Page 296 of Mad Girl

I glanced over at my bookcase, where the pair of ceramic squirrels you’d given me for my nineteenth birthday stood, doe-eyed and bushy-tailed, atop a stack of books. For Christmas that year, I’d gift you a pair of navy dress socks covered with tiny squirrels holding acorns, and you’d laugh. Then you’d give me a pair of tiny squirrel earrings, and I’d cry.

You hooked a finger under my chin, pulling my gaze back to yours. “What the hell happened with Willoughby? You tried being with him, and you couldn’t?”

“Sometimes,” I said. “On Halloween, I tried being with him, and he didn’t want me.”

Your eyes flashed. “What do you mean he didn’t want you?”

“He didn’t like the bruise I’d given myself. I told you that.”

“So he rejected you over it?”

“Yeah. I told him I was ready, and he told me to put my clothes back on.”

“Willoughby’s an idiot.”

“No. Willoughby was freaked out, because most girls don’t give themselves bruises when their hookup buddy refuses to give them what they ask for.”

“What did you ask him for?”

“I’d really like to go downstairs now.”

“I’d rather you stay and talk to me about this.”

“Why? What’s the point?”

“I want to understand.”

“That’s just the thing—you can’t understand.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know. No one can understand.” I still felt wounded by Michael’s inability to understand—this from the person who knew me better than anyone. If he didn’t get it, you probably wouldn’t, either.

“Right,” you said, nudging me back as you climbed off the bed. “Let’s go downstairs. I’ll make you another tea to drink with your breakfast.”

“Listen,” I tried, much softer. “I just⁠—”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, staring over my shoulder. You proffered your arm for our journey downstairs, and I fussed about taking it, but I did. A good thing, it turned out, because the staircase began to swirl about halfway to the bottom, and I lurched forward. But your grip tightened and you jerked me back, preventing me from falling.

“Oh, I’m being overly cautious, am I?” you demanded, wide-eyed. “You would’ve toppled to your death if I hadn’t been here. You realize that, right?”

I burst into tears, all my frustration springing free at once. You shushed me as we slowly made our way downstairs, then led me to one of the sofas. You were busy mopping up my tears with the sleeve of your sweater when Michael entered the Garland Room.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

“She got dizzy again on the stairs,” you told him, “and she’s hungry. She needs to eat.”

“Then go make her something,” he said.

“I was just about to do that, Michael.”

You guys entered into a staring contest with each other as you slipped past him and left the room.

Later, while I ate avocado toast with an assortment of perfectly sliced fruit, you guys sat across from each other, freely scrolling on your phones. I hated the awkward silence so much I attempted to turn on the TV, but you quickly confiscated the remote and said no. For the sixth time in as many days, we bickered over what the doctor had meant by “limit screen time.”

Michael sighed. “Casey, you look like you could use a break, dude. Why don’t you go for a walk or something? I’ll stay with Elliot.”

“I’m good, thanks,” you said.