Page 35 of Mad Girl

But I played it really cool, only nodding as I stabbed at my eggs.

“Your earrings,” you said, prompting me to lift my gaze. “They’re a little surprise every day. I like seeing what you’ll wear next.”

“Thanks,” I said, reaching up to toggle a stag stud. The earrings were tiny and gold with beady black eyes. Their little back eyes were my favorite.

“What other earrings do you have in your collection?”

“Oh,” I said, trying to think of the more interesting pairs. “Little gold croissants. Diamond-studded coffee cups. Lobsters. Tiny basketballs Michael gave me once. Miniature sticks of French butter. Le beurre. I’ve been eyeing this set of martini glasses you can pair with a set of teeny, tiny pimento olives on a stick—they’re so cute—but my dad says they’re inappropriate because I’m not old enough to drink a martini yet.”

“All of that sounds positively adorable,” you said with a smile.

I smiled, too. “Miniature things make me irrationally happy.” Feeling brave, I touched a finger to the black-and-white beaded bracelet on your wrist. “Is there a story behind this? You’re always wearing it.”

“Yeah,” you said, glancing down, the smile falling from your face. “My sister made it for me.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Yeah,” you repeated, still looking at the bracelet.

I waited for you to go on, but you didn’t. “And the tattoo?” I asked.

You swallowed. “It’s just a C. For Casey.”

But that didn’t sound true. Whatever the tattoo actually meant, you didn’t want to tell me—which stung a little, but I didn’t want to show it. So I changed the subject. “How are you so good at this stuff?”

“What stuff?” you asked, lifting your gaze back to mine.

“Cooking. Wrapping presents. Folding clothes into perfect squares. And all the other domestic stuff I suck at.”

The day before, when you’d found me struggling to wrap a gift, you’d taught me how to fold in the corners. Then, more impressively, the proper way to tie ribbon around the package until a perfect bow sat nestled in the center.

“Well,” you said, lifting an eyebrow, “most people don’t grow up with a Henriette who bustles about whilst they’re at school and has everything perfectly sorted away by the time they’re back.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Think you can try that again whilst not being a patronizing dick?”

A quiet laugh escaped your lips as you scratched your forehead. “Sorry—um—I suppose it’s because, growing up, my mum made us do chores round the house. And I was really quite close to her, so she taught me how to cook and wrap presents and all that. And after she died, I”—a big pause here, followed by a swallow so thick I heard it—“tried keeping on top of things like she did. And then, not long after that, I moved out with my sister. Claire worked all the time to support us, and I felt bad, so I just…did whatever I could to help.”

“Moved out with your sister? At thirteen? How much older is Claire than you?”

“Well, I was fourteen by then—but she’s six years older.” You gave a curt nod, pushed your stool back, then grabbed my empty plate. At the sink, you scrubbed my fork by hand, keeping your expression shuttered, the implication clear: you didn’t like this topic. So I dropped it.

You spent the rest of the day doing laundry, packing, and hanging out with my dad. Before dinner, you left to meet Michael and Sienna, leaving me to watch Christmas movies and read alone. I hung out with Garland all night, hoping to catch your arrival home, wanting to spend more time together before you left for England.

While I waited, I started a new book. Read half of it. Attempted to make tea that tasted as good as yours. Failed.

When I wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water much later, you still hadn’t returned. I’d finally decided to give up and head upstairs when your key turned in the lock.

You stumbled inside, rosy-cheeked from the cold, surprised to see me. “What are you still doing up?”

“What do you care?” I asked.

You shuffled toward me, tucking the key away in your pocket. “Come on, Wednesday,” you said, voice scratchy but soft. “Don’t be like that.”

“What did you just call me?”

“Wednesday. She comes out sometimes. Your voice goes cold and your eyes turn scary dark—like Elliot’s left the building. You become that angry little girl in the picture, right before she stabbed Michael.”

“You’re drunk.”