Page 214 of Mad Girl

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple. Just do it, Casey. Get it over with.”

You scoffed at this. “Right in the middle of Libby’s campaign?”

“Yes. You’re just using that as an excuse to put it off, anyway.”

“And if she wins? What then? What do I even say? ‘Congrats on becoming mayor, Libby. I’m John’s son, by the way. Good luck keeping me a secret for the next four years.’”

“Maybe they won’t want to keep you a secret. Maybe they’ll fully embrace you being John’s son. This happens all the time. Men find out they have children they weren’t told about, and it’s not a big deal.”

“But it still sheds John in bad light, doesn’t it? That he got two girls pregnant in college?”

“So he was young and stupid…and obviously sucked at using protection. It has no bearing on who he is now, especially if he were to publicly acknowledge you. People love this stuff—families coming together, a son finding his biological father.”

“But even if John were willing to acknowledge me, there’s still the problem of Michael. He’s going to be quite angry with me when he finds out who I am. Maybe for a while.”

I sighed. “Casey, you have to move past that.”

“I can’t move past it, Elliot. He’s my best mate. We talk every day, and he trusts me implicitly. To tell him the truth means I have to go and shatter his entire image of me. I have to shatter it completely. And you’re telling me to simply…get that over with? Like it’s nothing? Like it won’t upend everything I’ve built with him over the last two years?”

“Casey—”

“Imagine having a perfect connection with someone, only to find out they’ve been lying to you since the very beginning. Imagine having that connection lost—possibly ripped to shreds forever—because of one secret.”

Obviously, I could imagine—I felt the same way about you. We had a perfect connection, too, but my secret history with Michael threatened to destroy everything we’d built so far.

“But he’s your brother,” I said, “and he also feels that connection. He told me so once. He said he feels more comfortable with you than he’s ever felt with another guy. He feels something there, but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what it is. Once you tell him the truth—once you explain your reasons for lying—that connection he feels? It’ll be what makes him forgive you.”

You pondered this a minute. “Sometimes, I think that, too. But then I remember how hurt he was when I told him I was adopted, and I’m afraid the fallout’s going to be terrible. I just—I don’t want to lose what I have with him.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I grabbed your hand and rested my head on your shoulder.

The following week, we were walking home from therapy when I finally spotted her again: the mystery woman, walking along the opposite sidewalk, keeping back a small distance. She wore the same big sunglasses and Red Sox ball cap she’d worn that first day I’d spotted her. Only this time, dark hair fell loose over her shoulders.

At the house, I rushed inside, headed straight for the dining room window, and hid behind the drapes. I watched as the woman walked to a different tree and leaned against it, angling her body at our townhouse. She reached back, pulled something out of her back pocket, then lifted a hand to her mouth. When she pulled her hand away, I saw what it was: a cigarette. She lit the end with a small lighter, then blew a long stream of smoke into the air.

“She’s back, I see,” you said over my shoulder.

I opened the camera on my phone, zoomed in, and snapped a picture of her. Something about her appearance that day made me prickle all over. It wasn’t excitement I felt, but a feeling similar to déjà vu.

“Come on,” you said, draping an arm across my shoulders. “Let’s not worry with her.”

As I allowed you to lead me away, though, I couldn’t seem to tear my gaze away from her picture on my phone. I stopped at the island while you walked over to the fridge.

Vaguely, I heard a key in the lock. Someone entering through the back door. Michael. The sound of his voice. Something about one of his classes. It was kicking his ass. He said something to me, but the words sounded warped and indistinct, like he’d spoken them under water.

The ball cap. The sunglasses. The woman’s dark hair, spilling down her shoulders. The crowd in the background. I’d waved at her. She hadn’t waved back. The hard set of her mouth. She’d been angry.

“Oh my God,” I gasped. “Oh my God.”

You and Michael both, at the exact same time: “What?”

I lifted my phone. “I’ve seen this woman before—at the Red Sox game. That time I got separated from my dad? When I was little? She was there. She was the woman who took my hand.”

“Elliot,” Michael said. “She’s just a reporter.”

“But I saw her when I was little,” I insisted, pointing at the picture. “This exact woman.”