Page 289 of Mad Girl

“I’m fine.”

“No. Once you’ve given your brain a proper rest, like the doctor said you should, then you’ll be fine. But I know how stubborn you are, so I’ll need to make sure you aren’t doing anything you shouldn’t. And since we’ll have to severely limit your screen time, you’ll select a book for me to read to you—which you’ll quite enjoy, I think, because I’ve been told I have a rather nice reading voice. And when you complain of being bored—because you absolutely will, probably nonstop, I’m afraid—I’ll need to find ways of keeping you entertained.”

“Okay, you’re already annoying me, and it’s only been a few minutes.”

“Elliot, stop fighting this and just give in to it, alright? You’ll find that we’re both much happier this way.”

Something about the way you said that made my stomach flip again.

That’s when my dad and the Harrises walked in. All the Harrises, including Michael and Bree. You finally released my hand from your chest, but not before I caught the flash of anger on Michael’s face. He jammed both hands into his pockets, looking away.

You rose from the sofa to make space for John and Libby, who rushed to my side. With tears flowing down her face, Libby pulled me into a hug first, followed by John. He cradled my head to his chest for so long I wondered if he’d ever let me go.

Nic was there, too, sitting across from us on the coffee table.

They formed a triangle—with me at the center—all three of them petting me and cry-laughing and clutching at each other, all three sagging with relief. Their behavior seemed pretty damn dramatic for a minor head injury, and it creeped me the hell out. Had this been one of those crazy situations where, if the injury had occurred one-eighth of an inch to the left, I would’ve died? And no one told me?

I caught you, Michael, and Bree exchanging looks with each other. So I wasn’t the only one who found their behavior strange.

Nic helped me up from the sofa, yet another dizzy spell requiring me to grip his arm for balance. Bree slowly made her approach and hugged me, too, but I barely caught a whiff of her vanilla-scented shampoo before she pulled away, giving me a forced smile. “I’m glad you’re okay, Ellie.”

I thanked her, even though I got the feeling she’d only said it because it would seem weird if she hadn’t. Michael hugged me last, his grip extra tight. When he pulled back, I got the feeling he wanted to say more than he was able with everyone in the room.

That night, our families ate dinner together, the parents back to their normal selves, except for the occasional concerned glance thrown my way across the dining table. After dinner, my dad and the Harrises nursed their nightcaps by the fire, Michael stuck to my side on the sofa, my hand captured between both of his. My head felt impossibly heavy, so I rested it on his shoulder, drifting in and out of consciousness the whole evening.

I have this hazy memory of you scrolling through your phone across from us, your gaze snagging on our joined hands for a moment before it drifted up to pierce mine.

Two days later, despite your many attempts to keep me entertained, I’d indeed grown very bored, complaining—exactly like you said I would—nonstop.

To boost my spirits, Tinsley brought a stack of heavily annotated books to the house, claiming the book you had chosen for us to read would bore anyone to death. But she only made it through one exceptionally graphic love scene before you seized her book, replaced it with yours, and huskily threatened to kick her out if she kept reading “highly stimulating material” to someone whose brain needed a “proper” rest.

After Tinsley (who had also grown bored under such strict conditions) left, Henriette dropped off our weekly groceries. You were in the process of putting them away when you noticed an entire shopping bag filled with oranges and said, “Henriette must’ve misunderstood my list. I only asked for a few oranges, not a few bags of them.”

I pulled a bag across the island countertop, touching the oranges through the netting. “I asked for the oranges.”

That little groove appeared between your eyebrows. “You did? Why?”

“I thought we could dry out a bunch of orange slices and tuck them into everything,” I said. “Like your mom used to do at Christmas.”

Your gaze dropped to the counter as you finished unpacking the oranges.

I rushed to explain. “It’s just that I’m so bored, and it might…give us something to do for a while? Maybe?”

As you folded the shopping bags without comment, I shifted on my stool, trying—and failing—to gauge your mood. “It was just an idea,” I said, waving the whole thing away. “If you don’t want to, we’ll make orange juice instead.”

You leaned on the counter with both hands, finally lifting your gaze to mine. “No, that’s a great idea.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes—and you’re right. It’ll give us something to do today.” You pushed off the counter, then shoved up the sleeves of your cardigan—a slouchy dark green one that made me think of Christmas trees. “So let’s do it.”

“Okay,” I said, flooded with relief. “Can I have my phone back so I can Google how?”

The doctor had simply ordered me to limit my screen time, but you’d taken that to mean I shouldn’t look at a screen at all. I’d spent a good twenty minutes that morning looking for my hidden phone—as well as the TV remote—while you showered and got ready for the day.

“No need,” you said, grabbing scissors from the drawer beside the sink. “I used to help my mum every Christmas. I’m a pro at this.”

“Of course you are.” A pro at wrapping presents. At making little mince pies with cut-out star centers. At crafting shockingly realistic mushrooms out of meringue for your Bûche de Noël ahead of Christmas—The humidity’s just right today, you’d said, so it’s best to make them now. My idea of baking was break-n-bake cookies, and there you were, whipping up creations that would impress Martha Stewart. “Next, you’ll tell me you’re a pro at building gingerbread houses and decorating cookies, too.”