Page 272 of Mad Girl

“Even though I said some really hurtful stuff to you?”

“Even though you said some really hurtful things to me, yes.”

“I’m tired of being mad at you, Dad. I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, honey,” he said, pulling me into a hug and pressing my head to his chest. “I know.”

Libby stood, gripping the back of the stool. “Nic, don’t let yourself be swayed.”

But Nic only stiffened, squeezing me tighter. “Libby, I’d like you both to leave.”

“Nic,” Libby said, clutching John’s forearm.

“Let me handle this my way,” Nic said, and though I couldn’t see his face, whatever Libby saw there definitely caused her to flinch.

John led Libby out the back door, and Nic led me over to the island, where I tearfully apologized again and asked for his forgiveness. Where he brushed away my tears and apologized, too, instantly forgiving me. Where I forced myself to forget about his relationship with the Harrises, and how psycho he’d been acting lately, and whatever this truth was that he didn’t want to tell me, because he was giving me something I didn’t deserve: mercy.

Mercy, yet again.

Mercy, for maybe the hundredth time in my short life.

Also, I just really missed him and wanted things to go back to normal.

“I’ll go back to therapy,” I promised. “I hurt myself because I felt bad about hurting you, but I won’t do it again. I’ll be good. I promise.”

Nic dropped his gaze, squeezing my hand where it rested on the counter. “Okay.”

I could tell he didn’t believe me.

LETTER TWENTY-FIVE

18 WEEKS LEFT

Since coming back from the hospital, I’ve been drifting through this place in a fog.

As I joined you at the steel table today, you struggled—and failed—not to flinch at the still-grisly sight of my bruised face while I stared, unblinking, at the geometric pattern of your tie.

I don’t know where I belong anymore.

I just know that I’m lost.

“I want to tell you something,” you said.

I closed my eyes. “Please don’t.”

“I’m going to tell you, anyway,” you said, leaning forward. “Because you need to hear it. This year, on my birthday, I didn’t go out. I didn’t drink. I didn’t do anything, apart from having dinner with your dad. For the first time since my mum died, I didn’t spiral. Not one bit.”

“Casey, you already told me this—months ago.”

“Yes, and now I’m going to tell you why it matters. A few years ago, this angry girl convinced me to get help for my issues, and I’ve been doing that ever since. And yes, if you must know, I’ve bawled like a baby on more than one occasion, and it was horribly embarrassing every time, but it was worth it, I think, because I’m here. I’m showing up. And do you know why that’s so important?”

“No,” I said flatly, “but I’m pretty sure you’re about to tell me.”

“Because everything’s gone to shit. You did what you did, literally everything went to shit, and I so easily could’ve been broken by that—by what I said to you at that party, by the blame I’ve placed on myself for what happened that night, but I wasn’t. Losing you did not break me. A few years ago? Everything that’s happened? You leaving? It would’ve broken me. I would’ve been weighed down so heavily with guilt that I wouldn’t have been able to haul myself back up again. But I’ve forced myself to keep going to therapy—even more so since you left, even though it’s been really uncomfortable at times, and I’ve hated it—because you needed me to show up, and I wanted to be able to tell you…I didn’t spiral on my birthday. I wanted to be able to tell you I’m doing right. I’m going to school. I’m working two jobs. I’m choosing to focus on the things I can control rather than beating myself up over the things I can’t. I’m learning to accept that sometimes”—you stopped here, too choked up to continue, cleared your throat, tried again—“my hopes and dreams…will only ever be just that. Sometimes, life just doesn’t work out.”

The look you gave me made it obvious you were referring, at least partially, to me. To us.

“And that’s okay,” you said. “My whole world doesn’t have to come crashing down if it doesn’t. I won’t be destroyed if it doesn’t. I’ll be okay. Not perfectly okay—not perfectly happy, even—but basically alright. I didn’t trust myself back then. I didn’t trust myself to be strong enough to handle it if things didn’t work out, but I was. I’m handling it. I’m so much stronger than I ever thought I could be. And you’ll hate hearing this, but you’re part of the reason I’m still standing. You’re the best thing that ever could’ve happened to me.”