Page 39 of Mad Girl

But when I pulled away, Michael jerked my thumb back, pressed it down hard, and parted his lips. His breath curled around my skin, warm and erratic. And my chest, Casey, it burned.

Michael’s gaze searched mine for a long moment—fierce, probing, desperate—like he wanted to say something. But in the end, he shut his eyes. And his mouth, too. When he released my hand and looked at me again, he whispered, “Merry Christmas, Elliot.”

Then he left, and I didn’t know what to feel, except confused.

I stared after him, then checked the time. In England, it would’ve been close to midnight. So I shot you a text: Merry Christmas to you, too.

You texted back a minute later: Happy Christmas. Did you open my gift?

Sure did, I replied, thinking of the mismatched teapot and cup earrings you’d given me. The tiny gold studs hadn’t just made me smile, I’d end up wearing them for the next three days. Knowing you’d spent hours searching for a pair of earrings specific to something we shared together—afternoon tea—made the gift particularly special. Absolutely love them. Did you open mine?

The bookmarks? Thank you. But now I’ll miss finding the random things you stick inside my books yourself. The pink hearts are my favourite.

I already told you, I sent, biting my bottom lip to keep from smiling. That’s not me.

You replied: Right.

Where’s my picture of you with Rhys? I texted, changing the subject.

You sent me one immediately. You in tartan plaid and a sweater, sitting in a cozy chair, holding your baby nephew. This tiny thing, nestled in the crook of your arm, sleeping. You were grinning wide at the camera, blue eyes twinkling. Your hand looked enormous next to his small body.

Pretty sure I squealed at the picture, feeling all gooey and warm and mushy inside. You know that saying about a girl’s uterus skipping a beat when she sees a cute guy with a baby? That might’ve happened, too.

Grinning huge, I fired off some emojis. Ones with hearts.

Then, because a hundred emotions were tumbling around inside me at once, and I didn’t understand a single one of them, but this: I miss you.

Of course, I couldn’t leave it there, so I tacked a rolling eyes emoji on the end.

I pictured you smiling as you texted me back: I miss you, too.

And because I couldn’t risk my dad finding the photos Michael had given me, I crossed the room to my bookcase, already knowing the perfect place to hide them.

A book.

A fitting one, given the circumstances.

The Secret History.

I shoved the photos in the very middle and replaced the book on my shelf.

LETTER EIGHT

90 WEEKS LEFT

We slipped easily into a routine once you returned to Boston after the New Year. My dad loved having you back, and I did, too—not that I’d ever admit it. But we got along for the most part, didn’t we?

Like that January afternoon when the temperature climbed to fifty degrees and everyone flocked to the park, taking advantage of that brief reprieve from winter.

We sat on one of the weathered gray benches along the edge of the walking path, sharing a honey cinnamon latte, my heart fluttering each time you handed the cup back and my lips touched the spot yours had just touched. To distract myself, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a handful of pumpkin seeds.

You shot me a wary look. “Why do you have seeds in your pocket?”

“For the squirrels,” I said, tossing a couple across the walking path, hoping to lure them closer to our bench.

You leaned back. “I’m not feeding a squirrel.”

“Suit yourself.”