Page 282 of Mad Girl

“I’m done with this conversation.” I shoved past you, desperate to hide in my room, where you couldn’t touch me, analyze me, or whisper sweet apologies in my ear.

“Oh? Who’s jumping ship now?” You were right behind me. “Is touching my brother really that important to you? Or do you have feelings for him, too?”

I stopped and twisted around. “I’m jumping ship because every time I think I know you, I learn you’re still hiding things from me.”

“I could say the same about you,” you said, so quiet my skin prickled. “Have you been completely honest with me about anything?”

No. The regret—the lies—rooted my feet to the floor.

“The fight you had with Nic before Halloween—you said he did something horrible to you, but you’ve never told me what it is. You got too real with Willoughby, but you wouldn’t say how. Was it the bruise? Or something else? On Halloween, you stopped me going down on you.” You gestured at the kitchen island. “You were scared—scared of where it was going, or of me, I don’t know—but you could’ve told me you needed to slow down. You didn’t have to make it about your dad walking in. And then later, on the sofa, I worried I was coming on too strong again, so I pulled back. And I get it—I have a hard time confiding in you, too, but I feel I’ve confided in you way more than you’ve ever confided in me. I suspect that what I actually know of you barely scratches the surface of who you are. You won’t let me see you.”

“Right,” I said through the knot in my chest, backing up, closer to the stairs. “Which is why this doesn’t work. We’re too damaged. Too scared. Too closed off to be anything more than friends.”

LETTER TWENTY-SIX

10 WEEKS LEFT

Of all the things I miss in jail, you know what I miss most? All those inescapable hours with you.

Especially our last Christmas together.

Your Christmas playlist—the classics, played on violin, heart-rending versions that moved, shimmering through the house like light. Your “posh” little tin of biscuits—ginger fingers and buttery petticoat tails, clotted creams and chocolate pearl shortbread rounds—all of which you shared with me over our afternoon cup of tea. (I hesitate to admit this, even now, but they were indeed better than Oreos. Picture, if you will, a rolling eyes emoji here.) And, finally, our holiday tours around Beacon Hill—my arm looped through yours, spiced lattes in hand, all those festive front doors made resplendent for the season—I miss those with an ache so profound it hurts to the tips of my fingers and toes.

Oh! And the oranges from our last Christmas.

How could I ever forget the oranges?

Anyway, Christmas was yesterday, and we had a whole hour to discuss, which was fifty-eight minutes more than we needed to discuss mine. Christmas in jail is even more bland and depressing than I let on, so I quickly changed the subject, asking about yours.

“It was good. Definitely preferable to having the flu,” you said, cracking a smile.

I smiled back. “What did you do?”

“Claire and Rhys are here, so⁠—”

“Here?” I leaned forward. “In Boston?”

You nodded. “Claire planned the whole visit without telling me. Five days ago, I answered a knock on my door and there they were. It was a huge surprise, and your dad was in on it, because he’d already given me the time off.”

“Oh my God,” I said, sitting back. “They’re here. Wow. That’s awesome.”

“Well, Claire knows how I feel about leaving you—my trips are far more brief than they used to be—so she’s here for three whole weeks. And it’s been great, it really has. We’ve taken Rhys all over town. He loves the bronze ducklings in the park and the little Santa hats they’ve put on them for Christmas. He loves the tortoise and hare in Copley Square, the colorful lights strewn through the trees in the Common, and the little children’s room at the bookshop I told you about. He especially loves the train that goes round the ceiling—he’s obsessed with trains—but he’s also very serious for a five-year-old. He stopped me reading a book to him at bedtime last night—he turned to me, very serious—and he said, ‘Uncle Casey, I think I’d quite enjoy living here. I can see why you like it. But I’d much rather you lived in England with me. We’d have loads more fun if you moved back.’ And, oh my God, that just”—you placed a hand over your heart—“that really got me. He’s such a special kid. I can’t help but think what a shame it is my mum never got to meet him. She’d be proud, you know?”

“She’d be proud of you both,” I replied, blinking back the tears that had unexpectedly leapt to my eyes. “I’m sad I’m missing their visit. I would’ve loved to meet them.” To see you with Rhys. To talk to Claire in person.

“Well, I’m sure they’ll come again,” you said. “Maybe next Christmas. I’ll talk to Claire.”

I forced a smile. “You didn’t get a chance to finish earlier—when I asked what you did for Christmas.”

“Right,” you said, smoothing down the front of your sweater. “Well, we spent the better part of the day at Nic’s, and it was good, you know. It might’ve been a bit awkward at first, but Ryan’s a lovely host. She’s⁠—”

“Lovely?” The word dripped with contempt. “Do you actually like this woman, Casey?”

You squirmed in your chair. “Um—that’s a bit—I certainly don’t dislike her. She just—she has a way about her that’s—um—you know what? The day was good. That’s the important thing. Claire got to meet Tinsley—they’ve met a few times now—and she adores Tinsley. Rhys, too. He might have a bit of a crush, actually. He thinks Tinsley’s pretty amazing.”

Jealousy snaked its way through my veins. While I trust Tinsley, I definitely don’t love the idea of her spending precious time with you in my absence.

To avoid causing a scene, I chose to focus on something of greater concern instead. “What about John?” I asked, leaning forward. “Claire must’ve met him, right?”