Page 328 of Mad Girl

You sat next to me on the settee and swallowed. “Would—um—is Michael here, by any chance?”

“He isn’t,” John said. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s”—you gazed back at him—“actually, no. We had an argument right before Christmas and haven’t really spoken to each other since.”

“Oh,” John said, grooves exactly like yours deepening between his eyebrows. He removed his reading glasses, then deposited them on the coffee table next to his book, which he’d laid face down. No bookmark in sight. Just like you. “I’m sorry to hear that. I know you guys have been having a tough time communicating lately.”

You straightened. “You do?”

John nodded. “He told me about the adoption thing.”

I squeezed your hand. This was the perfect segue into the I’m-your-son thing. He’d practically handed it to you on a silver platter.

But you only said, “Right. It’s not something I enjoy talking about, but I should’ve told him. I shut him out over the summer, and it hurt his feelings.”

“Yes,” John said. “He seems to feel like you’ve drifted away from him.”

“I have—I didn’t mean to, but I definitely have. There’s something I’ve been needing to tell him for quite some time now, but I’m afraid it might cause me to lose him. So I keep…putting it off.”

John’s gaze dropped to our hands, our fingers interlaced and resting on your leg. “You won’t lose him, Casey. What you need to tell him might push him away for a while—but if you don’t tell him the truth, you risk losing him, anyway, right? Just talk to him, and if it doesn’t go well—if you end up losing him over it?—keep talking to him. Keep showing up. Even when it’s hard.”

You gave a series of quick nods, as if you were taking his advice to heart.

“For what it’s worth,” John said, “I’m glad he has you in his life. He doesn’t often meet people who take time to get to know him for who he really is. I know you’d never do anything to intentionally hurt Michael. Sometimes, these things just happen.”

Did he assume the something you needed to tell Michael centered around us? Around your feelings for me?

“But I hope you’ll tell him sooner rather than later,” John said. “I don’t like seeing him hurt, but I don’t like knowing he’s being deceived, either.”

John’s gaze locked on mine, unwavering in its intensity, his message clear. And that’s when I knew: he wasn’t just saying these things to you. He was saying them to me, too. Especially that last thing. He didn’t like knowing that you were being deceived by me.

Then he added, “One of the many things I’ve always appreciated about you, Casey, is how genuine and honest you are.”

Okay, so it wasn’t the best statement John could’ve made right then. Still, I squeezed your bicep and said, “Which is why Casey has something he needs to tell you.”

A flicker of movement caught my eye. Libby stepping into the room, followed by my dad, who snaked his arm around her waist and jerked her back.

As Nic held Libby against him, a couple of things stood out: the look of pride on his face, shadowed by the grim acceptance of things to come—the fallout, the groveling, the trust that might never be regained—along with the fear, so clearly manifested on hers.

Did Libby already know what you were there to say?

John leaned forward. “What is it, Casey?”

You glanced at the painting over his shoulder. Scanned the rows of shelves, the pictures of our family, the books. Settled back on him. “Actually,” you said, dragging a shaky hand across your mouth. “It can wait.”

Your hand slipped from mine, then you rushed from the room. I spotted John’s frown at your abrupt departure before I rushed off to follow you. Back at my house, you slumped to the bottom of the stairs, head clasped between your hands, whispering, “I couldn’t do it. I was going to, I swear, but I’m not honest. I’m not genuine—and I am hurting Michael intentionally. He’s got me all wrong.” You buried your face in my lap, whispering it over and over: “I’m sorry.”

LETTER TWENTY-EIGHT

5 WEEKS LEFT

“Will we talk about it?” I asked you today. “When I get out, will you let me explain?”

The closer I get to freedom, the more I wonder how receptive you’ll be to reading these letters, Casey. But I have to try. No matter what’s happened outside these walls, I have to give you everything. I promised myself.

You don’t know it yet, but every word I’ve written here is a promise I’m making to you.

“Elliot.” You said my name like a warning. “This is meant to be a neutral space, remember?”