Page 356 of Mad Girl

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing. “Tell me why you stayed with Michael last night.”

“It’s complicated.”

“No, it’s actually quite simple.” You set the book on the coffee table with deliberate care, then gently placed your glasses on top. “You start talking, or I leave—and I don’t come back.”

The words had come out soft. Brutal. Final.

“You can’t leave because of me,” I said, head shaking.

“You spectacularly fucked me up,” you replied, rising from the chair, “and you still haven’t told me why. I kept hoping you’d come to me in the middle of the night. That you’d crawl into bed with me and beg for my forgiveness, and all you’d have to say to be forgiven was: it wasn’t a mistake. That’s how devastated I am—I would’ve forgiven you instantly.” Head shake. Brief glance off to the side. Tattooed hand brushing over your mouth. “Then I come home to find you tucked up against my brother, clearly having cried to him. And just when I think this nightmare can’t possibly get any worse, you have it out with your dad, and I find out you’ve gone to Michael again.”

“You were gone. You left.”

“You could’ve texted me.”

“I had to get away from him.”

Your gaze flashed. “I would’ve met you—anywhere. If you needed me, I would’ve come to you—immediately. But you ran to Michael instead. Why?”

“It’s just—the stuff with my dad. It’s all so…”

Where to begin? How to explain the nightmare I’d been living in since Michael gave me a missing piece of my childhood? How could I tell you about John without making you think you were partially to blame?

“Complicated?” you guessed.

I nodded.

“Right.” With a bitter laugh, you grabbed your things off the table and brushed past me.

“Casey, wait⁠—”

You twisted back around, eyes flashing so bright my gut clenched. “He shouldn’t get to wipe away your tears. Those are mine.” You jabbed a finger at your chest. “They belong to me.”

You were done hiding, alright. Just standing there, cracked wide open, full of hope I’d run to you and put us back together. And right beneath the hope: the palpable fear I wouldn’t.

And I wanted that, too, Casey. I wanted to be brave enough to break us completely, even if it meant I’d have to grovel like hell to win you back.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” I whispered, and you went still, hand dropping to your side. “I’m the mistake.”

Your jaw tightened. “There you go with the cryptic bullshit again. Why, Elliot? Why are you a mistake?”

You sounded like my dad when he’d asked why I couldn’t let you love me: fed up.

I stared at the rug beneath my socked feet.

“Listen,” you said, “I’m not begging you to believe you’re worthy again. I’m not begging you, period. You want me to stay? You’ll have to tell me what the hell’s going on with you. You’ll have to give me a reason”—you paused, voice cracking as you finished—“because right now it feels like there’s no longer a future for me here. Not one worth staying for.”

You looked at me one last time, searching for something: a flicker of hope, the reason you wanted, anything.

The time couldn’t have been more perfect. We were all alone. No reason to wait. Here was my chance to tell you: I’ve been hiding a few things.

But I didn’t.

So you walked out, and the moment vanished.

You know what I remember most about that time period? How much darker the house felt. Not only dimmer—but suffocating. Like it used to feel before you moved in and breathed life into everything.

You stayed in your room, and I kept to mine, cataloging every sharp thing within reach: the scissors in the drawer, the razor in the bathroom, the corner of my desk.