Page 50 of Mad Girl

I went upstairs, grabbed my homework, and brought it downstairs to do at the kitchen island, wanting to be there if you walked in the back door, needing to see—with my own eyes—that you were okay.

With a knot in my stomach, I shot you a text: Everyone’s worried about you, Casey. I am, too.

I thought of our tea routine. Our walks in the park. Dinners at the island, your elbow grazing mine. The new pockets of happiness that had formed in my life, now that you were there, making me laugh and smile over the simplest things. Desperate, I texted you again: Please come back to me.

After a while, three dots appeared on your end of our text exchange. Then disappeared. Then reappeared again.

In the end, you didn’t reply, but those dots gave me a small sliver of hope.

Nic sat up with me until well after eleven that night, both of us hunched over the island, weary with exhaustion, sluggishly scrolling on our phones. When we heard your key turn in the lock, my dad shoved his stool back and stood, gripping the edge of the counter.

You stumbled in the back door, clearly drunk, similar to that time before Christmas, your hair a tousled mess and your shirt buttoned wrong, as if you’d dressed in the dark.

You gazed back at us with bloodshot eyes, their usual warm shimmer missing entirely. A flat, dark blue. No longer the sparkly hue of the ocean.

“Where have you been?” Nic asked.

Head leaning back, you replied, “Out.”

“That’s not an answer, son.”

You flinched, your handsome features pinching together like my dad had just insulted you. “Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever the hell I want. Because this”—Nic jammed his finger down at the floor, or maybe the house in general—“is where you belong.”

A muscle in your jaw jumped, the knot in your throat bobbing up and down. Even in the dim light coming from the lone fixture Nic had left on over the stove, I saw the shimmer in your eyes. I didn’t quite understand back then, but I know now that you were trying not to break.

Nic’s voice shook as he said, “When I text you, you’re to answer me. When I call you, you’re to pick up your goddamn phone. You ever disappear on me again, and I’ll hunt you down. I’ll drag you right back here. Do you understand me?”

It took you several seconds to reply, and when you did, I’m pretty sure your voice cracked. “Yes.”

“I had a long talk with your sister earlier. It seems she’s been wanting to talk to me for a while now,” Nic said. “I’ll give you a pass tonight, but the second Elliot leaves for school in the morning—you and I, Casey—we have some very important issues to discuss.”

Dragging a shaky hand across your face, you nodded at him.

Nic turned to me. “I better hear you both on the stairs in ten minutes, Elliot.”

When he left, you sank into the stool beside mine and buried your face in your hands. I remembered Michael’s request for me to text when you got home, so I did. His reply came instantly: Thank God.

“You scared us, Casey. I’ve never seen my dad that worried before.”

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered.

“I’m sorry, too,” I said, reaching over to twist your bracelet.

You lifted your head. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

“That you’re sad.” I twisted the bracelet again. “But I’m glad you came back.”

Your gaze dropped to my fingers on your wrist. Then—and I still break out in goosebumps when I remember this moment—you reached over and gripped my wrist, turned your body to face mine, and rested your forehead against my shoulder. Breathtakingly slow, your hand slid up my bare arm, stilling beneath the sleeve of my t-shirt. You clung to me like a drowning man to a life raft, your fingers digging into my skin so hard it hurt a little. But I liked that. The burning. The pressure. Your skin, sinking deeper into mine. In a weird way, it felt like being claimed.

Gripping your stool in the empty space between your legs, I lowered my face, catching a whiff of cigarette smoke, along with a girl’s perfume. I definitely didn’t like that. But I put my free hand to your head, anyway, then dragged my fingers through your hair, marveling at how silky and soft and thick it was.

You ground your forehead against my shoulder, and my heart skipped, despite the circumstances. “I just want it to be over,” you said.

Your statement, on the other hand, cracked my chest open. “Want what to be over?”

“This day.” A tear hit my skin, then trickled down my arm.