Page 319 of Mad Girl

That got him. “Don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I misspoke, Elliot. I didn’t mean it.”

“You did mean it, or you would never have said it to John and Libby in the first place. You think I’m fucked up and broken. I’m a problem. I’m⁠—”

“Stop it,” he said, slamming his open palm on the table. “You’re taking my words out of context.”

Was I, though? That’s the thing I couldn’t comprehend—how he could say those things about me at all unless they were true.

I was hurting myself for revealing your secret, Casey. But I was hurting him, too.

“Let’s be real, Dad. Harvard won’t change what I am. I’ll just go on to disappoint you there, probably screw up at the firm, and when that doesn’t pan out, marry someone you hate just to piss you off. Eventually, though, I’ll screw that up, too, get divorced, and refuse to give you grandchildren. So what’s to celebrate?”

Nic rapidly shook his head. “You always do this. You take moments that are supposed to be good, and you twist them into something that breaks my heart. Your birthday last summer,” he whispered, “is the only time you have ever allowed us to be happy.”

“That’s me,” I said. “All I do is hurt you. All I do is rip your heart out. I’m a spiteful little bitch, and I ruin everything. You should’ve sent me away like your girlfriend wanted⁠—”

“Stop it!” Nic yelled, slapping his water glass with such force that it hit the wall opposite the table and shattered. You and I both flinched.

Once again, that rage filled him. He trembled with it. Tears rolled down my face as I watched him shove back his chair and stand.

“You’ll never let us be happy, will you?” he asked, giving me the only thing I did deserve: bitter disappointment.

Then he left us, footsteps heavy as he marched to the kitchen. The back door slammed.

You rushed to my side, glass crunching beneath your shoes as you yanked my chair out and pulled me up, taking me into your arms.

“Elliot, what was that?”

I cleared my throat, nudging you back. “We should clean this up.”

I crouched down, plucked tiny pieces of glass from the rug, and piled them in the palm of my hand.

You knelt down, too, and placed your hand over my wrist. “Let me do this.”

“It’s my fault. I’ll do it.”

A long pause. I could feel you watching me. “When did Nic say those things about you?”

“Right before Thanksgiving.”

You took my chin, gently turning my face toward yours. “Well, you’re not broken, okay?” you said, stroking my jaw with your thumb. “You’re not messed up. Neither of those things are true.”

I pulled away, throat tight, then grabbed another shard of glass. A sharp sting made me hiss. I jerked my hand back, watching blood seep from my finger, a blooming red dot.

“Sure they are.” I thought of Michael—the way I’d left him earlier, still in shock. I expected him to storm over at any second. Shout at you. Throw a punch or two. Go off on my dad. It was only a matter of time. “I really do ruin everything.”

“Nonsense,” you whispered, taking my hand, your eyes holding mine as you brought my finger to your mouth.

My breath caught as your lips closed around my cut, as you gently sucked, stopping the bleeding with a tenderness I didn’t deserve. It felt wrong to have this moment—to be comforted by you at all, to feel anything but shame—after what I’d done.

“Leave this,” you said, dropping my hand from your mouth. “I’ll clean it up.”

You were so damn good to me—and I’d just betrayed you in the worst possible way.

You tried helping me up, but I clutched your arm and jerked you back down, my fingers digging into your sweater. Your name left my throat all warbled, a choked plea: “Casey.”

You narrowed your gaze, concerned. “Hey—don’t cry again. What is it?”

What I tried very hard to say was: I told Michael your secret. Please don’t hate me.