Page 204 of Mad Girl

36 WEEKS LEFT

Back in Boston, I was able to sleep in my bedroom again, the crushing anxiety gone, somehow dislodged over the summer.

While Bree started her senior year of high school and the rest of you went to college—you and Michael back to Harvard, Willoughby and Tinsley to UMass Boston—I got coffee with my dad.

Then volunteered at a local animal shelter…with my dad.

Then sat around the house—yep, you guessed it—with my dad.

For three whole days a week, though, I had you all to myself for nine glorious, uninterrupted hours.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were my Casey Days.

We got coffee most mornings, too—can’t beat those late summer strolls in Boston or the early morning temps, which hovered in the sixties that August—often taking the long way through the Common to one of our favorite coffee shops.

Once, I convinced you to try my iced latte, then rolled my eyes at the face you made as you handed it back. Like any true Brit, you said, you preferred your coffee the proper way: hot.

“Oh, please,” I said. “For the hundredth time, you are not British.”

You scoffed. “Why do you insist on being right about this?”

“Because I am right.”

You huffed out a laugh. “You are not.”

“Casey, you’re like the boy who was raised by wolves. Sure, he acts like a wolf. He has quirky wolf habits. He eats the same weird shit a wolf typically eats. He even howls like a wolf. He sounds just like one. But at the end of the day, when he looks in the mirror”—I shot you a sympathetic look—“is he a wolf? Or is he actually just a boy?”

You blinked hard. Lifted the latte to your lips. Took a delicate sip. “Bit harsh,” you muttered, lowering the mug back to the table.

Smiling, I reached for your arm, but you snatched it out of reach.

“Don’t touch me,” you said, eyes twinkling, a small smile tugging at at the corners of your mouth.

I laughed so hard the woman next to us shot me a dirty look.

Not that I cared.

Because mornings like that? They made everything feel okay.

Maybe I didn’t get to go to college like you guys. Didn’t get the life experience, or the cramped dorm, or the student ID.

But I got this: a table, a latte, a boy who made me laugh so hard I forgot what I didn’t have long enough to remember what I did.

After the coffee runs, we fed the squirrels in the park. Watched Gossip Girl. Ate lunch together. Drank multiple cups of tea. I actually grew a little wistful sometimes, watching you do your homework.

Within a couple of weeks, we’d adjusted to our new routine, and things were going great…until Willoughby started dropping by the house after his classes ended for the day.

To everyone’s surprise, my dad okayed him being there, and Nic never said I couldn’t take Willoughby up to my room. So we hung out upstairs a lot, which meant we were mostly just making out.

At dinner one night, you said to Nic, “Do I really need to be here when Willoughby’s over?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’d still like you to be here, Casey. That’s part of our deal. You stay with Elliot until I get home.”

Heaving a big sigh, you stabbed at a piece of roast. Then, despite your surly mood, Nic informed us we had appointments for therapy the following week.

You dropped your fork. “What if I choose not to go?”

Nic slowly leaned back, put off by your tone. “Excuse me?”