Page 246 of Mad Girl

Through my coat pocket, I pressed my fingers to the hip bruise, needing the sting. That little bite of pain. “I’ll be fine, Casey.”

But I wasn’t fine.

Even confined to Willoughby’s bedroom, the festivities—indistinguishable from the year before—set my teeth on edge. The bass thumping behind the walls. The glimpses of costumes when Willoughby stepped out of the room, garish masks peeking in. I sat huddled against his headboard, knees drawn up to my chest, trying in vain not to remember. Greer’s hand on my throat. The fear of dying. Everyone I loved, flashing before my eyes.

The powerlessness. The humiliation.

“Here,” Willoughby said, back with a black plastic cup filled with whiskey instead of punch. He climbed in behind me and drew me against his chest. With his body encircling mine, I felt safer, less brittle. But I chugged the whiskey, craving numbness instead. “Hey, take it easy,” Willoughby said, taking the cup from my hand. “I’m supposed to give you this.” He handed me a protein bar. “Casey doesn’t want you to drink on an empty stomach. Oh, and he gulped down half of your drink before I could get away with it.”

“My God.” I tossed the unopened bar across the bed. “It’s like having my dad here. What’s he doing down there, anyway?”

“Talking to Tinsley.”

“About what?”

“Books. Before he went through my pantry, I overheard her listing how many subgenres of romance there are, including something called romantasy.”

I laughed, despite myself. “Sounds about right.”

Cradling Willoughby’s phone, I scrolled through recent posts about the election while he followed along over my shoulder. Every now and then, he pressed his lips to the curve of my neck.

“My parents say she’s a shoo-in,” he said against my shoulder.

I rolled my eyes. “Only because her opponent’s a guy. If her opponent were another woman, I doubt she’d stand a chance. She only got as far as she did because she’s a Harris.”

“Do you not want her to win or something?” Willoughby asked. “I thought she was your godmother?”

“She is. I just think it’s lame that the first woman to be mayor of Boston might be one with a silver spoon up her ass.”

I found a picture of her sandwiched between John and my dad, the three of them standing close at some charity event. If people only knew the truth behind that photo—what Politician Barbie and Politician Ken were really doing behind closed doors with my dad—they’d be scandalized. Under my breath, I muttered, “Fake ass bitch.”

“What did you say?” Willoughby asked.

“Nothing.”

My phone pinged. A text from Michael: Hey. I’m thinking about you. If you need to talk, I’m here.

“I bet he is,” Willoughby muttered behind my shoulder.

“Hey,” I said, remembering Michael’s words from the year before: It’s best if you don’t know all the details. “Last year, when you helped Michael and Casey take care of those assholes for hurting me, what happened exactly?”

Willoughby cleared his throat. “I…invited Greer and Rory over, and we drank some beers. When Casey and Michael showed up, Rory just took it, like he’d been waiting, but Greer put up a fight. I helped Michael restrain him so Casey could—he broke Greer’s hands with his own bare hands and—” Willoughby stopped, his whole body shivering against mine. “I still can’t get that awful sound out of my head.”

“What sound?”

“The sound of Greer’s bones breaking.”

I flinched at hearing this. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture you doing something so violent, Casey.

“Greer was crying,” Willoughby went on, “and begging him to stop, and Casey asked if you had done that, too. Greer said, ‘No, man. She never begged. She liked it when I hit her. Liked it so much she started moaning and shit.’ And that angered Casey even more, so he grabbed something, I don’t remember what, and tried going at him again. But Michael and I pulled him away at the last second. Casey went to some dark place, Elliot. It was scary as shit. Once we got him to stop and sit down, it took Michael a while to pull him out of it—for Casey to stop shaking and look normal again.”

I thought of how I’d found you on your bed the year before. The way you’d grabbed my arm, scary intense. Not remorseful at all.

“How did they get to the hospital?” I asked.

“Michael helped me put them in the car. I drove them to Rory’s house, and I guess his parents took them. I couldn’t believe it, but neither one of them ever said anything about my involvement to the police.”

I leaned my head back against Willoughby’s shoulder for a while, lost in thought.