Page 51 of Mad Girl

I couldn’t imagine the pain of losing a parent so young, let alone on your birthday. “It is over, Casey. It’s after midnight.”

“It’s not over till I’m asleep.”

“Then let’s go upstairs,” I said. “So you can sleep.”

As you pulled away, I longed to climb in your lap, aching to brush those tears from your face.

But you brushed them away yourself.

A couple weeks later, when I got home from school early, the sound of voices greeted me as I walked through the front door. Quietly dropping my bag, I tiptoed closer to the Garland Room.

You’d just finished talking. Then Michael said, “Dude, stop making excuses.”

“But I don’t like letting Nic pay my bills. I could make loads of money back home,” you said. “And I don’t want to impose on your holiday, either.”

“You’re not imposing,” Michael said. “We want you on the Cape with us. This is your first summer here, and it would be nice to have another guy around so it’s not just me, stuck with the girls like I normally am.”

Michael’s words—stuck with the girls—might’ve caused my temper to flare if I hadn’t spent years listening to him grumble about being the only guy at the beach every summer. I listened for your response, but one never came.

“Come on, man,” Michael said. “If you don’t go, I’ll be stuck dealing with Elliot’s drama all by myself.”

That word again—stuck. Only this time, it made me see red.

“What drama?” you asked.

But I burst into the room before Michael could answer, aiming a glare at him. “Stuck dealing with me? Is that how you really feel?”

Michael dropped his hand from the mantle. “What the hell, Elliot? How long have you been standing there?”

Your eyes flared ominously as you rose from the sofa. “Have you been eavesdropping again?”

“Yes,” I said. “Now answer my question, Michael.”

He sighed. “You know exactly why summers aren’t fun for me anymore. And—yeah, actually—the drama you cause every year makes me feel stuck. Like I’m doomed to repeat the same thing. Over and over.”

You glanced between us with your eyes narrowed, not understanding. But I did. Like Michael said, I knew exactly what he felt doomed to repeat every summer: me and my fucked-up drama.

“Wow,” I whispered, folding my arms. “Thanks for the brutal honesty. Wasn’t expecting to be hit with that today.” I looked at you. “Do you also feel stuck, Casey? Stuck dealing with me in this house?”

“Well, no,” you said, arms crossed over a blue ribbed cardigan. “But I’m more of a homebody myself. What I find most difficult about our living situation is that I can never be sure whether you’re lurking in the shadows to invade my privacy or not.”

“The answer to that,” Michael said, hands casually stuffed in his pockets, “is always.”

“Shut up, Michael. And by the way, Casey, you following me around everywhere is a huge invasion of my privacy. If you don’t like the way I do things here, you’re more than welcome to leave.”

I turned and headed for the front door.

“Where are you going?” you called.

“Out,” I said over my shoulder.

I barely made it ten feet from the house before someone called my name. Not you or Michael—but Hal. He stood behind the open driver’s side door of the black sedan, looking like a Secret Service agent in his black suit and sunglasses. “Where are you going?”

I tossed my arms in the air. “For a walk.”

“Not alone, you’re not,” he said, slamming the door.

“Are you kidding? I can walk to the park by myself.”