Page 290 of Mad Girl

“I am, actually,” you said. “I once won a gingerbread house contest with Claire. It had candy glass windows and everything.”

“Of course it did.” I watched you cut through the netting on one of those bags of oranges. “As soon as I figure out where you hid my phone, I’m texting Tinsley to tell her how unbelievably crafty you are.”

“Hey.” You pointed the scissors at me. “There’s an idea. We’ll build a gingerbread house from scratch tomorrow, and that’ll keep us busy all day.”

“Oh my God,” I groaned. “I’m trapped in a Hallmark movie right now. Girl with head injury is forced into seclusion with her holiday-obsessed bodyguard. Cue the cheesy background music.”

It kills me now—how I made it all sound so lame.

But what I wouldn’t give to be back there, stuck in that dark but cozy dungeon of a house with you, drying orange slices at Christmas while Frank Sinatra crooned softly in the background.

You made my last December before coming here pretty magical, Casey. I hope you know that.

“Sounds like an ideal way to fall in love, if you ask me,” you said, grabbing a knife from the butcher block, your gaze pricking mine.

My chest ached. “Hand me a knife,” I said, forcing myself to look away, “so I can help.”

“Absolutely not. I’d rather you line the slices up on a baking sheet. The last thing we need is you getting dizzy again and slicing your finger open.”

“Fine,” I grumbled, pushing my stool back. While I lifted baking sheets out of a cabinet drawer by the stove, a familiar Christmas song drifted through the kitchen. An enchanting, slowed-down version of “Carol of the Bells,” played entirely on violin.

“I love this song on your playlist. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Mine, too,” you said, already slicing into an orange. “I miss playing it.”

“Playing it?” Then I remembered: “Oh, right. You used to play violin.”

You nodded.

“Were you any good?”

“Exceptionally good.”

“Why did I even ask?” I quietly mused aloud.

You chuckled. “Believe me, it didn’t come easily. I practiced for hours every day. I was absolutely obsessive about it.”

“So it wasn’t something to put on your college application, like it is for Bree?”

“Oh, no. I played from a young age. I hoped to play professionally—in fact, my dream was to go to Juilliard and, from there, to be picked up by an orchestra.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” you said softly. “Really.”

“If you loved it so much, why did you stop playing?”

“Because my mum died, and after that I just…couldn’t see the point of it anymore.”

“Why not?”

You shrugged.

“So you haven’t played since you were thirteen?” I asked.

“No.” The knife came down hard on the chopping block. “And I never will again.”

“What does your therapist say about that?”