Page 293 of Mad Girl

By then, I’d had it with the constant hovering, the dizzy spells and occasional blackouts, the tears that came of nowhere, the dull headaches that remained long after I’d taken a pain pill. For the second time that morning, tears leapt to my eyes.

“Here,” you said, and in one rapid movement—which I didn’t have time to process, let alone stop—you lifted my sweatshirt. And froze.

I shoved it back down, face burning so hot I’m pretty sure my tears evaporated.

“Um,” you said, eyes huge. “Okay. Wow. I didn’t—wow.”

“Oh my God. Why would you do that?”

“In this particular sweatshirt, I can never quite tell, but I assumed you were wearing a bra.”

“You assumed wrong!” I cried, pressing an arm to my chest.

“Well, stop pressing the fabric to your skin,” you said, gently tugging my arm down. “You’re red and blotchy as it is. You’ll only make it worse.”

“I can’t believe you just saw my tits,” I whined.

“Why’re you embarrassed?” Your voice had turned to hot gravel. “They’re very nice tits.”

“Compared to all the other ones you’ve seen?”

“I’m choosing to ignore that—because yours are currently being seared into my memory. My filthy daydreams are about to become ten times filthier, I’m afraid.”

“Stop,” I said with a laugh, nudging you in the shoulder. “They’re too small.”

You shot me a look like, Are you crazy? “They are not too small. They’re absolutely perfect.”

I blushed. “Thanks. Now, help me clean up this mess.”

“I would,” you said, arm braced on the counter, the dishcloth fisted in your hand, “but I need a minute.”

I glanced down, and my cheeks reddened again. Lips pressed together, I fought back a smile. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or embarrassed for you.”

“You should be both,” you said, eyes squeezed shut. “In the meantime, help me get my mind off it. Right now, I’m trying very hard to think of my gran. Her soft, wrinkly hands. How her kitchen smelled of the patchouli she grew on the windowsill…”

“Aww, you had a gran? She sounds so…wholesome.”

“Oh, but she wasn’t wholesome,” you said seriously, eyes flinging back open. “Not at all. She had a mouth much dirtier—and more abrasive, I might add—than yours, especially when someone crossed her. She used to stick Claire with toothpicks for every little offense. But never me. She adored me.”

“Of course she did. You are, after all, a Harris. Tell me more about her.”

“She called me poppet. Taught me how to play poker. Gave me my first cigarette. Said it would serve me quite well to remember that a woman’s pleasure must always come first.”

“Damn,” I said with a grin. “Gran was a badass.”

“She was,” you agreed, then winced. “Except I was eleven when she told me this, so I wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that. I thought maybe I was meant to make all the women in my life happy by being extra helpful and doting on them and stuff.”

I tossed my head back, laughing. “I love your gran. What else did she do?”

“She introduced me to classical music. Taught me how to make the perfect cup of tea—how to bake. Oh, and she always fussed over what I ate. She fed me constantly.”

“So that’s where you get it from. Your entire personality makes so much sense now.” I made a concerted effort not to glance down. Was it the laughing that had me feeling lightheaded? The charming topic of conversation? The lack of breakfast? Or you? “You okay now?”

“Keep talking. Describe something repulsive.”

“Our dads and Libby. All three together. Probably right now. Having lots of make-up⁠—”

You placed three fingers over my mouth, effectively muffling that last word. “That’ll do it,” you said, standing up. After we wiped up all the tea, you said, “Come on. We need to get you out of these clothes.”