Page 200 of Mad Girl

“You don’t know. I did that horrible begging thing to my dad. I was terrified.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. I feel awful.”

You did seem sorry. Shoulders sagging. Face a bit drawn. Maybe tired, too. I stopped to consider what you must’ve endured over the last eight weeks, stuck in England with your adoptive dad, and all that residual anger drained away.

Well, maybe not all the anger.

You took my arm, pulling me close again. “How is it that you’re even more beautiful than you were when I left?” You brushed a strand of hair behind my ear and left your fingers there, your soft gaze dancing over my face. “I’ve barely slept the last couple of days—half worried you’d be angry, half desperate to get back to you, anyway.” You pressed your forehead to mine again and whispered, “These last eight weeks have been pure agony.”

“For me, too,” I said, then hugged you tight. You held my head to your chest, breathing a sigh so large and deep that I felt it against my chest. “Where’s Michael? How’d you get here? When?”

“He’s still sleeping. Hal brought us from the airport late last night.”

“What about Claire?”

“She’s fine. My dad’s doing much better now.” You lowered your head, pressed your lips close to my ear, and whispered, “Happy Birthday.”

I pulled back, smiling. “I can’t believe it. I was just standing over there, dreading this whole day, and now you’re here. Both of you.”

You picked up my braid, smoothing it between your fingers. “Your dad wanted to surprise you.”

“Really?” Fresh tears sprung to my eyes.

“Yes,” you said, smiling back. “He called a few days ago, said he wanted us back for your birthday. He offered to hire help for Claire, but she told him there was no need. She said to wish you a happy birthday.”

I started to cry.

“Hey.” You took my face in your hand. “Don’t cry again.”

“I’m so happy,” I said, laying my hand over yours. “I just had the worst summer of my life, but this makes up for it. This is the best gift.”

You swiped a tear from my cheek. “Let me make you a proper breakfast.”

Libby walked in soon after that, greeted you with a hug and kiss on the cheek, then got to work, helping you gather ingredients for our breakfast.

When I think of happiness—true happiness, Casey, the last time I felt truly happy to be exactly where I was—it was that morning. That whole day. My last birthday before coming here.

I remember it like one of those scenes in a movie, where the characters are smiling and laughing, and everyone’s so deliriously cheerful that you think, People are never that happy in real life. But we were that day, weren’t we? I know I was.

I remember my dad walking in, and how I threw myself against him so hard that he laughed, the low hum of his voice as he said “Happy Birthday” before pressing a kiss to the top of my head. I remember him rounding the island to embrace you next, how big he grinned as he held your face between his hands, and how I didn’t care how happy he looked to see you, despite the recent admission that he’d wanted you to be his. In some strange, permanent way…it felt like you were his. You were mine, too. You would always belong to both of us. You were ours.

I remember John wandering into the kitchen and lighting up—as always—at the sight of you. How he quickly pulled you into an embrace, then drew back to look at you, keeping his hands on your arms as he said, “It’s so good to have you back.” How Nic and I exchanged a smile behind John’s back, a secret between father and daughter. How Michael stumbled in, half asleep, but paused when he spotted me standing next to my dad.

I remember rushing into his arms and burying my face in his neck, comforted by his familiar Michael smell. How he twisted us in a circle and clutched me close, his hand in my hair, both of us laughing as he lowered me to the floor. How I dragged my thumb down his scar and sighed with relief. You’re still here.

I remember your gaze meeting mine over Michael’s shoulder before you went back to whisking the eggs. I remember the look our dads exchanged, and how I didn’t care about that, either.

“No hit?” Michael asked, ducking to meet my gaze. “You’re not going to hit me? You’re not mad?”

“Oh, no,” I said, my smile fading. “I’m still pissed. I’ll get you back when you least expect it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, expression going soft. He tugged on the end of my braid. “God, I missed you. Happy Birthday.”

Hugs all around, for Michael as well, my dad greeting him the same way he’d greeted you, the Harrises hugging and kissing Michael so much he begged them to stop. They’d never been separated from him that long, either.

As Bree hugged you, Michael ruffled her hair. She playfully swatted him away before letting you go to hug him, too. You went back to making our breakfast while John and my dad prepped the espresso machine for coffee.

We were a family.