Page 361 of Mad Girl

My skin prickled, even with the heat blasting, my nerves on high alert. Only then did I realize I’d left the house without a coat, wearing only leggings and my cropped Harvard sweatshirt. My heart had one singular command pulsing through it: Get to Casey before she does.

Forty minutes later, we pulled up to the house, and I parked along the curb, butterflies swarming in my stomach. I took a deep breath in an attempt to calm my nerves, then looked at Bree.

“Whatever you’re doing,” she said, “do it quick. If you’re not done in twenty minutes, I’m coming to get you and we’re going home.”

As I marched up to the house, I felt sick, heart slamming against my ribs. Music thumped behind the door. Low. Pulsing. Vaguely…classical? A trio of guys stood outside with red Solo cups, already half drunk.

The middle one gave me a slow once-over. Messy blonde hair, suspiciously tan for Boston in the winter, warm brown eyes that lingered on my goose-pebbled midriff. He wore a vintage tweed coat with the collar popped and a thick cashmere scarf. He looked like the type of guy who frequented tropical locales during the winter and regularly summered in France.

“Name?” he asked, a slow grin curving his mouth.

The guy to his left snickered into his drink. “Cute sweatshirt.”

I did not have time for this. “I’m here for someone,” I said, charging forward. “Get out of my way.”

The blonde guy pushed me back. “Hold on, sweetheart. You may be hot, but you’re not getting in without a name—maybe not even then.”

“Call me sweetheart again and I’m kicking you in the balls. What the hell is your name?”

“Julian,” he said, gaze sparkling.

The cold sank its teeth into my bare skin, but I held myself still, refusing to let them see me shiver. “You get off on playing gatekeeper, don’t you, Julian?”

“Absolutely. Tell me your name.”

“Elliot Bancroft.”

They all laughed. “Bancroft? Yeah, right.”

“Hey,” one said, elbowing Julian. “I heard a rumor Nic Bancroft’s kid got into Harvard and took a gap year.”

“Yeah,” said the other one, “the real Elliot’s probably in the Maldives or Bora Bora right now.” He frowned. “Figured Elliot was a guy, though.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I muttered, rifling through my crossbody bag. I pulled out my driver’s license, then shoved it at Julian.

He blinked, his smile evaporating. “Oh, shit.”

The other two guys looked over his shoulder, their expressions shifting fast, mirroring his disbelief. “Damn,” one said, gaping at me. “So the real Elliot’s not a dude.”

Julian stepped aside just enough for me to squeeze past, but his gaze followed me, much sharper now, more curious than amused. “You’re not what I expected, Bancroft,” he murmured, low enough that his friends couldn’t hear. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

I rolled my eyes and pushed through the heavy door.

Inside, the air smelled of candle smoke and something sweeter—weed. I knew the smell from late summer nights on the Cape, drifting through the house whenever our parents lit a joint before bed.

The lights were turned low, the ceilings pitched high, the walls lined with mismatched oil paintings in antique frames.

A familiar nocturne played: Chopin, looped over a deep bass line, the sound vibrating in my chest. I walked past books stacked on the floor like furniture. Past wine bottles lining the stairs, most of their corks popped. At the landing, a girl with smudged eyeliner sobbed into her cup while a guy in a corduroy blazer tried to comfort her.

Sienna had called it a literary bacchanal, which apparently meant: black turtlenecks, red wine in Solo cups, and enough ego to fill the Library of Congress. A guy in suspenders gave a dramatic reading of “Howl” off the foyer while two girls in silk slip dresses smoked on the balcony. Someone had written THIS IS NOT A PARTY, IT’S A RECKONING in red lipstick across the mirror over the fireplace mantel.

It was all so deeply ridiculous that I almost laughed.

This is what I’d been missing all year? This flagrant display of pretentiousness?

And there—half-visible through the crowd—I spotted you, standing underneath an old crystal chandelier beside a second fireplace, holding a drink in your hand.

Sienna stood next to you, too damn close for my liking, laughing at some guy who was talking and gesticulating wildly with his free hand.