Page 305 of Mad Girl

But later, when the Harrises arrived for brunch, a new development would eclipse that one. Because, as I’m sure you remember, Michael hadn’t arrived with them.

“What an amazing gingerbread house,” John said, stooped over the island, where your gingerbread creation sat on a white serving platter, covered with icing and powdered sugar to resemble snow. He pressed a fingertip to one of the candy glass windows, captivated by the warm amber glow shining from within. Sprigs of thyme and rosemary climbed its faux stone walls like ivy. “It looks like that cottage on The Holiday.”

I smiled at how fascinated John was by something you’d—I keep writing you here because, let’s face it, you did most of the work—created from scratch. After a couple of minutes, I asked, “Where’s Michael?”

“Not feeling very well,” Libby answered.

“But it’s Christmas,” I said.

“I know, sweetie. We aren’t happy about it, either. But if he’s sick, it’s better for him to stay home.”

“Don’t worry,” John said, giving my arm a squeeze. “I’ll drop by his apartment to check on him later.”

Michael had been perfectly fine the day before. An uneasy feeling settled in my stomach, propelling me back to the Garland Room. I swiped my phone off the coffee table and texted him: What’s going on? Are you sick?

He left me on read, which likely meant he wasn’t sick—but angry. Maybe even missing Christmas on purpose.

Michael had never missed Christmas.

“What’s wrong?” Bree asked, coming up behind me.

“Nothing,” I said, swiping away our text history before turning to face her.

Bree tilted her head, arms crossed over a burgundy sweater. “You seem pretty rattled that Michael’s not here. Is it because you have something to do with that?”

“No,” I said. “I’m just worried about him.”

“I bet you are.”

I gripped my phone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did you really slip and hit your head by accident, Ellie? Or was that a ploy to get attention?”

“Are you serious right now?”

“Honestly, I’m shocked our parents fell for it this time. The amnesia stuff really sold it, huh?”

“Okay, seriously, Bree. What the fuck?” Over her shoulder, I spotted you strolling into the room.

“What’s happening?” you asked, eyebrows creased with concern.

“Bree just accused me of hitting my head on purpose,” I said, pulling a face, “then faking the amnesia to make it look like an accident.”

“Bree,” you said sternly. “Why would you accuse her of lying?”

It unsettled her Casey, being confronted by you. Her arms dropped. The smug expression on her face faltered. For a moment, she blinked back at you, unsure. But then she quickly recovered, saying, “Because she’s a great liar, Casey. The sooner you accept that about her, the better off you’ll be.”

Bree tossed me a withering look before strutting off to the dining room to join our parents.

While I worried at my bottom lip, you stared after Bree. “I’ll talk to her,” you said. “Is Michael alright?”

“Yeah,” I lied, because what good would it do to worry you? To potentially spoil your Christmas? Especially after those nasty things he’d said to you? “Just not feeling well—like Libby said.”

“What about you?” You placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

I clasped the back of my head. “Just a little headache.”

You glanced down at your watch. “Still an hour to go before you can have more painkillers. Maybe you should lie down for a bit after brunch.”