Page 291 of Mad Girl

“He says it isn’t the best way of coping, but you know what? I’ve come a long way, because for years I wouldn’t even listen to violin—and now I have it on this playlist. I’ve listened to violin loads since starting therapy, and I call that progress.” You swallowed hard, head nodding. “And I’m slicing up these oranges—exactly like we did the Christmas before she died—and we’re going to do something lovely with them like she’d have done, and that’s progress, too.” Another hard swallow, head shaking. “That’s no small thing. That’s huge for me.”

It might’ve been the catch in your voice, or the deluge of personal information you’d unexpectedly dumped on me, or the thought of you playing violin as beautifully as the one being played throughout the kitchen, or the thought of you quitting something you loved when your mother died—or maybe all of it—but I placed my hand on your arm to stop you from slicing, then pulled you away from the counter and slipped my arms around your back. I hugged you tight, fighting to keep the tears at bay.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“For what?” you asked, voice scratchy but soft.

“Everything,” I said, nuzzling my face against your chest. The soft cotton of your cardigan felt positively divine against my cheek. “How long will the orange slices need to bake?”

“About four to six hours.”

I pulled back. “Are you shitting me?”

“Nope,” you said with a smile, all traces of sadness gone.

“What are we supposed to do during all that time?”

“We could make orange pomanders⁠—”

“Orange pomanders?”

“It’s where you stick little cloves inside the oranges and set them out for decoration. They fill the whole room with a warm citrusy smell you’ll love. I promise.”

“Okay. While we’re at it, though, will you please tell me more about what a giant nerd you were growing up?”

You stopped slicing to stare at me, blinking as though you couldn’t decide whether to laugh or be offended. In the end, you smiled. “Wow. That’s—okay, then.”

“Bear in mind this is coming from someone who’s been a social pariah her whole life—okay?—but there’s no way you were one of the cool kids,” I said, smiling back. “I picture you carrying around your violin case in a cardigan and perfectly ironed pants, then putting on your little black glasses to read the sheet music.” I pressed both hands to my heart, hardly able to contain the golden rush of emotions pooling in my chest. “Which I find extremely endearing, by the way, and it makes me feel super mushy to think of you like that—but it sounds like you probably chose to spend your weekends at home, like, drawing up plans for a kick-ass gingerbread house with your sister when you weren’t practicing violin.”

“Um—” You laughed, the sound both husky and, frankly, adorable. “I wasn’t especially cool for a while, alright? Bit obsessed with the violin, quite studious, and yes, I actually liked spending time with my sister, but I played rugby and football, too. Did a bit of everything, really—but then I had to, since my dad was a PE teacher who forced the issue.”

“Did you have any friends?” I shot you a mini death glare. “Besides Jake, I mean?”

You frowned. “Yes, Elliot, I had friends. Not many, I admit, but I didn’t have much free time, either. Until I quit violin, that is, and then I had nothing but free time—which I filled with some not-so-savory activities. Overnight, I became the brooding kid whose mum had died, then suddenly I was much cooler, or maybe more interesting, and everyone wanted to be friends with me. I went to all the parties and got shit-faced like everyone else, and I was up for most anything⁠—”

“Like hooking up with teachers and moms?”

You stopped slicing to fix me with a vexed look. “It was one teacher and one mum—and I’m not proud of it. The way I acted back then? It’s one of the reasons I can’t bring myself to tell John who I am. I’ve done some properly sordid shit—while Michael and Bree have only ever been perfect.”

“Only because they had to be—for living in the spotlight,” I pointed out. “Which Michael resents, by the way.”

“I guess so,” you agreed.

“Hey,” I said, reaching over the counter to touch your wrist. “I used to think John was perfect, but this is a man who got two girls pregnant in college and is currently hiding a secret throuple that would blow up his entire life if the media caught wind of it. You’ve heard the stories about him and my dad—all the trouble they got into growing up? Plus, John’s the first Harris—in a long line of Harrises—who didn’t get into an Ivy. When he took a gap year to care for his illegitimate child, his family practically disowned him.”

“Which is awful and shitty of his family—and another reason I hesitate, more every day, to bring shame on him,” you said, letting out a sigh that sounded like defeat. “Can we please go back to talking about what a nerd I was?”

Several hours later, the orange slices were dried and tucked into the magnolia-and-pinecone garland over the fireplace, some hung from the tree with jute twine, and the whole house smelled of oranges—the Garland Room especially, those orange pomanders sitting in an antique silver bowl on the coffee table next to the potted green poinsettias. We sat back, admiring our work.

“They really liven the place up, don’t they?” I said, turning my body toward the fireplace. “It’s amazing how something so simple can make me so happy.”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For remembering I told you about the orange slices that day—and for thinking I might like a reminder of her at Christmas.”

“I almost didn’t,” I admitted, “because I don’t like making you sad.”