Page 219 of Mad Girl

“Go on to class,” I heard Nic say to you. “I’ve got her. She’ll be okay.”

All morning, I huddled underneath my duvet, blinking against the golden sunlight filtering through my window. Nic—likely thinking my dismal mood made me a danger to myself—had planted himself at my desk, where he lightly tapped away at his laptop, answering emails. There’d come a pause every now and then, followed by the creak of my desk chair. I pictured him tossing a glance over at the bed to check on me.

Texts began to arrive around lunchtime. Tinsley, asking if I wanted to hang out after her final class of the day. Willoughby, seeing if I wanted him to come over later. You, asking if I wanted you to bring me an iced latte on your way home from school. I left you all on read.

Nic disappeared for a little while. When he came back, I heard the clink of a plate on the nightstand. My lunch. “Please eat.”

“Not hungry.”

“You promised me you wouldn’t hurt yourself anymore.”

“Not hurting myself.”

“Not eating is a form of hurting yourself, Elliot.”

“If I don’t eat, will you send me to that place in Arizona?”

A pause. “No. But I made you an appointment for an emergency therapy session later today, and I’d like you to attend.”

“Nope. Not going.”

“You need to talk about what’s going on. Either you talk to your therapist or you talk to me. Those are your choices.”

“What if I choose neither?”

“Then you’re going to therapy.”

“Good luck dragging me down three flights of stairs,” I told him, “because that’s the only way you’ll get me there.”

The bed shifted underneath Nic’s weight. “Whatever this is, you can talk to me about it, you know? I’m here. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

Tears sprang to my eyes. Michael thought my obsession with the mystery woman stemmed from wanting to forget my assault. Was he right? Was my subconscious trying to protect me by making me focus on the mystery woman instead?

I turned over in bed, propping myself against the headboard. “Why won’t you tell me my mom’s full name?”

Nic’s eyes drifted closed. “Elliot, don’t.”

“You said I could talk to you about it. This is me trying to talk to you about it.”

He shook his head. “Her full name isn’t important.”

“Would you let me meet her? If she came back and asked to see me, would you let her?”

“No,” he said quickly—emphatically. “Never.”

I leaned forward. “So you have been keeping me from her.”

“Elliot, you have to trust me when I say this. Meeting your mother would only hurt you.”

“In two years, when I have access to my trust fund, and I have the money to track her down myself, how are you going to stop me?”

Nic’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like that question. “Tell me,” he said roughly, “what good would meeting her do? What do you think you’d get out of it?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, frustration bubbling up in my chest. How did he not get it? Why didn’t he understand? This fundamental need to know the woman who’d formed me inside her body? The desire to see, with my own eyes, the person whose DNA made up half of who I was? Whose face looked so freakishly similar to mine? “I would finally have a better idea of who I am—of where I come from.”

“You come from me,” Nic said, like his contribution was the only half that mattered. “You’re my daughter.”

“That’s only part of who I am. That doesn’t tell me everything.”