Page 325 of Mad Girl

“He didn’t mean it,” Michael said softly, pulling me closer.

“Yes, he did,” I whispered. “I messed up by telling you—by letting it slip.”

“Look, I’ll pretend I don’t know anything, and just…wait for him to tell me himself.”

“But that might take a while.”

“Bullshit,” Michael said, gaping at me. “A while? He thinks he can keep this a secret for another whole year?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Michael shook his head, a dark expression clouding his face. “We’ll see about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to see how much longer he can keep this secret. How long he can go without telling anyone. Telling me.”

That might’ve worked in my favor, Casey—for the time being, at least—but it didn’t sound like it would work very well in yours.

While you were in England, we kept up a steady stream of communication, but your replies were so brief and clipped I could feel the distance stretching even farther between us. You were holding yourself back because I’d been holding back, and it was up to me to bridge the gap.

Me: How’s everything going there?

You: Good.

Me: I miss you.

You: Miss you, too.

Me: Are we okay?

You: That’s entirely up to you.

The Saturday morning before your classes resumed, I stumbled downstairs, groggy and tired, to find you standing at the sink, rinsing out your teapot, wearing a heather blue cardigan that brought out the blue of your eyes.

When I rounded the island, you set the teapot aside to pull me into a hug.

“Where’s my dad?”

“With the Harrises.”

I still couldn’t shake what had happened on New Year’s Day—or the look of determination on John’s face when he’d returned the next morning to have a chat with my dad. The grating tone of his voice, carrying through Nic’s office door, followed by my dad’s voice, a sound so unfiltered and raw and scratchy with emotion that I had a hard time eavesdropping for once.

Yes, of course it was wrong of him to keep Michael’s actions private, Nic said, but knowing the truth would’ve made John complicit during the campaign—Libby, too. And yes, unfortunately, there was something else, but he couldn’t discuss it right now. And don’t look at me like that, please don’t leave, don’t say that, you know me, I hate lying to you, please—just—listen, I wouldn’t keep stuff from you unless I had a good reason, I’ll do better, I promise.

Gone was the domineering man who could talk me into the back of a car, run a billion-dollar real estate empire, or scare the shit out of boys like Willoughby. Your dad stripped mine of all power. Reduced him to bare bones.

I wondered at Libby’s lack of involvement, though. Weren’t the three of them supposed to share everything with each other?

“I missed you,” I said, pressing my cheek to your chest.

“I missed you, too.” Your hand drifted into my hair for only a second before you abruptly pulled away, leaving me to watch you prep your teakettle in silence.

“No coffee this morning?” I’d hoped for a coffee date, my side pressed to yours while we sipped our lattes, your hand placed possessively across my thigh under the table. A normal moment amongst the chaos.

“Already had one at the airport,” you said.

“Oh.” I stood awkwardly between the island and stove, arms folded across my chest. Two blue packages sat on the island, and I walked over to inspect them. Bourbon creams—the chocolate cream-filled biscuits I loved. Without asking, I knew you’d brought them over from England especially for me.