Page 228 of Mad Girl

“I haven’t excused you yet.”

“Don’t care. I’m going, anyway. Try and fucking stop me.”

Nic turned to you. “What the hell is going on?”

You shrugged, a bewildered look on your face. “I’ve no idea.”

Nic ordered me to come back as I walked away. But I ignored him.

Surely you remember that whole next week, Casey. It was great fun. Not for Nic, of course, but great fun for me.

Monday morning, when I came downstairs wearing my newly cropped Harvard sweatshirt with a pair of black leggings, you and Nic gawked at me.

“What have you done?” he asked, the color draining from his face. “Your sweatshirt…”

Leave it to me to chop the bottom half off a sentimental item that had been in our family for two decades for the brief rush of satisfaction it would give me to see the look of devastation on my dad’s face. “I changed it to fit the current style,” I said. “It’s better now.”

“It’s destroyed,” he croaked. “You destroyed it.”

I made a big show of rolling my eyes. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic, Nic?”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. “It’s Dad. To you, I’m Dad.”

“Nah. A dad is someone I can rely on. Someone who’s dependable and honest and safe. And the thing is, Nic, I’m not sure that title describes you anymore.”

This shook my dad—literally shook him. He staggered back, speechless, before finding his voice again. “Why would you say that?” He held both hands out. “Look, let me take you to breakfast. I’ll be late today, because we need to talk. Whatever this is, we can work through it.”

I laughed. “No, thanks. I’m done talking to you. Done doing what you say. Done with you, Nic.”

I watched him flinch before I grabbed my water bottle and a yogurt from the fridge. Without another word, I headed upstairs, locked myself in my room, and ignored your text asking if I wanted to get a coffee down the street.

That afternoon, I walked down to the kitchen in my sneakers and grabbed a protein bar from the pantry.

“Is that all you’re eating?” You rose from the island, its marble countertop currently covered in the day-to-day clutter of your school stuff. Textbooks. Hastily written class notes. Cups of tea and coffee. Your laptop.

“Leave me alone.” I tucked the protein bar into a crossbody bag with my phone. “I can take care of myself.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Willoughby’s.”

“I don’t think—I mean, have you discussed that with Nic?”

“Fuck Nic. From now on, I’m doing what I want.”

Your gaze dropped to the slice of bare skin between the newly cropped sweatshirt and my leggings. “I’ll walk with you,” you said, tossing your glasses on the counter.

“Stay where you are,” I ordered, thrusting one hand in the air. “You’re not escorting me anywhere. That’s over, too.”

You halted, eyebrows drawn together, eyes full of concern. “What’s going on with you? Why are you so upset with Nic?”

I didn’t even know how to say it. Our dads might be more than friends? Your dad might share his wife with my dad? You and your dad might have way more in common than you think?

While I deliberated, your gaze dropped again, warming instantly, eyes raking over my hips and thighs in those skin-tight leggings. For once, you were looking at my body like you longed to touch it. And I couldn’t even enjoy that, dammit, because my whole life had just imploded.

Keeping my hand out, I backed up, closer to the back door. “I can’t do this right now. I need to go.” I pointed at you. “Don’t follow me.”

Outside, I stopped at the corner of the street, clutching the strap of my crossbody bag to my chest. I hadn’t walked these streets alone since the day I’d experienced that panic attack.