Page 202 of Mad Girl

I glanced over at my dad, who looked so cautiously hopeful that I knew he half-expected me to ruin it, to walk away after all, and the sight pricked my heart. All he ever wanted on my birthday was to celebrate me—with a cake, at the very least—and I refused to give him that. Every single year. So I forced myself to be okay with it. To stay for his sake.

You all stared at me as the flames danced and licked at the dark, the cake bathed in light, an amber glow. Complete silence, other than the waves crashing along the shore. No singing.

Tinsley quietly said, “Make a wish?”

Beside her, Michael gave me a small, encouraging smile, his blue eyes shining in the candlelight.

I gave Michael the tiniest nod, clutched your hand, and blew out the candles. Everyone grinned as the smoke swirled around us. Libby and Tinsley wiped at their eyes—John and Nic did, too. Then my dad leaned in close, took my face between his hands, and whispered, “This. This makes me so happy. Thank you.”

But here’s a truth for you, Casey: I didn’t make a birthday wish. Wishing felt futile. And, anyway, I wished for too much.

To be a normal nineteen-year-old. To have a mom who cared about my birthday. To have never hurt Michael. To take back all the lies I’d told since the day we met. To be good like you.

How on earth could I possibly choose?

The next day, while you and Michael were setting up the volleyball net, Willoughby turned up on the beach, greeting me with a kiss on the cheek. You and Michael froze, eyes wide, mouths parted in disbelief. On Michael’s side, the pole slipped from his grasp. He fumbled to catch it in time, causing the whole net to topple over and pull your pole out of the sand. You swore at him.

Willoughby asked if he could help, and Michael replied, “No, thanks. We’ve got it.”

Willoughby shrugged, then walked off to say hello to Tinsley and Bree.

You thrust your chin in his direction. “When did that happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your dad’s okay with him being here?”

“Well, obviously. We’ve been hanging out a lot these last couple of weeks.”

You stared after Willoughby a moment, then bent down to fix the net. Michael, biting his bottom lip pretty hard, fixed his gaze on mine.

“Michael,” you said, clearly irritated as you glanced up at him. “A little help would be nice.”

So Michael backed up and went to work. Willoughby played volleyball with you guys, Tinsley and Bree rotating out, while I sat nearby and watched. My dad’s rule still stood, despite the promise I’d made to him. No beach volleyball for me.

And then one night at dinner, during a lull in the conversation, I said to the table, “Hey, guess what? Casey went streaking at a big soccer game once.”

Everyone stopped eating. Your eyes grew big as you slowly lowered the fork to your plate, suddenly squirming in your chair.

“Casey,” scolded Nic, leaning forward over the table to shoot you a look of disapproval.

I added, “It was televised and everything.”

“No way,” said Tinsley. “Can we find it online?”

John narrowed his eyes at you. “Casey,” he said. “I can’t see you doing something like that. What were you thinking?”

You swallowed. “I—it wasn’t just me. It was a whole group of us. A stupid prank.”

Michael laughed. “It might not seem like it now, but Casey was pretty wild before he came over here. The stories I heard back in England? You have no idea.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “You think it’s funny, Michael?”

Michael shrugged.

“What about this story? The one where you told your girlfriend she was allowed to hook up with Casey, too? Where you guys almost passed Sienna back and forth like a football?”

Libby, currently choking on her wine, began to cough. “Michael,” she croaked, lifting a napkin to her mouth. “What’s wrong with you?”