Page 353 of Mad Girl

And also because you’re right about one thing: I destroyed the only pure thing in my life by hiding, even though you’d never given me a reason to. You had wanted to accept all of me—you’d tried—but I’d never really given you the chance.

“You trusted me with your whole heart,” I said, “and I wasn’t brave enough to trust you with mine. I’m so sorry.”

You held my gaze for a moment, then released a slow exhale. “So,” you said, followed by a pause—long enough for me to feel the weight of it. “What do you want to do when you get out?”

The answer came quickly. “I want to go to the park.”

“Then we’ll do that,” you said with a little nod. “We’ll go to the park.”

It isn’t much. But it’s something.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s how I’ll build your trust again.

By doing what we’ve always done. Just doing it differently.

No more shutting out. No more taking. No more ruining what’s good.

The girl you get on the other side of all this will be the real one. Sometimes dark. Often messy. Never perfect.

But honest. Braver. More accountable.

And this time—if you’ll have her, Casey—determined to be more careful with your heart.

The next morning, I woke on Michael’s couch, feeling pried open and hollowed out, my eyes raw and swollen from crying. How much could one person take?

Sure, most of my problems were self-inflicted, but the stuff with my dad…

My eyes burned as I clutched the glass of water Michael handed me.

“Your dad’s been texting me all night, Elliot,” he said, taking a seat next to me. “He says you left your phone at the house. He wants you to call him.”

“Not happening,” I said.

“Maybe…” Michael shook his head. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

No. I felt relieved to know the crib story, even if knowing made the little pain junkie inside me talk even louder. It’s okay, the voice kept saying. You can’t help it.

Before I could tell Michael the same thing, someone pounded on his door. Our eyes met briefly before he rose to answer it.

John stepped inside first, his expression softening when he spotted me on the couch. My dad walked in next, looking haggard—shirt wrinkled, eyes red-rimmed—as if he’d spent the entire night pacing with his phone.

“Elliot,” John said, joining me on the couch. He gripped my knee. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. That’s on me.”

“On you?” Nic asked. “Why’s it on you?”

“I told Michael what Victoria did—years ago,” John admitted. “And he told Elliot.”

Nic’s mouth flattened into a grim line. He shook his head, clearly angered by this information. But what could he say? When he’d been keeping something so much bigger from John?

“But this is good, actually,” John said. “It needed to come out. And now…you can finally tell her everything.”

“Yeah?” Nic asked, an incredulous look on his face. “You don’t get to decide that, John.”

“We always said you’d tell her when she’s older. When it’s taken care of. When she’s⁠—”

“Come on, Elliot,” Nic said, thrusting his hand out, begging me with his eyes to take it. “Let’s go home.”

I shrank back. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”