Page 207 of Mad Girl

So I slipped my arms around you from behind, tucking my forehead between your shoulder blades. I just needed you to know you still mattered to me. That I cared how you felt. That, despite having another boy in my room, I hadn’t given up on us.

You covered my hand with yours, holding it against your heart.

Here’s another truth: I felt more sparks in that single hug than I’d ever felt between me and Willoughby. Or me and Michael, for that matter.

That’s why I marched upstairs and told Willoughby my dad was on his way home—even though he wasn’t—so you and I could hang out alone the rest of the night.

That September, we had an unexpected visitor.

It all began one day after therapy.

You, me, Michael, and Willoughby were hanging out in the kitchen together—Willoughby’s homework spread out on the counter, your kettle coming to a boil, Michael doomscrolling—when, out of nowhere, Willoughby said, “What’s with the woman?”

“What woman?” I asked, lowering a book to my lap.

“The one who watches the house,” Willoughby said, drumming his pencil against an open calculus notebook.

Michael glanced up from his phone.

“A woman who watches the house,” you repeated, turning away from the stove. “What the fuck are you on about, Willoughby?”

“I see her when I’m sitting on the front steps,” he said, “waiting for you guys to get home. She’s always hanging around, looking over here.”

“What does she look like?” I asked.

“Hard to say. She wears big sunglasses, even when it’s cloudy out, and a baseball cap with her hair pulled back. She never comes near the house, just stands across the square or on that opposite corner by the tree, playing on her phone and smoking.”

“It’s probably someone just trying to catch my mom over here with Nic,” said Michael.

“With Nic?” you asked. “Why?”

“My mom’s campaign manager says her opponents are trying to dig up some dirt on her. They’re looking hard at her relationship with Nic, even though he’s funding only a small portion of her campaign.”

“But Nic and Libby are just friends,” you said.

“A lot of people aren’t convinced that’s all they are,” said Michael. “They’re also looking into my parents’ marriage—looking for skeletons in both of their closets.”

You and I exchanged a look over the island.

But Michael just shrugged. “This happens every time one of my parents runs for something. It’s not a big deal.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?” I asked.

“Earlier today,” Willoughby said. “She’s standing by the tree that leans over the street again.”

“How come you’ve never mentioned this woman before now?” you asked him.

“I kept thinking maybe she lived in the area, you know? That maybe she’d come outside for a smoke before heading back to her house. But I’ve never seen her enter or leave any of the houses around here. And lately? While I’m waiting for you guys to get home? She waves at me. And when I leave? She’s still out there. Yesterday, she waved goodbye as I left.”

“Oh, yeah?” I pushed my stool back, wanting to see this nosy bitch for myself. I marched to the front of the house, yanked open the front door, and peered across the street.

And there she was—a slender woman, propped against the tree on the corner, playing on her phone—exactly where Willoughby said she’d be. A big pair of sunglasses and a Red Sox baseball cap, tan with a white B, obscured her face.

Within a matter of seconds, she cocked her head upright, as if she’d noticed me standing outside on the stoop—the sunglasses made it difficult to tell. But when she pushed off the tree and slowly stepped forward, I knew for sure she’d caught me looking at her.

We were looking at each other.

As I stared at the woman, and the woman stared back at me, a strange prickling sensation traveled up the back of my neck.