Page 285 of Mad Girl

We both gaped at you. In unison, we said, “What?”

“She’s a friend of the family, she goes to a local uni, she’s not shallow like Sienna is, and she’s actually very attractive.”

“Wow, Casey.” Pretty sure I shot a mini death glare across the sofa. “Very?”

“I agree,” Michael said. “Tinsley’s hot. But I can’t imagine myself ever dating her.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That would be really weird.”

“Oh?” You leaned past Michael, narrowing your gaze at me. “Why’s that? Is there some rule saying they can’t date?”

“Well, no. It’s just—they don’t even—she’s not his type.”

“On the contrary,” you argued, “she’s exactly his type. She’s feminine, flirty, has a great sense of humor. She doesn’t take his shit. And I can’t say for sure, but judging by her taste in books? I’d bet she’s got a kink or two.”

“But she’s not blonde or a bitch,” I said, “when every girl he’s ever dated has been both blonde and a bitch. They’re practically requirements.”

“Okay.” Michael gave a half laugh. “This conversation is pointless, because I’m never dating Tinsley. Can we drop it, please?”

So we did. But your smoldering gaze kept catching mine over Michael’s back as he cheered on the Celtics, giving me butterflies and filling me with dread at the same time.

You’re pretty hot when you’re jealous, Casey.

But also a little terrifying.

The first snowfall of December brought about the event that ultimately returned everything back to normal.

At least, back to normal with my dad and the Harrises.

After therapy that day, we grabbed honey cinnamon lattes and took the long way home, strolling past window boxes brimming with fresh greenery and holly. Past balsam garlands strung around front door transoms, their lights still twinkling beneath a pillowy gray sky, the air thick with the promise of snow.

I stopped in front of a brownstone with a wreath in every window and fairy lights strung through the flocked-pinecone greenery over the door. A fat Christmas tree sparkled bright through the front bay window, silver tinsel dripping from its branches.

I filled my lungs full of crisp winter air—the heady scent of fires burning, of pine needles rustling through the air—and finally felt the tiniest glimmer of real Christmas cheer. “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful than Christmas in Boston?”

When you didn’t answer, I turned to the side and caught you watching me, your gaze dancing softly over my face. “You should see London at Christmastime,” you said, reminding me of my conversation with Eleanor on election night—the story of how she’d met your adoptive mother in London at Christmastime. I started to tell you so, figuring you probably weren’t aware, but you clasped my elbow and jutted your chin at a different brownstone, diverting my attention. “I like the simplicity of this one.”

Black door. A simple lush wreath made of fresh cedar, seeded eucalyptus, and dried orange slices. I tilted my head. “It’s only a wreath.”

“The orange slices remind me of my mum,” you said, wearing a wistful expression. “She used to tuck them into everything at Christmas.”

You were so broodingly handsome that day, Casey: coat collar popped up, scarf loose around your neck, a wavy tuft of hair sticking out of your beanie, your cheeks rosy from the cold. The sight of you made my chest ache. Made me want to take you home, give you a nice long cuddle by the fire, and kiss that wrinkle between your eyebrows until it disappeared.

“Anyway,” you said, heaving a sigh, “why do you look so sad?”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” you said, falling into step beside me. “Every time we stop, you look ready to cry.”

“I just have this bad feeling I can’t shake. It feels like I’m seeing Christmas for the last time.”

Your body gravitated closer to mine on the sidewalk, your arm stroking my arm. “I don’t like this bad feeling of yours.”

“Well, neither do I. There’s this question I keep putting off. Can you guess what it is?”

“When do I leave for England?”

I nodded.