Page 42 of Mad Girl

If you’d bothered to look my way, you would’ve caught me skinning you alive with my eyes.

“What’s this boy’s name?” Nic asked.

“Willoughby,” I said through clenched teeth.

My dad made a face. “That kid? The Asher kid?”

I dropped my fork. “You know his last name?”

Nic pulled another face. This one said, You’re kidding, right? Then he asked, “What kind of name is Willoughby, anyway?”

He looked at you, Casey, and you shrugged.

“It’s a family name,” I said, snatching my bag off the floor. I left without finishing my breakfast.

Willoughby wasn’t too thrilled about coming back to my house, especially with you there, but it’s not like he had a choice. When you opened the front door to let him in, he hesitated before crossing the threshold, leaving a wide berth between you two as he entered.

“Hello, Barnaby,” you said, standing straight and tall in the doorway, wearing what I’d come to think of as your home uniform: cardigan, white tee, chinos, white sneakers.

“Come on, dude,” he said, pushing his hair back. “It’s Willoughby. You know that.”

“She’s right through there.” You gestured to where I stood, setting everything out on the dining table.

Willoughby shuffled toward me while you strode casually to the sitting room—which, of course, sits directly across the entry hall and faces the dining room. It’s where you sat so you could keep an eye on us. And that didn’t just annoy me, Casey. It made me simmer with rage.

“Are you okay?” Willoughby asked, dipping his head to look at me.

My hand shook as I turned a page of my history textbook, biting the insides of my cheeks hard enough to taste the metallic tang of my own blood. “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”

As we worked, I caught you glancing up from your book occasionally to check on us. Once, after you caught me casting one of my death glares your way, you picked up your phone. Two seconds later, my phone buzzed with a text. It said only: Wednesday.

A deep groove of concern had formed between your eyebrows. The look you gave me said, What’s wrong?

I squeezed my phone, cutting my eyes at you again.

Stop looking at me like that, you texted.

I hammered out some middle finger emojis. An entire paragraph of middle finger emojis. Hit send.

You frowned at my text, then dropped your phone on a side table.

About an hour into our supervised study session, you rose from the settee and walked over to us. “I’m popping to the kitchen for a drink. Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks,” I snapped.

As you strode off to the back of the house, Willoughby leaned closer. “You weren’t kidding about him, were you? He keeps an eye on you, alright.”

“Yep,” I said, digging my pencil into the paper of my notebook.

Softly, Willoughby asked, “Why’s your dad so crazy strict?”

Because I am. That’s what I could’ve said. Because I’m crazy. That was the truth.

Instead, I turned to Willoughby, grabbed him by the shirt, and crushed my lips to his. It was my first kiss. Seventeen years old and I’d never been kissed by a boy. The very first one, and I had to take it. Willoughby kissed me back, but just barely, because—well, you remember, I’m sure—you were there.

“What the hell?” you said, causing Willoughby to spring back. “I was gone for one minute.”

On a hard swallow, I slowly leaned back in my chair.