Page 63 of Mad Girl

“No,” he said, breathless as he reached for his chest. “It actually did.”

“Well, did I make the cut? Was I there?”

“Of course you were there. You’re the main person I saw.”

I clasped a hand to my heart. “That’s so sweet.”

Michael shifted the gear into park. “Get out. I’m driving us back.”

When we returned, we found you in the sunroom, wearing those black glasses I love, a thick book cracked open in your lap. “How’d it go?” you asked.

“You were smart to stay back,” Michael said, flopping down beside you. “That’s the second time in my life she almost killed me.”

You laughed. “That bad?”

I rolled my eyes. “He’s being dramatic.”

Over the coming weeks, Michael and my dad took turns teaching me to drive, and I got much better. Nic traveled back to Boston every few days to check in with the firm. My nose fully healed, the welts under my eyes softening to a pale yellow. You, Michael, and the girls played beach volleyball while I watched—and, admittedly, enjoyed the view. At the pool, I kept my sunglasses on, staring freely as you emerged, dripping wet, rivulets of water disappearing into the waistband of those little black swim shorts you wore, the fabric clinging to parts of your body in a way that set mine on fire.

Tinsley pinched me one day, trying to get my attention. “You sneaky bitch. You’re doing it, too.”

“Doing what?”

“Checking him out.” She lowered her sunglasses to wink at me. “You’re practically salivating over there.”

“Shut up.” I laughed, pinching her back.

“You look hot in that suit, by the way,” she said. “Your body is amazing. It’s a shame Nic makes you cover it up.”

I’d borrowed her ivory one-piece that day, tired of being so goddamn modest, because she was right: I looked amazing in her suits. Especially this one. The underwire cups elevated my boobs, making them look bigger. The bottom portion scooped scandalously high up my hips, accentuating my curves. The back showed off more of my ass than I’d ever shown in my life, and I had a nice ass. Why shouldn’t I show it off like Tinsley did? Like Bree—and even Libby—did?

When I’d walked through the sunroom on the way to the pool, Michael had lowered his phone and said, “Why are you wearing that?”

I’d shrugged. “Why not?”

My heart had sped up at the fire behind Michael’s gaze as it roamed over my body. “It’s just—um—it’s not you,” he’d said, in this throaty voice I’d never heard before.

“Says who? Maybe this is the kind of suit I’d wear if I were allowed to choose.”

“Which is probably why Nic doesn’t allow that,” he’d said.

I’d shrugged, hands propped on my hips. “What’s wrong with it? It covers everything.”

“Covers it,” Michael had agreed, his voice dropping low, his dark gaze riveted to the crotch area. “But just barely.”

I’d started to walk off.

“Why are you wearing the suit, Elliot?” he’d called after me.

“What do you mean?” I’d asked, twisting around.

“Never mind,” he’d muttered, his arm knocking mine as he’d brushed past me for the pool.

Beside me, Tinsley said, “Earlier? When you walked out here? Casey did a double take when he saw you.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

Tinsley nodded. “He even watched you the entire time you walked to your chair.”