Page 306 of Mad Girl

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I might do that.”

After brunch, while the rest of you chatted over warm drinks—tea for you and Bree, mulled wine for our parents—I sprawled out on the sofa, feet poking your thigh, a throw pillow propped under my head. All afternoon, you kept your hand on my ankle, as if to say, See? I’m not going anywhere. But I could barely take comfort in that, deeply unsettled by the weird exchange with Bree and Michael’s glaring absence. He still hadn’t replied to my text.

What made that Christmas especially bittersweet, though, were the moments between you and John. He always took time to chat with you, and that day was no different. When my dad and Libby left the room refill their drinks, John sat across from you on the coffee table. “So,” he said with a warm smile, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, “Nic tells me you’re planning to do an internship at the firm next year to see if it’s a good fit.”

Despite my own reservations on the topic—which, as you know, we’d get into later—it melted me to hear you ask John for his opinion on the matter. To catch the earnest expression on your face as you sought his approval. To see him place a reassuring hand on your arm, saying your plans sounded great—as long as the firm made you happy.

Of course, all I could think about was how you’d never truly be happy until you told John the truth. I blamed Michael for being so difficult, but I also blamed myself—for being caught between you guys in the first place.

The next day, I learned my dad blamed me, too.

Nic had asked you to pick up takeout for dinner at one of our favorite restaurants a few blocks away. He watched you walk out the back door, then immediately turned to me.

“What’s going on between you and Casey?”

I squirmed in my stool, cradling a cup of lukewarm tea. “Nothing’s going on between me and Casey.”

“Elliot, do you think I’m completely blind to what’s been going on in this house?”

“Is that supposed to be a rhetorical question?”

“I saw you sleeping in each other’s arms yesterday. I wish I’d had time to stop Michael before he saw, too, because he was clearly devastated by it.”

My stomach dropped. “Michael came by on Christmas morning?”

“Yes, and when I suggested he follow me to my office so he and I could talk about it, he said, ‘Fuck this,’ then stormed out and slammed the back door.”

So that’s why he’d missed Christmas—why he’d never responded to my text. “I’ll talk to him,” I said, pushing my stool back. “I’ll go right now. I’ll⁠—”

“Stop,” Nic ordered. “You’re not going anywhere. You’ll only make it worse.”

I gripped the counter. “How will I make it worse?”

“How will you make it better? By telling him what he saw meant nothing? By lying to him again?”

“Again?”

“If Michael’s still this hung up on you, it’s because you haven’t been honest with him about your feelings for Casey, and he believes he still has a chance.”

Guilt pricked my conscience. Nic was right.

“You need to tell Michael the truth,” he said, “but the problem with that is, it’ll make an already precarious situation even more precarious, and that’s the last thing we need right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to stop lying to the Harrises—to John. I need Casey to tell him the truth. I’ve allowed us to keep this secret far longer than I ever should have, and I’ll pay for it. Which is fine—I deserve that. But Casey doesn’t. His news shouldn’t be ruined over girl drama and a jealous sibling.”

“I agree. I don’t want it to go badly for him, either.”

For a long moment, Nic stared at me. “Then it might be best if…you get back with Willoughby.”

I stiffened. “What?”

“Casey won’t take it well, but you can handle him. For the time being, it might be better if you keep Casey at a distance. If nothing’s going on, Michael has no reason to stay upset, and we’ll be able to keep the peace long enough for Casey to tell the truth. Once everything’s out in the open, the boys will have a few problems to resolve, but at least you won’t be one of them.”

I couldn’t believe this. Nic didn’t want there to be girl drama between you two, and the best solution he could think of was to pair me with someone else?

Then it hit me—how convenient it was, letting me see Willoughby at the end of last summer. Letting him come to our house. Letting me do what I wanted with him, so long as he kept me preoccupied and, therefore, further away from you.