Page 292 of Mad Girl

“It does make me sad,” you said, expression nostalgic as you glanced around the room, “but it also makes me happy. She loved the little things—like fruit tucked into greenery and candles burning when it rained and fresh flowers from the market every Sunday—and I didn’t realize how much I loved that stuff, too, until she was gone…and all those wonderful little things vanished with her.”

Your face, Casey—it broke my heart. I wanted to climb in your lap, wanted to kiss the sadness and longing away.

Why didn’t I do that? What the hell was stopping me?

“So then we’ll burn candles when it rains,” I said, “and buy fresh flowers every Sunday. If you love something, and it makes you happy, you should keep it in your life.” The new look of longing on your face—different and more intense than before—made me feel something dangerous, so I added, “And, hey, I’m sorry I called you a nerd today. If I could really travel back in time, I’d go visit thirteen-year-old Casey.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “Why? Because he makes you all mushy inside?”

“Yeah. I’d like to tell him it gets better. His mom may be gone, but her death leads him to discover he has this whole other family. And in the not-so-distant future, when he travels to America to meet them, they welcome him with open arms⁠—”

“With open arms? Really?” you asked, mouth parted in disbelief. “This is what you say to a sad young boy who’s just lost his mum? You lie to him?”

“Okay, he’s grieving, so I’d obviously sugarcoat it a bit.”

“A bit? The man who might be his father slaps him with a background check almost immediately upon his arrival, and the girl who might be his sister not only threatens to castrate him but tries getting rid of him.”

“Listen, if I tell him the truth—that, years later, the girl is still giving him a hard time and he still hasn’t told his real family that they’re his real family—he might never come find us.”

You considered this. “Honestly? He still would. This is a boy who practiced violin up to four hours per day. He was never one to back away from a challenge. Besides, he would’ve been insanely curious to learn more about this beautiful young woman who pops up randomly to hug him and talk nonsense about his future. That alone would’ve sealed his fate.”

I smiled really big, and you smiled back.

Then you picked up my braid, stroking it between your fingers. “I’ve never stopped to consider that before now.”

“Consider what?”

“That, ultimately, my mum’s death is the only reason I’m here at all—in Boston. If she were alive today, I probably wouldn’t know that any of you exist. You and I might never have met.”

“That’s true,” I said, trying to imagine it—this alternate world where you and I had never met—but couldn’t.

The thought of living my whole life without you—without ever knowing you existed at all—filled me with sorrow.

How wrong—how empty and much darker—that life would be.

But would you have been better off…without me?

I grabbed a button on your cardigan and toggled it between my fingers. “Will you tell me more about her? Your mom? I like hearing you talk about her.”

It took you so long to respond I thought maybe you wouldn’t. But then you did, and your voice held so much love and admiration and reverence, Casey, that it stretched to every corner of that room.

“My mum had this curly mass of white-blonde hair, a little mole on her right cheek, and amber eyes that looked like liquid gold when the light hit them just right—very rare. She was a wonderful person. Completely selfless. Always doing nice things for people, like going out of her way to do household chores for the little old lady down the road and paying for a family’s groceries once at the supermarket because they didn’t have enough money to pay the bill. She loved old movies, old TV shows, old music, the crooners especially—Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby were two of her favorites. Every night, she’d make herself an old fashioned and play their music while she cooked. Sometimes she’d sing along—really belt it out—in this mortifying, off-key voice that made me laugh. She loved that Judy Garland movie you like to watch round the holidays. Meet Me in St. Louis. Her favorite Christmas song was the one Judy sings in the window because she’s sad about moving: ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’ She made holidays special…and birthdays, too. Every year, on my birthday, I’d wake up to balloons on my bedroom ceiling. The morning of my thirteenth birthday, I woke to thirteen blue balloons. The last thing she ever said to me was—” You stopped here a moment, too choked to continue. “She said, ‘Happy Birthday, Casey—my darling, beautiful boy.’ She died a short while later, and it was all my fault.” You swiped a fallen tear from your face and whispered, “All my fault.”

Pretty choked up myself, I wanted to ask how that could possibly be, but that’s when my dad walked in the room, yanking at his tie and saying, “It smells great in here. What is that? Oranges?”

And the moment was lost.

“Yeah,” I said thickly. “We tucked them into everything—like Casey’s mom used to do at Christmas.”

Nic dropped down beside you on the sofa, his gaze roaming over the room. “I love that,” he said, smiling. “I really love that.” He patted your knee, then glanced over, noticing the tears you hadn’t yet managed to blink away. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

You forced a smile. “Nothing.”

I grabbed your hand, squeezing the part between your thumb and forefinger where your tattoo was—the C for Charlotte.

The morning of Christmas Eve, while my dad disappeared down the street to “visit” the Harrises, I tilted a cup of tea up to my mouth and temporarily blacked out. Hot liquid sloshed down the front of my Harvard sweatshirt. I yelped, yanking the soiled fabric away from my body.

You rushed over with a dishcloth. “Jesus, Elliot. I told you to be careful.”