesty, I’d let myself forget about the things he wouldn’t tell me. Temporarily, anyway.

Nic pulled me into a sideways hug and kissed the top of my head. “Good.”

Back inside, we found John carrying Amber’s bags out to the car. Her summer romance with Bree had officially come to an end.

Amber hugged Libby goodbye while Bree stood off to the side, sulky and contrite, arms crossed over an old Boston College t-shirt of John’s.

When the door closed behind Amber, John ordered Bree to apologize to me, and she did, her voice quivering around the words.

I could’ve stalked upstairs, let her suffer in the uncertainty of my silence—and I definitely wanted that. I wanted her to feel my anger, to let her wonder how long it would last.

But John caught my eye from across the room, and that’s all it took.

Resilient girls didn’t hold grudges. They rose above them and moved on. They chose to do better.

“Fine,” I said with a sigh. “I forgive you.”

It wasn’t warm. Or kind. Or even all that convincing. But it felt like progress, and surely that counted for something.

John and Libby apologized for not believing me, and over the next week, my dad and I spent extra time together, going for ice cream and coffee and lunches out—back to the hiking trails we loved, too—just the two of us. But I didn’t sulk like I had before, because that speech he’d given about the last summer of my childhood made me realize how precious those last few weeks were, and how deeply I’d regret it if I were to take them away from us. So I put our differences aside and allowed us to have this: one final summer, unspoiled by past grievances, pettiness, or rage. Little moments of laughter, where I asked safe questions—about his childhood, about college, about his life outside of my mom. Little moments of honesty, where I confessed—over a pastry and coffee at our favorite French boulangerie on the Cape—that I couldn’t listen to certain music without reliving my assault.

The bass thumping through the floor. Greer’s pale eyes. The panic I’d felt with his hand around my throat. The humiliation.

Blinking back tears over an iced latte, I asked, “Whatever happened to him? Where is he?”

Because if anyone knew the whereabouts of Greer Johnson, it would be my dad.

“Right now?” he asked, lowering his latte—a hot one, despite the sun beating down on his back—to the white cafe table. “In Fiji with his family. Before that, he was at an all-boys boarding school in Switzerland. This fall, he’s headed to Boston University.”

“So he’s staying local,” I said.

Nic took my chin. “Hey. You don’t need to worry about him. I went into explicit detail with Greer and his parents about what will happen if he ever messes with you or our family again.”

I nodded, shoulders slumping with relief. Of the few things I’d never doubted in my life, my dad’s ability to protect me sat at the top of the list. He went back to sipping his latte, but I pushed mine away.

“I’m sorry I missed my graduation. I’m sorry I took that away from you.” Voice breaking, I added, “From us.”

Nic’s eyes glimmered in the daylight. But he didn’t say it was okay—because it wasn’t okay. What I’d done had cost us a special moment we could never get back.

He clasped my hand on top of the table. “Let’s keep trying to do better from now on—like John always says. Can we try that?”

“Yeah,” I said. “And what if we have a do-over? Next spring? Like a party or something? To celebrate me going off to college?” I rolled my eyes. “When I’m actually headed there, though. When it’s a done deal.”

His face split into a happy grin. “I’d love that.”

For the remainder of that summer, I ignored texts from you and Michael, begging me to text you back.

Him: Seriously, Elliot. Please answer me.