Page 261 of Mad Girl

“So what if she is? What business is that of yours?”

I drew back. “Are you kidding?”

“It sounds to me like an arrangement between three consenting adults. And, from what I’ve seen of them so far, a very loving one.”

“But they hid it from us.”

“Still, that doesn’t excuse what you did—or all the awful things you said to your dad, which you’ve yet to apologize for. This is your family,” you said, head shaking. “If this is how you treat them, I dread to think what you’d do to anyone else who upsets you.”

Without waiting for me to respond, you rose from the sofa and left the room, too, leaving me alone with my choices.

That afternoon, you took your tea upstairs while I sat in the kitchen with mine and wondered where we stood. Less than twenty-four hours ago, you’d wanted us to be together and it had truly felt like we were—like we would be—but sitting by myself, watching the steam curl up from my tea, it felt like we’d never been further apart.

On Election Day, my heart galloped when you entered the kitchen wearing a fitted blue suit that matched your eyes. You were always beautiful to me, but never more so than you were in that suit. I longed to caress the fabric, to drag my fingers down your lapel and inspect the sheen of the suit up close. I just wanted an excuse to touch you. To be near you again. To somehow bridge that horrible new distance between us. But I merely said, “You look nice.”

Nice. Not the right word at all. A more accurate description would be gorgeous. Amazing. Drool-worthy.

You grabbed your watch off the spare charger on the kitchen counter, ignoring me, the suit jacket stretching taut across your back.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Nic asked as he strolled in behind you, still adjusting his cuff links, his gaze flicking over my navy brocade dress.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’re not going with us,” he said firmly.

“Are you serious?”

His head snapped back in surprise. “Are you? No way am I allowing you to feign support for Libby after what you just did.”

Eleanor arrived just minutes later, making it clear I’d be watching the election with her—from home. Nineteen years old, and I was back to being treated like a child. Back to being left with my grandmother.

That night, Eleanor and I sat on opposite ends of the sofa, barely talking. I stared blankly at the TV while she worked on a crossword, one of our blue-and-white teacups sitting on the little brass cocktail table nearby. Years of staying with Eleanor had taught me, however, that the lack of steam wafting from her cup meant she wasn’t actually enjoying tea with her crossword, but her favorite brandy—brought to our house via a tarnished silver flask, tucked inside her bag. This, I’d learned as a result of my snooping skills, which I’m sure you’ve already guessed.

Every now and then, Eleanor lifted her gaze, checking the results of the election as they unfolded on the local news. Bostonians of every race, age, and walk of life were there, gathered on Libby’s behalf, wild with excitement, their glowing smiles aimed at the empty podium onstage, awaiting the results. Even from my living room, I could feel it: the contagious buzz zipping through our city—the electric current of monumental change crackling in the air—as a newswoman interviewed several of Libby’s supporters. A silver-haired grandma-type who was happy to see a woman, finally, in the running. A local college girl who grabbed the mic and said, “Elizabeth Harris is paving the way for the rest of us.” A young history teacher, there with his students, grinning widely as he said, “I don’t just want them to learn about history. I want them to be a part of it.”

In the end, what I’d written on those signs hadn’t stopped Libby from winning the election. In fact, they might’ve helped, because she won by a landslide, gaining more than sixty-four percent of the vote. I rolled my eyes at the horde of supporters behind her onstage, waving her campaign signs in front of a giant American flag. A sea of red, white, and navy blue. The camera panned to John and Michael, standing off to the side, handsome in their navy suits. Bree, standing between them, pretty and pristine in a cobalt blue dress that flared at the waist. All three of them clapped and smiled, three sets of blue eyes trained on Libby.

Elizabeth Harris: the first woman to be elected mayor of Boston, radiant in bright red and pearls, bright lights flashing as she beamed and waved at the crowd. History made.

I felt a stab of sympathy at the thought of you standing somewhere in the crowd. How you must be feeling as you watched her victory take place in person. A victory that would make sharing your news with the Harrises so much harder.

And I wasn’t there to hold your hand, like you’d asked me to.

“Well,” Eleanor said, peering over her cat-eye reading glasses. “She’s done it. And to think, I used to tell her it was awfully bold of her to tell everyone she would.” She gasped, bony hand flying to her chest. “Dear God, I suppose this means I owe her an apology now.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Oh, when they were kids, Libby used to drone on and on about all these lofty goals of hers—how she’d be the first female mayor in Boston’s history, how she’d personally see to it that a Harris became president someday”—she rolled her eyes, fingers waggling in the air—“et cetera, et cetera.”

I considered this, my gaze riveted to Libby onscreen.

Eleanor went back to her crossword.

“Hey,” I said, twisting my body to face hers. Another perk of Eleanor’s special “tea” was that she could be prompted to speak freely about topics she’d ordinarily avoid. “Did Libby and my dad ever—were they ever together at some point?”

Eleanor cackled at that. “Ha! Were they ever. Lost their virginity to each other, apparently.”

I drew back with a grimace. “Gross, Eleanor. Why would you tell me that?”