Page 307 of Mad Girl

“Hold up,” I said. “Did you give me permission to see Willoughby so I wouldn’t cause drama between Michael and Casey?”

The slight hesitation before Nic spoke told me everything I needed to know. “Look⁠—”

“No, you did, didn’t you? It wasn’t because you wanted to give me something normal for once. It wasn’t because you thought I deserved to have what other girls my age have. It wasn’t because I took a gap year—mostly to appease you—and you felt bad about me missing out on college. It wasn’t because you actually listened to me when I told you what I wanted. You just wanted me out of the way.”

He’d contained the situation by containing me. And it had felt so promising—so similar to freedom—I’d failed to realize that everything had remained exactly the same.

“Listen,” he said, inching closer, “I did want you to have something normal—I’ve always wanted that—but this is the worst possible time for you to be caught between the boys.”

“You’re right,” I said—because he was right about that, too. But I wanted him to know his decisions had consequences. I wanted him to understand that, while he’d kept the peace for a few months longer, it had ultimately hurt me. “And you know what? Maybe I will consider getting back with Willoughby.” I wouldn’t. I had no intention of going back to a person who could never accept me. “I mean, he made me cry a few times. He made me feel like a freak more than once, which is why I stopped seeing him. But if you⁠—”

“He made you feel like a freak? How?” Nic demanded, his eyes blazing. “What did he do to you?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” I said, smiling sadly. “It never matters how I feel. As long as no one else is getting hurt, my feelings are completely irrelevant.”

“That’s—no. That’s not what I’m saying at all—Elliot,” he said, because I’d already begun to walk away. He followed me to the entry hall. Followed me upstairs. Followed me all the way to my bedroom door, which I slammed in his face. He texted me when I refused to come out for dinner—and so did you—but I couldn’t be reached.

It was only later that I finally opened up, allowing you to enter my room.

“What’s going on?” you asked, hands buried in the pockets of your striped pajama pants. “Are you and Nic fighting again?”

“Yeah,” I said, hobbling back to bed. I slid to the very center of the mattress, then reached out to you. “Will you hold me?”

With a look so gentle it steadied my racing thoughts, you crawled in beside me, gathered me in your arms, and brushed your lips against my temple. “Are you okay?”

I tucked my face into your shoulder. “I am now.”

LETTER TWENTY-SEVEN

8 WEEKS LEFT

You know what else I miss? That slow, idle week between Christmas and New Year’s.

The tree’s gone by then, but the pinecone garland stays—the paperwhites and white poinsettias, too. That year, our dried orange slices, along with your gingerbread cottage (far too beautiful and charming to throw away), made our little hideaway feel especially warm and cozy, even with the dreary gray weather pressing in from outside.

We bundled up in the mornings to get coffee, lazed around with Garland, drank cup after cup of tea to stay warm, and polished off your tin of biscuits. Like always, you saved the chocolate ones for me.

We went back to watching Gossip Girl—the season where Blair meets the prince—until I got another headache. You asked how much my head hurt on a scale of one to ten, looked unduly horrified when I said four, and switched off the TV.

“Don’t sulk,” you coaxed, slipping your cardigan down my shoulder slow enough to make my breath hitch. Despite how annoyed I was, you had the infuriating power to completely undo me with little more than the low rumble of your voice and the soft, teasing, maddening restraint of your touch.

“I’m starting to think you get off on this,” I said, crossing my arms, even though my traitorous pulse had quickened. Heat pooled in my stomach, turning my insides to mush.

“On what?” You pulled back with a chuckle, head propped on your hand, eyes sparkling.

“Making me sulk. Last night, for example—you get off on telling me no.”

You toyed with the spaghetti strap of my camisole, fingertips skimming my bare shoulder, sending shockwaves down my arm. Thanks to our new sleeping arrangement, every touch felt electric. Like live wire humming beneath my skin, waiting to catch fire.

“I definitely didn’t get off last night,” you said, holding my gaze as you lowered your lips to my shoulder.

The night before, when you’d pulled me to your chest and asked why I’d skipped dinner with you and Nic two nights in a row, I’d tried slipping my hand down the front of your pants—only to be redirected and denied. Again.

“But you could have,” I said, leaning away from those wicked, wicked lips of yours. “What’s wrong? You don’t think I’m up to the task?”

“I think,” you said, blue eyes gleaming so darkly, so hungrily, that my stomach fluttered—“you’re quite good at distracting me when you don’t want to answer a question.”

You had a point there. I rolled my eyes.