Page 317 of Mad Girl

Michael slowly lowered himself back down to the couch.

Desperate to keep him there, I hopped over and sat next to him. As he stared at the blacked-out TV on the wall, I hoped he was thinking about your adoptive dad. All the horrible things that asshole had said to you over the summer—the verbal and mental abuse. I hoped Michael was taking your feelings into consideration. Hoped some small, protective part of him still cared about you, after all.

“Just take a few days,” I said. “Allow it to sink in. I know you’re angry and hurt, but you met his adoptive dad, so you probably know better than anyone how delicate this situation is for Casey.” I shook, chilly all over despite still having my coat on. “You’re his brother, and he’s terrified you’ll hate him, so please keep in mind that your reaction to this has the power to destroy him. Please don’t do something you’ll end up regretting.”

Michael continued to stare blankly, lost in thought. Keys jangled in the hallway. A door opened and closed—his neighbor across the hall. The heat kicked on. The fridge hummed. Outside, an airplane roared loudly overhead.

“I need to be alone right now,” he said finally, his voice calm and flat, devoid of emotion.

My gut clenched. “But Michael⁠—”

He sank back into the couch without looking at me. “Go home, Elliot.”

Back at home, when I walked through the door, you were standing over the stove, staring at your teakettle.

“Have fun at Tinsley’s?” you asked.

I slipped out of my coat and draped it over a barstool, hyperaware of the tremor in my hands, of the rapid beat of my pulse. I couldn’t make eye contact. “Yeah.”

My voice had come out hollow, too faint. And you noticed, of course, which is why yours was laced with concern when you asked, “Are you okay?”

I wasn’t. Why hadn’t I listened to my dad? Why did I have to go and make it all worse—exactly like he’d said I would?

What had I done?

But to you, I only said, “Yeah.”

I grabbed my water bottle from the fridge and quickly retreated to my room, where I crawled into bed fully clothed, yanked the duvet over me, and stared vacantly out my window. That’s where you found me a little while later, when you brought me a cup of tea.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

You put the back of your hand to my cheek. “Are you feeling alright?”

“No.” Regret clawed at my insides, so sharply and violently I felt nauseated. I needed to confess before Michael charged in the house, fists swinging. Or texted you. Or visited my dad at the firm. Or went to John and told him everything. Oh, God.

But the confession remained lodged in my throat, barb-wired and cruel, because surely it was cruel of me to betray you like that, even if it hadn’t been intentional. How hurt and angry would you be? Would you ever be able to forgive me?

“Hopefully you aren’t coming down with that nasty flu that’s going round,” you said. “I’ll check on you later. Text me if you need anything.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

At dinner that night, as I pushed a chunk of salmon around my plate, my dad’s voice pierced through the dense fog of my guilt. “Elliot,” he said—and in a tone I knew well. It meant we needed to talk about something serious.

Had Michael talked to him? Did he know what I’d done? Were you about to find out, too? My palms began to sweat as I dropped my fork and looked at him.

But Nic didn’t look upset—serious, for sure, but definitely not upset.

“So, listen, I want to talk to you about a few things.” He pushed back his plate, took a deep breath, and said, “Why don’t we get a dog?”

I blinked at him, too stunned to respond.

“I know you’ve always wanted one,” he said. “So why don’t we go by the animal shelter this week and bring one home?”

“A dog,” I said flatly. Something so far removed from my mind by that point, I couldn’t make sense of it. Why a dog? Why now?

“Yeah,” Nic said, a smile tugging at his mouth.

I narrowed my eyes. “Is this some ploy to keep me at home this fall?”