Page 264 of Mad Girl

“Waiting for you.”

You stepped inside, flicked the closet light on, and yanked off your jacket. “Well, I’d like you to leave.”

The harsh tone of your voice pierced straight through me. “Casey, please. How did tonight go?”

You huffed out a harsh laugh. “How do you think it went?”

“You’re upset.”

“Of course I’m upset,” you said, tossing your jacket onto the bed. “And now I’d like to be left alone.”

“But I want to apologize.”

“I’m not the one who deserves an apology.”

“I’ll apologize to them. I will.”

“Because you think that’s what I want?” you asked, your gaze burning through mine as you yanked your tie loose. “Or because you actually feel remorse for the awful things you’ve done lately?”

I flinched at your words. “I feel remorse for the way I went about it—for making Libby cry—but not for what I wrote on those signs. She is a fraud. They all are.”

“Well, so am I. Why don’t you scrawl the word fraud across my forehead and punish me for lying, too?”

“That’s—it’s not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same, and here’s what I don’t get: why you have to resort to such childish behavior to get back at them instead of simply…talking to them about it.”

I bristled at the word childish. “Like how I tried asking my dad if he’d recently been in contact with my mom and he lied to my face? Like that, you mean? Or how about all the times I asked to see a picture of my mom, and the three of them banded together to keep me from finding out I look just like her? And when my dad found out I had pictures, John let him ransack my room and take them from me? Talking doesn’t work with them. They hide things. They lie.”

“Still,” you said, though with a little less conviction. “You owe the Harrises an apology.”

“So I’ll apologize to them”—I left a big pause before adding—“for defacing the signs.”

As we stared at each other, I searched for some of the softness I normally saw on your face when you looked at me. But I only saw cold, hard disappointment.

“Listen,” you said eventually, stuffing both hands into your pockets. “I’m tired, and I’d really rather not deal with this right now.” You spotted the glass of scotch on your nightstand, then walked over and lifted the rim to your nose. “Jesus,” you muttered, thrusting the glass at me. “Take this and go, please.”

All I heard was: I don’t want to deal with you right now. And it crushed me.

Fighting back tears, I snatched the glass from your hand and left.

Over the next few days, there were no coffee dates or strolls through the park to feed the squirrels. I did that stuff with Hal while you studied at the library or went to your therapy sessions. Our only real outing together consisted of a trip to DeLuca’s Market to pick up some last-minute ingredients for dinner. I followed you through the store, wishing you’d talk to me. But you didn’t, not really, only asking if I preferred penne pasta to fusilli or freshly grated Parmesan to shaved.

Everyone else avoided me, too. My dad. Michael. Bree. Even Tinsley, who texted to say, I can’t believe you did that, Ellie, before going radio silent on me.

It was like that awful week at the beach when everyone believed I’d cut myself on purpose—only this time, I deserved to be ostracized.

I kept waiting on my dad to mention Dr. Goldstein, but he never did. So I ventured into his office one day, planting myself in one of the worn brown leather chairs in front of his desk. Curious to see how long it might take him to acknowledge me, I silently watched him answer emails.

Ten minutes passed before he said, “Can I help you with something?”

The cold, impersonal tone of his voice gutted me.

“When are you taking me to Dr. Goldstein?”

Without glancing away from the computer screen, he said, “I’m not.”

“I don’t understand.”