Page 57 of Mad Girl

You directed a look of pure awe at Libby. “But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” Libby said, grinning proudly. “Never even missed a single class. I went into labor three weeks early—on a Friday afternoon, during the middle of a lecture on public policy—but I was able to breathe through the contractions and make it through the rest of my day. Michael was born one minute after midnight on Saturday, and I⁠—”

“Yep,” Michael said, heaving a big sigh. “I was nice enough to be born over the weekend, so she could be back in class by Monday and show them all what a total badass she was. The end.”

“Michael,” you chided with a smile. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you trying to ruin your mum’s story?”

“Because he has a mom,” I said, “who loves telling the story of his birth, and he has the luxury of taking things like that for granted.”

Nic grabbed my wrist again.

John knocked Michael on the back of the neck. “She’s right, Michael.”

“Sorry for being an asshole,” Michael mumbled.

“Anyway,” Libby went on, “like Michael said, I was back in class by Monday, finished up the term with a 4.0, and returned after winter break—to do it all over again. And no one dared to question how determined I was after that. I graduated with a twenty-month-old on my hip and went straight to Harvard Law from there.”

You beamed at Libby, impressed. “That’s amazing.”

I couldn’t help it. I had to. I said, “Probably helped that John stayed with Michael that first year, they had plenty of hired help when John went back to school himself the following year, and then they had even more help by the time Libby went to law school and Bree was born.”

Easy to graduate from Harvard with a baby on your hip when you employ a nanny to bear the brunt of the child-rearing for you. If she’d done it without John and their round-the-clock nanny—like most women had to do—I would’ve let Politician Barbie’s humble bragging slide.

“Oh, Elliot,” Libby said with a sigh.

“Elliot,” Nic said. “Come on.”

“Hey,” I said with a shrug. “I’m just stating facts here.”

Later that morning, while the girls and I lounged on the beach, you and Michael made your way down the red wooden stairs, carrying the gear for beach volleyball.

All that time we’d been living together, Casey, and I’d never seen you shirtless. You dropped the net to the sand, revealing a pair of little black swim trunks that were a good few inches shorter than Michael’s. They showed off a nice pair of legs that were a lot more athletic than I would’ve thought, and when you turned around, giving me my very first glimpse of your ass in those shorts, my stomach bottomed out. To myself, I whispered, “What the fuck.”

Then there was the light dusting of dark hair on your chest. Your narrow, trim waist. The trail of dark hair disappearing into your shorts. Good God.

My imagination had never come close to doing you justice. The reality was so much sweeter.

Tinsley—who’d joined us at the Cape after breakfast, dropped off by her mom—yanked down her sunglasses. “Jesus. Look at the way he fills out that suit…in the back and the front.” She paused, biting down on her bottom lip. “Just makes you want to take a bite out of him, doesn’t it?”

“Tinsley,” Bree scolded, shaking her head. “He’s not a piece of meat.”

Tinsley ignored her. “I don’t see how you can stand living with someone that attractive, Elliot. I’d go crazy wanting to sneak into his room at night and crawl into bed with him. Or, like, wait outside his bathroom hoping to catch a peek when he steps out of the shower.” She flashed us a big grin. “Hey. Remember when I accidentally caught Michael coming out of the shower last summer? Remember how pissed he was? I still don’t get why, though—I mean, it’s not like he has anything to be ashamed of. He’s well⁠—”

“Oh my God, Tinsley, stop,” Bree said. “If I have to hear you describe Michael’s penis one more time, I will drown myself in that ocean.”

Here’s a truth for you, Casey.

Thanks to Tinsley—to the heat, to those shorts—I definitely went a little crazy that day, picturing myself crawling into bed with you. Splaying my hand over your chest. Pressing my face to your throat. Or catching you coming out of the shower, like Tinsley said, with the towel draped down the front of your body as you patted dry. Maybe the towel would shift, just the tiniest bit, and I’d get a peek of⁠—

“Elliot,” Bree barked, reaching across Tinsley to thump me on the leg. “Earth to Elliot. What are you thinking about over there?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, shifting on my towel. I squeezed my thighs together, trying not to blush.

Bree eyed me suspiciously above her sunglasses, Tinsley cackled, and a few feet away, Michael was giving you shit for the little black swim shorts. But you only laughed, hands propped on your hips.

Later, when you two finished setting up the net, Michael asked us girls if we wanted to play.

“I’ll sit this one out,” Tinsley said with a wink. “Just enjoy the view.”