Page 69 of Mad Girl

You allowed those brutally honest words to sit between us a moment. Just so you know, disgusted and fooled nearly undid me.

Until you added, “I could even confess that, at times, I’ve wanted to hate you, to walk away and never look back. I’ve wished that were possible for me, because it would make my life a hell of a lot easier. But what good would it do for me to hate you? For me to hurt you back? For me to cut ties and abandon you here in jail? My anger will never be as strong as the anger you’re capable of internalizing. My hatred—if I were capable of feeling hatred for you at all—could never compare to the self-loathing you live with every day. And I don’t need to punish you, because you’ll take care of that all by yourself.” Your gaze dropped to my hands, which were trembling as I dug my fingernails even deeper into my skin. “Kind of like you’re doing right now.”

You were right, of course. You’re typically right about most things.

Blinking back tears, I had to look away.

“Hey,” you said, drawing my gaze back to yours. “When you leave this place, we’ll talk about what you did, and I won’t hold back on my anger, I can assure you of that. But for right now—during the sixty short minutes we have together—I’m leaving my anger out there.” You pointed to the row of windows at the edge of the room. “If all I get with you is one hour per week, I don’t want to spend it being mad. That’s just a waste of our time.”

“So you’re putting your anger on pause.”

You nodded. “Let’s call this a neutral space. Out there, you’ve stomped my heart into the ground and I’m so fucking mad at you—at what you did to us. But in here? I’m strangely…removed from all that. Being near you—after six long days of suffering your absence—seems to have that effect on me.”

“Even when I’m a being a bitch?”

“Even then,” you said gently. “So let’s make the most of it, yeah? We’ll sort out the past later.”

Later. It felt like a gift, Casey. One too good to be true. But if there’s one thing I can count on, it’s your ability to give grace to a person when they least deserve it.

Unable to speak—thanks to the giant lump of gratitude forming in my throat—I simply nodded. Yes.

“You know,” you said, gaze dancing softly over my face, “if you’re struggling, you can say that. We can talk about it. You can tell me anything, no matter how unpleasant you think it might be for me to hear.”

But I’m already doing that. Through these letters. And, anyway, if I were to tell you how badly I’m struggling in this place—how much I miss home and privacy and all the people I haven’t seen in months—I’d start ugly crying, and you wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it, because touching isn’t allowed. So I only said, “I know.”

Trying to keep it together, I fixed my gaze on your tie. A blue so bright it matched your eyes. Blue like the ocean, which I’m missing for the first summer of my life.

Since I refuse a cake on my birthday, my dad always carves out a good chunk of the day where I’m forced to spend quality time with him, just the two of us. He gets misty-eyed, tells me how grateful he is that I exist, and—whether it’s intentional or not—makes me feel like a total bitch for depriving him of the opportunity to celebrate me. His one and only child.

At least, that’s what he used to do. This is the first birthday in my life he hasn’t bothered to do so in person.

On my eighteenth birthday, Nic took us out in his prized Mercedes Roadster—the gift his dad gave to him on his eighteenth birthday. He’d gotten something much more practical for his sixteenth.

After Nic gave me my first (unsuccessful) lesson driving a manual transmission, we stopped by that ice cream place I loved. You know, the one where you’d sampled my açaí bowl that time, called it “dessert for lunch,” and insisted on making me a proper lunch when we got home.

I ordered a scoop of cookie dough, my dad ordered plain chocolate, then we chose a wooden table in the shade, where a soft breeze ruffled the skirt of my sundress.

While I ate my ice cream, Nic poked at his, staring off into the distance, lost in thought, his expression nostalgic—but not in a good way. Never in a good way. Every year, he looked sort of…heartbroken, and I often wondered why. Was it heartbreak over the present way I handled my birthday, or heartbreak over what I’d done to ruin it in the past?

When his gaze finally slid to mine, he pushed a strand of hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ear. “You know how much I love you, right?”

I nodded, chopping a chunk of cookie dough in half with my plastic spoon.

“Are you sure we can’t—?” He lowered his voice to a hopeful whisper. “Just this once?”

I shook my head. “I don’t want a cake, Dad.”

“But eighteen, honey, it’s⁠—”

“I said, no.”

Nic nodded, jaw clenched, then went back to staring past me. There were real tears in his eyes, and it pricked my heart. It made me feel like shit.

Glancing down, I stabbed another chunk of cookie dough. “Sorry I’m such a disappointment.”

“Hey,” he said, lifting my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You’re not a disappointment. You’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m so glad you’re mine.”

Tears filled my eyes, and I wanted to ruin the moment. I wanted to say, Then let me be normal. Let me be free.