Page 209 of Mad Girl

Nic’s shoulders sagged as he squeezed my hand. “Thank you.”

On our morning walks to get coffee, however, I searched for the woman, scanning every street corner and bench in the park, the steps of every building and brownstone, even the cars parked along the road. On our walks home from therapy, I searched for her again. But a few weeks ticked by, and she never reappeared.

One day, I’d been sitting in my window seat for hours, listening to an audiobook so I could watch the street, when someone rapped on my door and pushed it open. I glanced up, expecting to find you in my doorway.

But it was Bree.

I pressed pause on the audiobook.

“Hey, guess what,” she said, joining me on the window seat, her expression turning serious.

“What?”

“Michael’s back with Sienna.”

I blinked at her. “You’re joking, right?”

Bree shook her head, blonde hair swishing against her pale gray cardigan. “He brought her over for dinner two nights ago.”

“I can’t believe him.”

“If it makes you feel any better, my parents aren’t happy about it, either. I think my dad hates her.”

This did make me feel better. “Really?”

“Yeah. I overheard him and Michael fighting about her in the kitchen last night. He made Michael promise him he’d always”—Bree wrinkled her nose—“use a condom, no matter what. My dad doesn’t trust her motives—or her obsession with Casey. Not after everything Nic’s told him.”

This bitch. She was like a fungus that couldn’t be killed. Every time I thought we’d gotten rid of her, she sprouted back up.

Bree ducked to meet my gaze. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, resisting the urge to flood Michael’s phone with a barrage of angry texts. “Just wish Michael had different taste in girls.”

“Trust me,” Bree said. “So do I.”

For the next several weeks, my dad devoted much of his free time to supporting Libby’s mayoral campaign, leaving us on our own a lot. I wanted to support Libby, too—after all, she’d be the first woman in history to become mayor of Boston if she won—but Nic didn’t like taking me into large crowds. We were sitting close on the sofa, watching someone live stream Libby’s speech at a campaign rally on your phone, when I told you about it: another messed-up thing about my life.

When I finished, you asked, “So he’s never taken you to a concert, or a festival, or anything like that?”

“No,” I said, even as a memory shook loose. “Actually, he did take me to see a Red Sox game once, but I ran ahead of him in the crowd and we got separated. This nice lady took my hand and tried to help me find him.”

“How long were you separated from each other?”

“Not very long. I guess he must’ve found us before we could find him, because suddenly he was there, picking me up and pressing me close to his body.”

“Did he thank the woman?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, reaching over to twist your bracelets. “I don’t remember what he said to her, but he didn’t sound happy. He carried me off, and I waved at the woman over his shoulder, but she didn’t wave back. She looked mad, like maybe she didn’t appreciate him being rude. But I don’t think he could control himself—he was just that angry with me.”

“You think he was angry with you?”

“Well, yeah. When he finally lowered me to the ground, he knelt down to my level and started yelling at me for running off. He shook me by the shoulders, and then…he started to cry.”

“Nic cried?”

“Yeah—then I cried, upset that I’d made him cry. He hugged me so tightly I thought my bones were going to crack. We went home after that, and it made me sad. I’d really wanted to stay. But I didn’t tell him that, because I felt like I deserved to leave the game for upsetting him.”

Other things started to surface. Other memories of that day. How we’d gone home and the Harrises were already there, waiting for us. How John and Libby had comforted my dad, parting on the sofa to make space for him in the middle. How Libby, misty-eyed and pale, had grabbed my dad’s hand, and John—shaken up, too—had placed his hand over the top of theirs. They’d watched me and Bree play dolls and dinosaurs in front of the fireplace while Michael played with a Rubik’s cube in one of the wingbacks.