Page 61 of Mad Girl

“He’s involved because he cares.” A look of melancholy—or maybe regret—passed over your face. “You’ve no idea how lucky you are to have him.”

“Well—hey,” I said, trying to lighten the moment, “you’re in luck, too.”

“Why’s that?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, he deeply cares about you, which means you’re trapped in his sticky web of control just like I am. And you can’t escape now, even if you wanted to.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I laughed. “You’re there. You’re trapped. You’re being controlled and you don’t even realize it.”

“I’m not being controlled by your dad, Elliot.”

“Oh, yeah? Whatever happened to smoking? Or your bartending job?”

“I needed to quit those things, anyway.”

“Sure you did. He made you believe that. Pretty soon, he’ll make you believe you need a plan for your future.”

You started to reply, then stopped, lips parted, staring into the cellar with your eyes narrowed.

I nudged your arm. “There’s already a plan, isn’t there?”

You backed up, fingers tugging at the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “I think it’s time we got to bed.”

I laughed as I followed you upstairs.

A couple days later, at dusk, I spotted Michael doing laps in the pool. A breeze ruffled loose strands of my hair as I lowered myself to the pool’s stone ledge and dipped my legs into the water.

After two more laps, he stopped beside me, resting his arms by my thighs.

“So,” I said. “Do you plan on being a dick to me all summer?”

“Do you plan on hurting yourself all summer? Despite knowing how much I hate it?” he fired back.

“You’re mad about the volleyball incident.” I knew he would be.

“I’m mad about all the incidents,” he said, gaze piercing mine. “I’m mad that instead of feeling happy every summer, I mostly feel dread. I’m mad just looking at your face right now.”

Hot tears pricked my eyes. “I didn’t do it because of my birthday this time. I did it because I snuck into your apartment that day, made Sienna think you cheated, and lied to Casey.”

Michael looked away, swiping a hand through his wet hair, slicking it back. “That was months ago, Elliot. A better alternative would’ve been to talk to someone about it. Not try to get your face broken.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, “for making your summers miserable.”

He stared at the ocean down below, his jaw bunched tight.

“Do I need to beg?” I asked. “Because I can do that—if it’ll help you forgive me.”

“You know I can’t stand that shit,” he said roughly.

“Please forgive me,” I said, begging a little, anyway. I pulled his face back to mine, put my thumb to his top lip, and stroked his scar.

His gaze burned through me. “Hard to forgive you when nothing ever changes. It hurts me to even look at you.”

“What if I promise not to hurt myself around my birthday this year? Will that help?”

“Yeah, right.”