Page 232 of Mad Girl

I only let him take my stuff without a fight because I knew he wouldn’t find the answer he wanted. It would be a giant waste of his time, and that amused me. While he disappeared to his office, I went to the cabinet beside the fridge where he kept that single bottle of Johnnie Walker. Since I’d started giving him the silent treatment, his single glass of scotch per night had turned into two. He’d need a double that night for sure after he went through my email and saw the sex toys—the plethora of sexy, lacy underwear—I’d ordered on his credit card. All of it very expensive. Three-hundred-dollar bras. Two-hundred-dollar vibrators. Hundred-dollar glass dildos.

If I couldn’t leave prison, I could at least improve my stay there, making him very uncomfortable in the process.

Lucky for me, the bottle of Johnnie Walker happened to be three-fourths of the way full. I poured every last drop of amber liquid down the drain, then put the empty bottle back.

You stood against the wall, watching me, arms crossed over your sweater. “What’s your dad done to deserve you acting like this?”

“My dad’s a liar, and I’m sick of his shit.”

“What’s he lying about?”

Still wary of telling you the truth, I asked, “Did you tell him I went to Willoughby’s the other day? Did you notify him when I left?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not. I made myself another tea and went back to my homework. I remember being quite confused when you came back home with him just a few hours later.”

Cautiously, you approached me. “But I couldn’t ask you about it,” you said, jamming both hands in your pockets, “because you’ve been avoiding me for days. Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

I shot you a death glare, and you sighed.

“Are you mad about what happened at the weekend?”

“At the weekend?” I repeated. Then it rushed back: our kiss. I’d totally forgotten about it after the shock of Bree’s news. “Oh, right. That.”

“Well,” you said with a snort. “Nice to know you’ve already forgotten.”

“Figured I was supposed to, anyway. Figured kissing me back was probably just a lapse in judgement on your part.”

You chuckled harshly. “Can we share just one meaningful moment without you rushing to label it a mistake?”

“How else should I label it, Casey? You woke up the next day and pretended it never happened. So it couldn’t have been that meaningful, right? Definitely not meaningful enough that you’d ever ask me to stop seeing Willoughby.”

Your expression softened, your tortured gaze holding mine as you stepped closer, stopping right in front of me. My heart leapt and squeezed and spiraled all at once as you took a loose strand of my hair between your fingers and hoarsely said, “Listen⁠—”

But the back door opened, cutting you off.

Michael. He stopped short when he saw us, and you dropped your hand from my face.

“Oh, good,” I said, backing up. “Just the person I’ve been wanting to talk to.” I grabbed Michael’s hand and pulled him behind me.

Once we were outside, striding across the back terrace, he jerked his hand out of mine. “What the hell, Elliot? What was that?”

“Nothing.” I strolled ahead, exited through the back gate, and rounded the block.

He followed me. “Why was he touching you like that?”

“Just—we were talking.”

“About what?”

“Jesus, Michael. That’s not important right now.” I stopped in front of his parents’ house. “Are your parents home?”

He paused to think. “I don’t think so.”

With Michael’s key, we entered through the front door. I went straight to John’s study, Michael trailing behind me.