Page 36 of Mad Girl

“Yes,” you said, head lurching back. You grabbed a water from the fridge, shrugged out of your coat, and draped it over the back of a stool. “Come sit with me a minute.”

Fuming, I wrenched out a stool and dropped myself into it.

“You’re angry with me,” you said, your C tattoo flashing at me as you pushed a hand through the dark, tousled waves of your hair.

Despite how angry I was, I had this sudden, sharp, staggering urge to push my hand through your hair. What would it feel like, slipping between my fingers?

“We didn’t see each other much at all today, did we?” you asked, your gaze brushing over my face, those twin lines deepening between your eyebrows. “I kept myself out too late.”

In an effort to control my temper, I took a deep breath. “You know what I’ve noticed about you? You never talk about your dad. Where will he be when you spend Christmas with your sister?”

You swallowed. “He’ll be there.”

“Why don’t you ever talk about him?”

You dropped your gaze to the counter, fingers twisting the water bottle around and around on the black marble surface. “He doesn’t like me. We don’t get on.”

The answer shocked me, because I couldn’t imagine anyone not liking you, Casey. Especially your own father. “Why not?”

You shook your head. “Because of some shit I did after my mum died.”

“What did you do?”

“I went a bit…wild. Did some things I’m not proud of.”

“You were wild? I don’t believe that.”

“Yes,” you said with a solemn nod. “I was nothing but trouble.”

“No way. I can’t see you being anything less than perfect.”

“I’m not perfect, Elliot—nor have I ever been. I keep trying to tell you that.”

“Do you dread seeing your dad?”

“I do,” you said, the knot in your throat moving up then down.

I folded my hands in my lap. “You’re about to leave for almost two weeks, and you spent your whole night out with them.”

“I know,” you said, turning to face me. “I’m sorry I did that, but I wasn’t with them the entire time. I actually spent a few hours popping inside every shop down Newbury Street, searching for your Christmas present.”

“Really?” I said, butterflies swarming in my stomach. “Well, now I feel like shit.”

“Don’t,” you said, pushing your hand across the counter. “And listen, my flight doesn’t leave until midday, so we’ll have the entire morning to spend together. I promise.”

I nodded, a peculiar sparkling sensation buzzing in my chest. It felt a lot like excitement but that couldn’t be right. At least, that’s what I told myself.

“You know,” you said, taking a glance around the kitchen. “I’ll really miss this place—even if it is a bit like living in a dungeon. I’ll even miss that creepy guy over the fireplace. Somehow, he isn’t quite as creepy at Christmastime.”

You smiled big. So I did, too, my breath catching when you squeezed my wrist.

“And I’ll definitely miss you,” you said, then pulled your hand away. “I have this sneaking suspicion you’ll miss me, too.”

I scoffed at this, wondering why the hell my wrist suddenly felt so bare. “Are you kidding? I’ll have the house to myself again—and my dad. I look forward to it.”

Your brows lifted. “So you won’t miss me at all, then?”

“Maybe a tiny bit,” I said, pinching my fingers together. “I’m talking a microscopic amount.” At this, we laughed.