Page 338 of Mad Girl

“You don’t love me,” I whispered. “You don’t know what love is.”

“That’s bullshit,” you said, rounding the island, and my heart spiked. “You aren’t broken. You aren’t fucked up. You aren’t bad simply because you snapped once and did something awful as a child. You can let me love you, and it’ll be okay. You’re allowed to have that.”

I shook my head. Because you were wrong. You might’ve been right about a lot of other things, but you were wrong about this. “No.”

You pulled your stool next to mine, so close I could smell the lingering scent of minty soap on your skin.

“Let me love you,” you said, leaning closer. Too close. “You don’t have to say it back—I don’t even expect that. I just…I want you.”

The words had come out soft and rough and they were so, so dangerous. More than I love you, those three words—I want you—had the power to undo me.

“We’re so good together, darling,” you said, voice velvety smooth and full of longing. Your fingers grazed my bare shoulder—light as a breath—before you leaned in and pressed your lips there. A devastating kiss. One I no longer deserved. “I know you felt it.”

I did feel it. That was the problem—good things didn’t belong to me.

“You can lie to me now if you need to,” you murmured, breath trembling against my skin, “but you don’t have to shut me out. We can work through it. Together.”

God, your voice—so deep and careful and raw—ate away at my resolve like it always did.

I wanted to lean into it. Wanted to turn and kiss you. To let my body fall back into yours. To pretend, for a little while longer, I could do this. I could have you despite everything.

But I couldn’t.

Because if I gave in, I’d never find the strength to walk away. And I had to walk away, Casey. It’s not that I didn’t want you. I did. Too much.

I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes fixed on the countertop. “I can’t.”

You drew back, fisting your hand on the counter. “Tell me why not.”

“It’s too much.”

“What’s too much?”

“All of it.”

A pause. A sigh. Your leg pressing into mine. “Is this a delayed reaction to the throat thing? Because that was fine, Elliot. Beautiful, even.”

“Beautiful? Don’t call it that.”

“I’ll call it whatever I want.”

“You only did it because you couldn’t tell John the truth. Because you tried to do that first and failed.”

“No. I did it because you needed it.”

“You never would’ve done it otherwise.”

“That’s not true, and you know it. I’ve repeatedly asked you why things didn’t work with Willoughby⁠—”

“You wanted to one-up him. You only did it because he wouldn’t.”

“I did it because, for the first time in nearly three years, you finally showed me something real. Something brutally, devastatingly real. You couldn’t have stopped me doing it. Is that the problem? Are you embarrassed? Ashamed? Shocked I still wanted you when Willoughby didn’t? I’ll say it again: I want”—you pressed your fingers to my chest, right above my heart—“all of you.”

“You only want me—you’re latching so hard onto the idea of us—because you don’t have the courage to let yourself have a relationship with John.”

“No.”

“That’s why this can’t work. I can’t fill that void.”