Page 20 of Mad Girl

I snatched my bag off your arm, then marched ahead of you the whole way back to the house.

I couldn’t have you thinking you’d won me over or that I’d given in to anything, so that Sunday—when we all missed brunch because you and Michael’s parents were helping Michael move into his new apartment—I snuck into your room.

Something of a slob myself, I noticed right away how insanely tidy you were. The bed: neatly made. Your black glasses: folded on top of a book. The desk: free of clutter, save for a silver laptop. I peeked inside your bathroom—no dirty towels on the floor or a splatter of toothpaste anywhere, the complete opposite of my bathroom.

I backed up and opened your desk drawer.

A thrill of excitement surged through me as I rifled through your things. A British passport. A fat envelope, full of cash—tips. A stack of euros in another envelope, lots of colorful notes. A sewing kit. The silver lighter from the night we met. Cigarettes—only one pack. I paused. I hadn’t seen you smoke since you moved in. Had you quit?

When I pulled the next drawer open, my heart leapt at the sight of a black box. Condoms. Then: a fizzling in my stomach. A sharp pang, down low. I rattled the box, and two condoms shook loose—two left, out of twelve. I wondered if you’d used them on the bed behind me. Or if you’d been seeing someone I didn’t know about. Or why the hell I even cared. And—by the way—why did I feel so hot and ragey all of a sudden? I slammed the drawer shut, startled by the severity of my reaction.

I pried open your laptop, but it was password-protected, so I shut that, too, then moved on to the closet and switched on the light. Your clothes were neatly hung, separated into categories, arranged by color. Lots of plaid and blue. Lots of green and camel and brown. A shocking number of cardigans, both thick and thin.

I didn’t know much about you yet, but you obviously liked clothes.

That’s when I had the idea to take them.

Just to fuck with you.

Just to take something from you, because you’d taken my dad and my house from me.

The next morning, while I gathered my books for school, you burst into my room, hair slicked back and wet, fresh out of the shower. You were wearing those blue-striped pajama pants with the white t-shirt that stretched deliciously tight across your chest.

“What did you do with my clothes?” you asked, wild-eyed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, zipping up my bag.

“Where are my clothes, Elliot?”

I shrugged. “Maybe Henriette took them to be dry cleaned?”

“Literally all my clothes?” You choked out an incredulous laugh. “All of them at once?”

I shrugged again, wishing I could’ve seen your face when you noticed them missing.

“I know you took them,” you said, hands propped on your hips. You walked over to my closet and peeked inside. Clothes littered the floor, but none of them were yours. “This has you written all over it.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough,” you snapped. “I haven’t got all day for this. I have somewhere to be, and it’s important. Tell me where my clothes are.”

I smirked at you on my way to the stairs. “I can’t help you. Sorry.”

Want to know a secret, Casey? I loved seeing you mad. When I got home later that day, you were waiting on the stairs, aiming one of those death glares at me, and oh my God, I loved it. You said you’d been searching the house for your clothes all day. And I loved that, too.

It made my whole week. No: my whole month. Fuck it: my whole year.

“Looks like you found something to wear,” I pointed out.

“These are Michael’s,” you said, but I could barely tell they were. You’d styled his black dress pants with a black sweater, a white dress shirt, and a thin black tie—a combination he’d never chosen for himself. His clothes fit you perfectly, if maybe a bit too well. Your shoulders were broader than Michael’s, the breadth of your chest a little wider, the length of his pants hitting you right above the ankle.

“Weird,” I said, eyeing the strip of skin above your black loafers. “I didn’t realize you were that much taller than Michael.”

“I’m not,” you said. “I hemmed these trousers to suit my style.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Does Michael know you’re shortening his pants?” I asked, fighting back a smile.

“I’ll let the hem down,” you said between clenched teeth, “before I give them back.”