Page 326 of Mad Girl

A hard lump lodged in my throat. “You’re pretty upset with me, aren’t you?”

You switched on the gas without answering me.

“Did you see Jake while you were there?” I hadn’t meant to ask, but the question slipped out. Six days of terse replies to my texts. Your distant behavior now. Put those things together, and they made me insecure. Not that I had any right to be.

You gave a little shake of your head, jaw clenched tight. “I won’t even dignify that question with a response.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Fancy a tea with your breakfast?” you asked brightly, heading over to the cabinet where the teacups were.

You were trying to avoid a fight. Unfortunately for you, that meant you were guaranteed to get one. I stormed over to the fridge and pulled out a yogurt.

You watched me rifle through the utensil drawer for a spoon, hands propped on your hips. “Yogurt isn’t breakfast. It’s a fucking snack.” Head shake. Even bigger sigh. You flung open the fridge. “I’ll make eggs.”

“I don’t want any of your stupid eggs,” I said, yanking out a barstool and dropping myself into it.

“You’ll eat the eggs,” you said, pulling them off their designated shelf.

“Don’t need them.” I held up the yogurt. “This yogurt is a perfectly acceptable breakfast.”

“Elliot, you’ll be raiding the pantry in an hour. You’ll fill up on rubbish, barely eat what I make for lunch, and it drives me mad.”

“Then maybe you should stop making my lunch. Worry about your own damn lunch and leave mine out of it.”

“I like making your food! I like looking after you! Why do you have to be so fucking difficult all the time?” You tossed the carton of eggs on the counter so hard a few of them probably cracked. “Why do you keep shutting me out? You practically banished me to England over the New Year, and I don’t know why. I have no idea what’s going on with you.” You tossed your hands up and laughed. “But then I rarely do—you’re like a puzzle with half its middle pieces missing. I can never quite work you out.” Your gaze dug into mine. “Where’s the dog you’ve wanted your whole life? Why won’t you allow yourself to have that? Is it because of me? Because I’m choosing you over the Harrises right now?”

“You can’t choose me over John.”

“It’s only temporary.”

“That’s what you said over a year ago.”

You tossed your head back. “Jesus. Stop pushing me away because you don’t think you’re worthy.”

“I’m not worthy. Someday, those rose-tinted glasses will come off and you’ll see it, too.”

You pulled a face. “Are you joking? I don’t look at you through rose-tinted anything. You’re messy, volatile, brazenly intrusive. You’re fully capable of working every appliance in this house, but you choose not to because you’ve been coddled your whole life. You’re quick to retaliate, stubborn as hell, and I believe we’ve already established you run your fucking mouth too much. Just because some idiot called Willoughby couldn’t accept you for who you are doesn’t mean I can’t.”

If only that were the biggest of my concerns—whether or not you could accept me for my flaws.

You rounded the island, eyes a piercing dark blue, and slid into the stool next to mine. “You know, during my trip, I gave some serious thought to that little exchange with Nic—where he finally tried to give you things, and you wouldn’t allow it. And here’s what I think: it’s not that you don’t want him to be happy, it’s that you don’t believe you deserve happiness—not his and certainly not your own. You did that shocking thing when you were eight, and you won’t stop punishing yourself for it. You’re in a cage of your own making. Anytime someone wants to celebrate you, compliment you, or describe being consumed by you”—your gaze softened here—“you run back to that cage you’ve built and lock yourself inside it. No one else puts you there. You put yourself there. You have the key. At any time, you could reach between the bars to free yourself from that cage, but so often you just…don’t. You’re determined to stay there. To label yourself bad. Broken. Unlovable.”

What a fitting little analogy that was, Casey. You read me so well, didn’t you?

You brushed my hair—still wild from sleep—off my face. “You deserve to be celebrated, Elliot. On your birthday. For what you’ve accomplished. For the person you are.”

I slapped your hand away. “Stop it.”

“No,” you said, putting it back to my face, then sweeping your thumb across my cheek. “Let us celebrate you. Let your dad give you a party, a dog, and everything else you want. Allow yourself to be happy. Allow us to be happy.”

“Okay, sure,” I said with an exaggerated shrug. “But you know what’ll make me happiest? You know what I want more than a dog or you or anything else?”

“What’s that?” you asked uncertainly, dropping your hand.

“I want you to walk down the street, knock on the Harrises’ door, and tell John you’re his son.”

Your eyes drifted closed. “Now, hold on⁠—”