Page 249 of Mad Girl

Nic stopped cold. All at once, his shoulders relaxed, his expression softened, and he looked like my dad again. “Elliot?”

I pulled off the mask. “Who did you think I was?”

“Why are you out here in the dark?” he asked, ignoring my question. He glanced around. “And where the hell is Casey?”

“I snuck off and left him at the party,” I admitted. “He’s on his way.”

“Damn it, Elliot.” Nic pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can’t do that. I sent him with you for a reason.”

“Was that reason to keep me from knocking a bitch out? Because, believe it or not, I stopped myself from doing that all on my own.”

He eased himself down beside me. “What’s going on? Why’d you leave the party early?”

“Willoughby and I ended it.”

Nic sat with this for a minute before saying, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No, you’re not. You don’t even like him.”

“I don’t like him. But I still care how it makes you feel.”

“Did you care earlier when you threatened to lock me in my room? Did you care how that made me feel?”

“I shouldn’t have done that, but I’m still not over what happened to you last year. It gives me nightmares, too. I worried about Greer showing up at Willoughby’s tonight.”

“Yeah, right,” I said, staring up at the house, where our bedroom windows were aglow—warm golden rectangles cut into brick—each one surrounded by ivy. For a prison, it looked pretty damn charming. “If that were the case, you would’ve mentioned it earlier. Before you threatened me.”

“Why? So you could live in fear? Like I do every day?”

I rolled my eyes at how dramatic he sounded. “Like you don’t know exactly where Greer is. A million bucks says you’ve been following his movements for weeks.”

Naturally, Nic didn’t comment.

“You know,” he said after a minute, staring up at the house, too, “when I was your age, what I wanted more than anything was a family.”

I cut my eyes at him. “You had a family.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but it didn’t feel like a family. I wanted one like the kind you see on sitcoms and holiday commercials. Or the ones I saw in the park every Saturday, sitting on a blanket in the grass. A mom and a dad. A couple of kids.” He smiled, like he could see those families right then, still fresh in his memory. “At some point—and it always happened, always—one of the kids would say something to make the parents laugh, and they’d look at each other—the mom and the dad—like ‘How’d we get so lucky?’ And I always envied that about other families, because the only picnics I ever had in the park were with a nanny. My dad spent his Saturdays at the firm while my mom met with the decorator again, or helped throw another gala, or met a friend for lunch.”

It pinched my heart to think of my dad as a kid, sitting in the park with some strange woman, aching for something he didn’t have. A boy who could have literally anything he wanted—and he only wanted his parents.

“I grew up pretty lonely,” he said, “so I made a lot of plans. I begged my dad to buy this house so I could fill it with kids and make it the type of home I never had. I vowed to spend my Saturdays at home, where I belonged. I’d take my kids to the park. I’d take them for ice cream and breakfast. I’d take them ice-skating at Christmas and trick-or-treating at Halloween. I wouldn’t leave that stuff for the nanny, because it wasn’t her job. It was mine. Because time is precious, and you can’t ever get that time with your kids back. I’d take off work every summer. I’d make it home well before their bedtime. We’d sit down to dinner every night—at the table, together, as a family. I wanted to be a good dad. Who showed up to everything. Who did the little things, too, not just the big things. Like your hair—no reason I couldn’t do that myself. No reason I couldn’t learn to do it and do it well. Braiding your hair became one of the best parts of my day. When you learned to do it yourself and stopped needing me to do it for you, it broke my heart.”

Now that he mentioned it, I remembered thinking he’d be proud the first time I’d come downstairs, ready for school, excited to show him I’d braided my hair on my own. But he’d only blinked at me, as if stunned, then finished packing my lunch in silence. His reaction—or lack thereof—had hurt my feelings. It wasn’t until he’d taken me for almond croissants and praised me for doing a good job on the braid that I’d forgiven him.

“You were right,” Nic said. “I wanted what the Harrises have. I wanted a wife who wanted the same things I did, and I tried so hard to keep your mom, despite what it would cost me if she stayed. But life doesn’t always go according to plan. Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made in order to keep what you do have. There’s what you wanted, and then there’s what you can’t live without—what you’ll do anything to protect. And it makes you a little crazy.” This part he whispered shakily, his eyes shining in the moonlight as he stared up at the house. “It makes you do things you never dreamed you’d do.”

I laughed bitterly. “So that’s your excuse? You wanted kids—plural—but I’m all you got, and it made you crazy? When you dreamed of having kids, did you ever think that maybe you shouldn’t lie to them? Or hide from them? Or make it impossible for them to ever leave this big, beautiful house you wanted? Like, yeah, you were always there for me, and I thought you were the best dad ever—despite the time you locked me in your office—but you suck at being open. Of all the conversations we’ve had about your childhood, this is the first time you’ve ever told me how lonely you were as a kid. You hide who you really are from me.”

“Who I really am?” Shock rippled across his features before hurt set in, burning behind his gaze. “You know me. You know exactly who I am.”

“No, Nic. I don’t. Until you start answering my questions, I can’t know who you really are. Right now, you’re just some guy who raised me.”

“Some guy?” he repeated, gaze dropping to his hands. “That’s⁠—”

But the sound of the gate latching cut him off. It was you, finally home, digging the house key out of your pocket. You stopped when you spotted us. “Listen, Nic,” you said, both hands held up, “I should’ve kept a better eye on her.”

My dad rose from the bench. “It’s okay, Casey. Elliot told me what happened. It’s not your fault.” He squeezed your shoulder, said goodnight, then headed for the back door.