Page 206 of Mad Girl

“What is he to you?” you asked, gesturing at the ceiling, in the general vicinity of my bedroom. “Your boyfriend? Your fuck buddy? What?”

I laughed. “Oh, you’ve got some nerve…”

“Do I? Really? For asking what you’re doing with a boy you don’t even like?”

“Of course I like him.” What wasn’t to like? Gorgeous brown eyes. Hot body. Skilled tongue. That last detail might’ve been what I liked—no, deeply appreciated—about Willoughby the most.

“Like him enough to make him your boyfriend?”

“I don’t know about that. We’re just having fun.” That’s when it struck me: I sounded exactly like Michael back when he and Sienna were “just having fun.” Who the hell had I become?

“Meaning what?” you asked, biting out a laugh. “He’s free to be with other girls when he’s not with you?”

“I guess so.”

“And you’re okay with that sort of arrangement? You, of all people?”

“Well, I have to be, right? I can’t go over to his place or sleep over. He still parties all the time, and I’m not allowed to do that, either, even if I wanted to—which I don’t, because I’m still traumatized by what happened at his Halloween party. My only stipulation is that he doesn’t have sex with anyone else, and he promised he wouldn’t.”

“And you trust him to uphold that promise?” you asked, incredulous, both eyebrows shooting up. “Do you have any clue how difficult it is for a guy to resist a girl who’s enthusiastically giving him her consent?”

I didn’t. I especially didn’t like the authority with which you’d said that—as if you were speaking from experience.

“He’s heard that story about me stabbing Michael a gazillion times throughout the years, so I’m pretty sure he took me seriously. Like I said, we’re just having fun.”

Your tortured gaze held mine for a long time, stripping away every ounce of my confidence.

“Got it,” you said eventually, turning back to the stove.

I didn’t appreciate your attitude, Casey, or the sudden line of inquiry about Willoughby. He was only there in the first place because you had rejected me. So I said, “Do you realize this is the first time in my life that my dad’s allowing me to have something normal?”

“I do,” you said, jabbing at the pan. “I get it.”

“Then why’re you trying to make me feel bad about it?”

You chopped a slice of onion in half.

“You’re the one who rejected me, Casey. You’re the one who said no.”

You dropped the spoon. With one hand propped on your hip and the other clenched into a fist, you said, “I didn’t reject you. I didn’t say no. I said not yet.”

“So I’m supposed to wait around and remain single until you’re ready to be with me? Whenever the hell that is?”

“No, Elliot. By all means, go upstairs. Be with Willoughby.” Was it my imagination or had your voice cracked? “Have fun.”

“You kissed me. You made me feel things. You told me it was irresponsible of you to do that right now, then you sent me all those mushy texts over the summer, and after a little while, you put an end to those, too. And now I have a boy in my room, and you’re jealous, and I feel like shit, even though you’re the one who chose this, Casey. You did.”

“This isn’t something I ever chose,” you said, voice shaking with emotion. “I didn’t choose for my biological dad to be some local politician with a thriving career. Or for his wife to put her bid in for mayor within months of my arrival. Or for my brother—God, that’s just—well, quite the shit-show there. I didn’t plan for it to be this difficult to tell them who I am, or for your dad to be stuck in the middle—stuck helping me lie to everyone. And I certainly never chose to have feelings for you. It just happened. And the thing about me is, I’ve never been in a proper relationship. I don’t normally do relationships. So you might understand why I’d want my life to be a little less complicated before I decide to enter one.”

“Got it,” I said, arms crossed over my chest. “As long as you understand that if my dad’s giving me an opportunity to have a boy in my bed, I’m taking it, whether that boy is you or not. I’ll be damned if I let another man keep me from having something I want.”

“Right,” you said, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I didn’t mean to imply you shouldn’t have normal things. You deserve to have everything you want. I just regret that I’m not in a better place right now, but I’m being a prick about it, and that’s not fair to you. So I’m sorry.”

You swiped a jar of cumin off the counter while I stood there, still hearing the way your voice had cracked on Willoughby’s name.

How would I feel if you had a girl hanging around the house? If I had to sit downstairs while you took her up to your room?

Devastated, that’s how. Wild and out of control. Too loose. The same way I felt every time I remembered you’d been with Sienna.