Page 222 of Mad Girl

That fall was entirely devoted to Libby’s mayoral campaign.

Debates. Rallies. Speaking engagements at Harvard—plus the many other college campuses across the city. Every endorsement was a big deal, and when she advanced from the primary election to the general election, heralded a “front-runner” by the Globe, everyone in the family was ecstatic. You put on a happy face like everyone else, and of course you congratulated her, but Libby becoming the mayor of a major city like Boston made you anxious. I could tell by the way your whole body stiffened when my dad watched coverage of the campaign on the local news. How you rubbed at your forehead when reading an article about Libby in the Globe, letting your tea grew cold. How your shoulders tensed whenever we passed one of her campaign signs on our walks.

Late one night, while I lingered over my late-night snack at the island, you stumbled in the back door and grabbed a water from the fridge. When you dropped yourself into the stool beside mine, I caught a whiff of cologne (which you never wore) and beer.

“Fun night?” Brows lifted, I submerged my spoon into a half-melted scoop of chocolate ice cream, secretly spiraling over the cologne—and what it implied.

You twisted the cap off your water bottle. “I’ve just come from a party.”

My stomach tightened. “Yeah? Hook up with anyone there? A cute guy, maybe? Because you certainly reek of one.”

You watched me lift the spoon to my lips. Take a generous bite. Lick the spoon clean. “Okay, that’s enough ice cream for you,” you said hoarsely, taking the spoon from my hand. You dropped the spoon in the bowl, then leaned over the island to deposit both into the sink.

“Hey, I wasn’t finished with that.”

“Yes, you were.”

“I was not. What the fuck? Also, answer my question. Did you hook up with anyone?”

You pushed a hand through your hair. “Maybe I’ve got a hookup buddy, too.”

I needed a name. STAT. “Who is it?”

“Oh, you don’t know him,” you said, casually leaning over the counter, like we were talking about our morning plans. Not something as potentially heartbreaking as this. “Big muscles. Tattoos. Little piercing in a certain…erotic place. Red hair. Eyes the color of warm honey.”

For several heartbeats, we stared at each other. “Thanks for the visual,” I forced past the tightness in my throat. “I really appreciate that.”

“Yeah? How do you think I feel when you take a hot boy up to your room multiple times per week? While I’m sat downstairs blasting music into my ears so I don’t have to hear you with him? Figured you’d be done torturing me by now, but apparently not.”

“You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you’re being tortured. If you don’t want to see me with someone else, then man up and do something about it.”

“Nah,” you said, jaw flexing, a forced casualness to your voice. “Sounds like you only want someone to fool around with, and I’m not too keen on that sort of arrangement.”

“Please. You’re not keen on any sort of arrangement—except for the one where I’m trapped in this house with you, and you get to call all the shots.”

“Is that how you really feel? Trapped with me?” Your gaze dug into mine. “It’s not enough to be near me—talk with me, have tea with me, spend time with me—unless I’m also taking you to bed?”

Later, I’d understand why you held back. Why you couldn’t ask me to stop seeing Willoughby. Why you thought being near me had to be enough. But right then, all that restraint—your damn principles—pissed me off.

“It’s enough to be near you, Casey. My issue is that you hold all the power in this relationship. Why do you get to decide what we are? Why do you get to have me all to yourself, while also keeping me at a distance? What about what I want?”

“You think I don’t care what you want?” Your voice had cracked at the end. Just a hitch, but I heard it.

“I don’t know,” I said with an exaggerated shrug. “Did you care whether I wanted that ice cream or not? Or did you take it away because of what it made you want?”

A muscle ticked in your jaw. “Forgive me for not being the sort of prick who walks into a room and just takes what he wants.”

“What? Like you’ve never done it before?”

That hit you, too, your throat working hard. Then you ripped your gaze from mine, like it physically hurt you to look at me. “You’re different.”

“Whatever.” I pushed up from my stool, ready to storm upstairs. “Have fun with your hookup buddy.”

“Don’t go,” you said, hand shooting out for my arm. Your face nearly undid me, Casey—the wild flicker in your blue eyes, the crack in your composure, the desperation.