Page 221 of Mad Girl

“Yes,” you said with a sigh. “Despite the dirty looks I get, yes.”

“I miss the horrible traffic. And Hal. And your cardigans, especially the one that’s mine.”

“The one you stole.”

“But then you gave it to me, so now it’s mine.”

“Yes,” you said softly, but with a frown. Pretty sure I know why the thought of your—my—cardigan upsets you now, but I didn’t want to think about that, so I pushed the images away.

Me. You. Your tattooed hand, trembling.

The blood.

“I miss sitting by the fire while we read. You do this thing while you’re reading where you stroke your bottom lip, and it’s kind of hypnotizing. I miss your glasses. I miss seeing you wear them. I miss it so fucking much. I miss⁠—”

“Oh my God,” you said, craning to see over my shoulder. “What’s happening over there?”

I turned to look, expecting to see an inmate causing a scene or maybe a spectacle taking place beyond the line of windows at the back. But…nothing. Just two women visiting at one of the other steel tables.

Turning back around, I said, “I don’t see any⁠—”

I gasped on sight, hands flying to my mouth, nearly bursting into tears. Ugly tears.

You were wearing the black glasses.

For eighteen months, I’ve longed to see you in those glasses again. I’ve had to rely on my memory, and today proved it: my memory never does you justice.

“There you are,” I whispered.

You chuckled, gaze tenderly sweeping over the tears, some of which had escaped after all and streamed down my face. “I can’t help you with any of those other things, but I can give you these. Why haven’t you ever asked to see them?”

I swiped at my cheeks. “How was I supposed to know you carried them with you?”

“Well, how else am I meant to read on Tuesdays? The traffic’s horrible, like you said, especially at this time of day. It takes us ages to make it over here.”

I started to ask, Who’s us? But you’d be talking about Hal, of course. It cheered me to know he’s there, too. Every Tuesday. Even if I can’t see him.

I grinned.

“Ah,” you said. “There’s what I’ve missed.”

“What?”

“Your smile. You rarely smile anymore, and I’ve really missed it. Also? The sound of your laugh. The ability to talk to you whenever I want. Just walking into a room and seeing you there,” you said, voice dropping to a near whisper. “And about a hundred other things I can’t list right now, because our time’s nearly up.”

“I still don’t get it,” I said, choking up again. “Why are you still here? After the way I hurt you? Why go to all the trouble of visiting, week after week, after everything I’ve done?”

You looked away, giving me a nice glimpse of your profile in the glasses. Something else I’ve missed. I watched your throat work while you considered my question.

Taking a deep breath, you pulled the lapels of your jacket taut, then shakily said, “Because I made you cry, and you ran off, and it brought you here, and I promised your dad a long time ago that I’d never leave you alone.” You held up a finger when I started to speak. “And before you remind me that I actually broke my promise to Nic on my birthday that time—unintentionally, maybe, but broke it nonetheless—I should point out that I promised you, later the same day, I’d never do it again. So here I am, keeping my promise.” You hesitated a moment before adding, “But my main reason for sitting through traffic and going through security and being pat down by a rather terrifying large man every Tuesday is actually a selfish one.” You paused to swallow, eyes shimmering. “I just really want to see you.”

Blinking back tears of my own, I ached to reach out and grab your hand. But I couldn’t, and every time I remember that, it breaks my heart.

You never realize what a privilege it is to touch another human being until that privilege is gone.

“Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?” I asked.

Your gaze dropped to the table. “I don’t know.” You removed the glasses, then gingerly tucked them away inside your breast pocket. “I want to, Elliot, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to forgive everything.”