Page 256 of Mad Girl

“Thank God,” I whispered.

“Thank God,” you repeated. “That’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“You felt it, too,” you said, stroking my chin now. “This thing between us—it wasn’t ever a figment of my imagination or something to be ignored. It was too big for all that. It demanded my attention. It was real.”

We stared at each other for a second.

“Go on,” you said. “Get it out.”

“Get what out?”

You lifted an eyebrow. “Whatever it is you need to say to break up the general mushiness of this moment.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything. I just wanted to ask—and I want you to be honest with me—did you have feelings for Michael in the beginning? Before you knew he was your brother?”

You lifted a strand of my hair again, wound it tightly around your finger, and laughed. “No, I just flirted with him sometimes, but it was all in good fun. I could tell he was totally straight. Bit embarrassing now, but it could’ve been worse.”

“He told me you touched his scars once.”

You nodded. “I’d watched you stroke his lip a few times by then, so I was curious. I wanted to see what you felt, wanted to feel where you’d stabbed him. I remember being surprised he let me, but that’s how he used to be with me back then—more accepting.”

I wanted to ask what you meant by that, but you kept talking. “Speaking of Michael”—you winced—“I have a confession to make.”

I leaned back a little. “What?”

“For the last year or so, I’ve been donating the bulk of my condoms to him.”

“What?”

“Every time I go by Michael’s, I drop a few condoms into his nightstand drawer.” You paused to think. “He must wonder why he never runs out.”

I blinked at you. “What?”

“Sienna once told me she’s shit at remembering to take the pill every day, so I don’t want him running out of condoms.”

“So all this time, while I’ve been counting your condoms—and feeling devastated, by the way, over every one that’s ever gone missing—you haven’t even been using them all? You’ve been giving them away?”

“See,” you whispered, taking my face in your hand, “this is exactly why you shouldn’t rifle through people’s things. You got yourself worked up over nothing.”

“Wow.” I shoved your hand away. “So you knew I was counting them all along, and you were fucking with me.”

“I suspected you were still counting them, and let this be a lesson to stop going through my shit.”

I gaped. I huffed. For a second or two, I struggled to speak. “But I justified having Willoughby up to my room while you sat downstairs because I thought you were sleeping around—like, a lot.”

You sighed.

“In other words, you got burned, too,” I pointed out.

“Majorly,” you agreed. “I came back from England thinking…”

“Thinking what?”

You searched my gaze. “I’d have you all to myself.”

I snorted. “Well, I’m all yours now.”