Page 243 of Mad Girl

“Is this what’s been bothering you lately?” you asked, tugging me back down. “Why you said all those hurtful things to your dad?”

I nodded. “He keeps everything from me, Casey. This thing with the Harrises. Details about my mother. The truth about you—which he never would’ve told me if you hadn’t told me yourself. How can I trust that he’s ever told me the truth about anything?”

Look at me, the big hypocrite talking. Pointing out my dad’s truth-telling problem while ignoring the major truth-telling problem I had. Especially when it came to you.

You considered my question. “I don’t know. But what you can be sure of is that he loves you. He cares deeply about your happiness. It devastated him when you said that stuff about hating your life the other day.”

I bristled at this. “So because he loves me, I should overlook the fact he’s been lying to me my whole life?”

“No,” you rushed to say. “You don’t have to overlook it. You don’t even have to forgive him right away. But people can love you and still get it wrong sometimes, you know? No one ever gets it exactly perfect.”

I stood with a huff, eager to retreat in the house. “You clearly don’t understand.”

The following Saturday morning, Willoughby knocked on my bedroom door. I’d just stepped out of the bathroom in my robe, hair still wet from my shower, and told him to come in.

“I almost didn’t make it through the front door,” he said. “Did you tell Casey what happened between us?”

“Of course not,” I said, toweling off my hair.

“Casey pushed me down there.”

I fought back a laugh. “Pushed you?”

“Yeah. I kept trying to walk up the stairs—to get in the house—and he kept pushing me back. He almost knocked me on my ass.” Willoughby stroked the center of his chest. Was that where you’d pushed him? “He kept taunting me and shit, too, like it was fun for him. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen that side of him, Elliot, but he can be scary as fuck.”

I pressed my lips together, suppressing a smile. “Sorry. He saw me upset the other day, that’s all.”

“I saw you walking down the Mall with him yesterday. I see you walking with him all the time.”

“So?”

Willoughby lowered his voice. “Does he hurt you? The way you like?”

By the way, he’d always just assumed that you and I were hooking up, too, because I’d never given him a reason to think otherwise.

“No one hurts me, Willoughby—except you. The way you react when I ask you for things? You make me feel like something’s wrong with me, and it hurts my feelings.”

Willoughby stepped closer. “Look, I didn’t mean—Elliot, I wasn’t trying to make you feel like that. I’m an asshole, okay? I just”—his fingers fluttered over the hip with the bruise—“don’t understand why you’d want to be hurt.”

“I don’t always want to,” I told him. “But sometimes I need it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. Just go ahead and end this already. Go be with one of the girls you’ve already hooked up with—one who’s happy to put out and doesn’t freak you out. You can fuck her at your Halloween party.”

Willoughby grabbed my hand. “I don’t want to be with anyone else. I don’t even want to throw this stupid party—unless you come, too. What if we stay in my room the whole time? Just hang out?” He swiped his thumb over my cheek, brown eyes sincere as they held mine. “We don’t have to do anything. I just want to be with you.”

Willoughby had apologized. He was being really sweet. So, despite my reservations about the party, I agreed.

Now, I know you remember that Halloween, too, Casey. It was also memorable. Just for different reasons.

After brunch had ended that day and the Harrises left, I grabbed my black trench coat from the hallway closet and carried it to the kitchen, draped over my arm. You were at the stove, as usual, standing over your teakettle.

“Whoa,” Nic said, popping out of the Garland Room, a copy of The Wall Street Journal dangling from his hand. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Halloween party,” I informed him. “At Willoughby’s.”

“Without asking for my permission?”