Page 278 of Mad Girl

Michael shook his head. “Elliot, that’s not true.”

I hesitated. “You know Tinsley reads a lot of romance, right?”

“Everyone knows that,” Michael said.

“Okay, well, in some of the books she reads, the characters get a little rough, and Tinsley says that’s hot. But, like, when I was with Willoughby, he didn’t think it was hot when I wanted my hair pulled or any of that stuff. He got freaked out when I asked him for things, and maybe it’s because…I asked the wrong way, you know? I wanted it too much.”

“Elliot, nothing’s wrong with you. It sounds like Willoughby wasn’t into being rough. Which is fine—not everyone’s into that—but he shouldn’t have shamed you for it.”

“It was more than hair pulling, though,” I said, chewing the inside of my cheek. “It was that I asked him…”

Michael ducked to meet my gaze. “Asked him what?”

Again, I hesitated. “To put his hand around my throat.”

Michael drew back, eyes narrowed. “During sex?”

“No. Never.” That would require us to actually have sex. “It wasn’t sexual at all. I just wanted…to feel differently about what happened with Greer.”

“By being choked again?”

“Of course not. I don’t ever want to experience that again. It’s just—no matter how many times I talk to my therapist about the assault, and she tells me I’m not to blame, I still feel like I caused it. Like I went too far. Like I finally pushed someone too hard. I made him hate me enough to end me. For the first time in my life, it was too late for an apology—too late to go back and ask for forgiveness. I still get this panicky feeling, like, if he had killed me—if Rory hadn’t stopped him—I would’ve gotten exactly what I deserved.”

And maybe he should have.

Maybe that would’ve been better.

This is what I’ve never had the courage to say out loud. Not even to my therapist. Not until right now, Casey. In this letter. To you.

“But you didn’t deserve it,” Michael said, squeezing my hand tight. “You didn’t deserve to be held down and almost raped for refusing to apologize. You didn’t deserve to be strangled to death for telling a guy no. Maybe that’s why Willoughby freaked out—because it’s hard to imagine someone hurting you like that, let alone acting out the role of your aggressor. At least, it would be for me.”

“So if I’d asked you to do it, you would’ve freaked out, too.” A statement, not a question.

Michael squeezed my hand again. “Of course not. But I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting my hand to your throat, either. What if reenacting the assault took you back to a dark place?”

Took me back? Couldn’t he see I was still there? Had always been there?

Lived in a dark place?

Being attacked by Greer had just reinforced what I already believed about myself—what my dad had recently confirmed: I belonged here.

Silenced and hidden.

Forever trapped in the dark.

“Right.” I slipped my hand from his and turned back to the show. It was the scene where Monica’s dancing with the giant turkey on her head, and Chandler says I love you, only to freak out and try to take it back. “You’re totally right. It’s probably best not to go there.”

“Hey, I’m not saying you were wrong to ask for that.”

“No, I know,” I said, waving away his comment. “I thought you’d understand it a bit more. But you can’t, and that’s okay.”

“I do understand. I know why you ask for this stuff. I know it makes you feel better. If you asked me for anything else, I’d give it to you in a second—like I did every time we were together. I’m not like Willoughby. You can ask me for anything, and I won’t shame you for it. I feel like I’ve made that pretty clear.”

“You have,” I said. But it wasn’t enough. I didn’t know why it wasn’t, just that his inability to understand left me wishing I’d never told him about the throat thing in the first place. And then I felt bad for wanting to keep something from him—like you had, Casey—because he and I weren’t supposed to keep secrets from each other. Hoping to reassure him, I pressed my thumb to his scar for the second time that night. “And I appreciate that about you. I really do. It’s⁠—”

“What’s going on?” you asked from the doorway, back early from your little outing. Your hookup.

As I snatched my hand from Michael’s face, I caught the stony look on yours. You were pissed, Casey—and not in the way that meant you were drunk.