Page 247 of Mad Girl

“That night,” Willoughby said. “Why’d you call Michael to help instead of me?”

“I needed his help getting Tinsley downstairs and back to my house.”

“I would’ve helped you do that.”

“You would’ve left your own party?”

“Of course,” Willoughby said.

“I was in shock. I wasn’t thinking clearly,” I said, twisting to face Willoughby. I kissed his neck. “I don’t want to talk about that night anymore.” I snatched the drink off his nightstand and gulped down the rest of it, then crawled off the bed and started removing my clothes. Willoughby’s gaze traveled over my body—the see-through bra, the little lace underwear, the lace garter belt attached to the tights. I sometimes wonder what freaked him out more: the chain-link design embroidered in the lace or that bruise, still prominent on my hip. Or maybe it was a combination of both, because he squirmed back on the bed as I crawled back in and sat up on my knees. I told myself the shock on his face meant the lingerie had turned him on, but I should’ve known better. I pulled him up, drew his arms around my body, and kissed his neck again.

“Hey,” he said, nudging me back by the waist. “Let’s just hang out tonight. You’re not yourself.”

“I’m fine,” I said, going for his jaw. “That drink really took the edge off.” I tugged at the buttons on his shirt. “Let’s go all the way tonight. I’m ready.”

“Elliot,” he said, removing my hand from his shirt. “Let’s wait until you get past all this stuff and start to feel better, okay?”

Willoughby climbed off the bed, picked up my clothes, then held them out to me.

“You’re afraid I’ll ask you to hurt me again.” To put your hand around my throat.

“Here,” he said, dropping my clothes on the bed. “Get dressed so we can chill.”

I’m not sure what hurt more: his rejection of me or the fear he clearly felt at the idea of being with me.

I hopped off the bed. “Fine,” I snapped, grabbing my clothes. I pulled up the skirt with jerky hands, throat tight. This is what happens when you ask for too much, I thought. When you ask for the wrong thing. And I could see it so clearly: how you might one day look at me the same way. How you might pull back when the dark parts of me stopped being charming or mysterious and became too real. Just like Willoughby. “But this is over. I’m ending it right now.”

“Elliot,” Willoughby said. “Come on.”

I tossed the sweater over my head, yanking my braid free when it got caught. “This is the last time I let you reject me.”

“But I asked how important this stuff was to you, and you claimed it wasn’t. You lied.”

“So did you, Willoughby. You said you wanted the real me, but that wasn’t ever true. You wanted the best parts. The soft parts. The parts you could be comfortable with. You wanted to pretend the dark parts of me didn’t exist, so I had to tuck them away—I had to hide—and when I couldn’t do that anymore, you made me feel like a freak. Just like everyone else.”

I snatched my stuff off Willoughby’s bed and headed for the door.

He stopped me, his brown eyes sad. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Me, too.”

As I pushed past all the partygoers on the landing outside Willoughby’s room, I fought back tears, the whiskey hitting me fast on an empty stomach. I staggered downstairs, limbs pleasantly loose, heart rattling in my chest, scanning the crowd for you.

Tinsley. I spotted her first. Right off the kitchen. Talking to a guy I’d never seen before, cradling a black cup to her chest.

Then I saw you, standing in the entryway, your back to the wall, hands jammed in your pockets, some girl in a sexy white astronaut costume chatting you up. Wavy blonde hair. Pretty profile. Tits bursting at the zipper of her skintight bodysuit.

A guy decked out in Celtics gear accidentally rammed her in the shoulder on his way down the hall, and she wobbled precariously in her thigh-high stripper boots—white vinyl, to match the costume—trying not to spill her drink. You put a hand out to steady her, and it was just like you to do something like that. But then…most people would, wouldn’t they?

Except me.

I would’ve let that bitch topple to the floor.

I gripped Willoughby’s newel post, rap music pounding, thumping hard and fast, vibrating in my chest. I ground my teeth together, trying not to let the harsh beat of the music faze me, but my skin tingled with it: the same panic I’d felt the year before, encroaching, licking up my spine, burning hot at my back. Too close.

And, yeah, I could’ve pulled you away from Astronaut Girl and watched the look of disappointment flit across her pretty face when you left with me instead of her, but the whiskey hadn’t dulled my senses at all—just heightened them—making me extra emotional. If you looked at me with that little groove of concern between your eyebrows, I’d burst into tears, and that’s the last thing I needed right then: to lose face in front of anyone else. What happened with Willoughby had been humiliating enough.

So I turned in the opposite direction and stumbled out the front door, shrugging into my trench coat as I descended the porch steps.