Page 198 of Mad Girl

Besides, I firmly rejected the archaic idea that I, a girl, should have to wait for anyone—when it had become abundantly clear that no guy, including you, had ever waited for me.

“As for you and Willoughby,” Nic added, “you’re not on birth control.”

“I know to use a condom.”

“Condoms can fail,” he said darkly.

“So can birth control,” I pointed out. “That’s how me and Michael got here.”

Nic couldn’t argue with that logic. “Speaking of Michael,” he said, now scratching at his hairline, eyes narrowed. “What—um—how far did that go exactly?”

“Do you want me to go into detail or…?” I would never, Casey. I’d asked the question to mess with him.

“Absolutely not.”

“We never had sex—if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good.” He gave a little nod here and lifted his phone. “That’s great. Glad to hear it.”

“Why?”

Nic resumed scrolling. “Might save you some trouble later on.” A minute later, his gaze flicked up to mine. “Shouldn’t you text Willoughby back?”

As I crafted a text to Willoughby, I was still pondering what kind of trouble Nic meant. Trouble with you? My stomach twisted at the thought. “Willoughby’s staying local, you know. For college.”

Nic cringed. “UMass Boston. I know.”

“What’s wrong with UMass? And how do you know he’s going there?”

“Nothing. It’s a perfectly respectable school. But he also got into NYU and Duke.”

“I know he did. How do you know that?”

“And when his parents handed him the deed to their brownstone,” Nic went on, like I’d never spoken, “and granted him access to his trust fund, he chose the state school. Which is fine. State schools are fine. But I question the boy’s decision-making skills.”

“Okay, but how do you know all that?”

Nic cast me a look like, You’re kidding, right? “It’s my job to know.”

Our relationship might’ve drastically improved over the last few weeks, but he was still my dad: shady, invasive as hell, and skilled at dodging my questions.

Some things never changed.

The next day, Willoughby arrived after lunch. When he walked out to the sunroom with me, my dad stood to greet him.

“Willoughby,” Nic said, expression neutral as he shook Willoughby’s hand. “I’ve heard things.”

Not good things. Not bad things.

Just things.

Just vague enough to make Willoughby squirm.

Willoughby only nodded, scared shitless.

Out by the pool a little while later, we sat on two chaise lounges, facing each other. “I’m surprised you still want to hang out with me,” I said.

Willoughby pushed his hair back. “Why?”