Page 31 of Mad Girl

“We cleaned up the mess,” I said, leaning against the doorway. “It looks like it never happened.”

You slammed the laptop shut.

“I’m sorry about your mom. I shouldn’t have done that with your birthday, Casey. It was cruel, and I feel awful.”

You stared at the wall behind your desk, jaw working hard. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

“Please.”

You finally looked at me.

“Can we start over?” I asked, blinking back the tears in my eyes. “You said we could if I apologized.”

If gazes could cut, Casey, yours would’ve flayed me alive.

“Can I show you something?” I asked.

You didn’t answer me.

“Please?”

With a reluctant sigh, you rose and followed me upstairs. When I stopped on the landing, your eyes narrowed in confusion.

Across the hall from my bedroom door is a smaller door. Hidden.

While you stood back and watched, hands stuffed inside your pockets, I pushed the camelback settee away from the wall. And there, just inside the hidden closet—neatly stacked on top of each other, still on their hangers—were your clothes. Your jaw ticked when you saw them.

“I’ll help you put them back. I’m sorry I took them,” I said.

“I don’t need any help,” you replied, slipping past me.

“But I want to help. I’m trying with you right now. Why won’t you let me?”

You turned, fixing me with a look that made my stomach clench. “You said you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Then why say it?” you demanded.

“I’m jealous of you, okay? My dad fucking loves you. You’re perfect.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “I’m far from perfect.”

“Not compared to me.”

“Jealousy doesn’t give you the right to be cruel. Jealousy doesn’t give you permission to take things from people,” you said.

In taking your birthday and using it against you, I’d crossed a line, even worse than before. This was probably it. The moment you decided to be done with me. “I know,” I whispered. “Will you forgive me?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” You pushed the settee further down the wall, then we got to work, carrying your clothes downstairs and hanging them back in your closet.

When we finished, you ushered me out of your room. I barely flinched as you shut the door in my face.

The next day, we circled each other without speaking.

I watched you prepare coffee while I choked down the eggs you’d made for my breakfast. At lunch, you made us toasted cheese and pickle sandwiches—your version of a grilled cheese. Later that afternoon, I curled up with a book while you and Michael watched the Celtics play.

When you disappeared to make tea, I texted Tinsley to apologize for my behavior, confessing it wasn’t really about you—but control. About my dad moving you in without asking. About trying to take back what I’d lost. About Nic looking at you the way I wished he still looked at me.