Page 241 of Mad Girl

“Honest about what?” you asked. “The woman? Is that what it is?”

“No—I mean, I still don’t think he’s being honest about her. But this is something else.” I had an idea: I’d catch Nic in the act. There’d be no room for denial then. I stood, tugging on your hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“To the Harrises’.” Tuesdays meant fencing practice for Bree, so if Nic and the Harrises were hanging out, like Bree said they did, they’d be alone.

The location perplexed you, but you followed, anyway, silent on the walk to their house.

“Why are we here?” you asked on their stoop, tossing me a look. “You don’t plan on snooping again, do you? Because that ended horribly last time.”

“I need to check something,” I said, pulling the Harrises’ key out of my crossbody bag. I started to push it in the lock, then stopped. I couldn’t think of anything more traumatizing than hearing—or, God forbid, seeing—my dad going at it with one person, let alone two at the same time. Michael’s little story, for instance, had been traumatizing enough. I returned the key to its designated pocket and rang the doorbell.

A minute later, John answered the door, immediately offering a smile, aimed mainly at you. “Casey? Elliot?” He fastened a button on the cuff of his white dress shirt, his collar hanging open. “What are you two doing here?”

I bit the sides of my mouth. “Is Nic here?”

John’s head snapped back. “Nic?”

“My dad, John.”

“He is,” John said tightly. “Why?”

“What do you mean why? Do I need a fucking reason? He’s my dad.”

John gave me a stern look. “Excuse me?”

I should’ve waited for John to invite me in the house, but I shoved past him, eyes darting beyond the entry, searching for clues. Surely the rules of etiquette didn’t apply if he and his wife were boinking my dad.

You, of course, stammered an apology, asking John to please forgive the intrusion, as he ushered you inside.

Libby padded downstairs, barefoot, slipping a gold earring into her lobe. “Elliot? What are you doing here?”

My dad walked in from the direction of the living room, hands in his pockets, suit jacket discarded—tie, too. “Elliot? Casey? What’s going on?”

Libby turned to the side. “Nic, can you…?”

Nic dragged the zipper up the back of Libby’s navy sheath dress. A small section of blonde hair got stuck behind the collar, and he gently pulled it out. I gaped at them, getting more freaked out by the second.

Then they all turned to me, expecting an explanation. “What’s going on with you, Dad?” I asked, scrambling to think of a way to ask Are you their boyfriend? without outright saying it. “Why aren’t you at the firm? How often do you skip work to come over here in the middle of the day?”

I inwardly cringed at my own pun: come over here.

“I left work early. Libby has another rally in a little while. Why? What do you need?” Nic sounded irritated—and that hurt.

In fact, all three of them looked irritated. Which stung even worse.

“What do I need?” I laughed bitterly. “I need a dad who doesn’t dodge my questions and hide everything from me, that’s what I need.”

Nic sighed. “Elliot, I don’t want to do this today.”

“Don’t want to do what? Deal with me? You could be at home right now—since you took off work early—but instead you’re here.”

Nic shrugged. “You said I smother you, so I’m giving you space. Isn’t that what you want from me?”

“What I want is a dad who tells me the truth when I ask for it.”

Libby gripped my shoulder. “Now, hold on. Are you here to attack your dad? Because I won’t tolerate this behavior, Elliot—not in my house. Unless you’re willing to change your tone right this second, I want you to leave.”