Page 70 of Mad Girl

Instead, I said, “What about Casey?”

His dark eyebrows knit together. “What about him?”

“You moved him in because…I’m not enough for you.”

“No. I moved him in so you’ll never be lonely when I’m not there.”

“But you care about him,” I pointed out. “You love having him live with us.”

Nic nodded. “I do. He makes us better, doesn’t he? We’ve been better since he moved in. He’s good for both of us.”

What Nic meant by better was: he hadn’t needed to send me back to therapy since you moved in. I hadn’t done anything bad enough to require therapy (that he knew of, anyway). Plus, for the first time in years, I sat across from him—on my birthday—without a black eye or a broken nose. And that made him feel better, too.

He believed you were the reason, Casey.

And you were, I realized. I’d been better because I couldn’t stand to disappoint you.

“I guess so.”

Nic ducked to meet my gaze. “The house feels different with him there. He makes it feel…more like the home I always envisioned for us, you know? And you seem happier with him around.” He searched my face. “Aren’t you happier?”

Nic was right about the house. You made it feel alive in a way it never felt unless the Harrises were visiting. Your presence permeated the atmosphere. Made it warmer. Cozier. Less dark and dungeon-like. As much as I wanted to disagree with my dad out of spite, I could no longer say I was unhappy with our living arrangement, even if you’d never know I said it. “I’m happier,” I admitted. “Yeah.”

With a sigh of relief, Nic picked up the end of my braid and stroked it between his fingers. “He needs us, Elliot. He needs people who love and accept him. We’re good for him, too.”

I didn’t see how I could be good for anyone, but if my dad thought you really needed us, I’d take that responsibility seriously.

“Look what he gave me for my birthday,” I said, showing him my hand.

Nic clasped my fingers, watching the ring change colors with the light. Then he smiled—a real smile. One that reached his eyes. “It’s beautiful. Like you.”

I thought of the pictures Michael had given me. The one of my mom and dad standing by the ocean. In the photo, her eyes had changed colors like mine, and Michael had agreed: “You look just like her. She’s beautiful.”

I wanted to hear my dad say it, too. “Do I look like her? My mom?”

Nic studied my face for a long time—clearly deliberating—while I sat there, spoon poised above my ice cream, hopeful. Finally, I thought. He’ll tell me I look like her. He’ll decide it’s time.

“No,” he said. “You’re one of a kind, honey. You’re more beautiful than she ever was.”

A lie. Why couldn’t he be honest? Why couldn’t he give me this one, basic, trivial fact about her?

A couple of tears slipped loose, the disappointment too crushing to choke back. He brushed those tears away with his thumb, probably assuming I was sad about my absentee mom, but it was his lie that saddened me the most. I would’ve called him out on it, except I couldn’t let him know I had those pictures of her hidden in my room.

Nic pulled me against his chest. “Nothing I have is more important to me than you. Nothing.”

A few days after my birthday, we said goodbye to Bree and Tinsley, who were off to Peru for the last two weeks of summer break. My dad went back to work, commuting back and forth from the firm each day, typically returning to the Cape by dinnertime. City council meetings sent John back to Boston a few times a week, and an end-of-summer charity gala kept Libby busy, often sending her away from the estate for hours, leaving me and Michael to wander the property on our own.

To make the most of our freedom, we lounged by the pool until our skin grew too wrinkled and sun-kissed, drove into town for unlimited lobster rolls and ice cream, and streamed crappy movies in the main living room whenever we felt like it. At your request, Michael sent you daily snapshots of me—making funny faces by the pool, chilling with a book in the sunroom, or laughing by the ocean—to prove I hadn’t hurt myself. I often wondered if they made you smile.

Right before you left for England, I’d reached out to Willoughby, asking about his summer, and before long, we were texting daily, a smile leaping onto my face every time his name popped up on my screen. His parents had a place on the Cape, too, but they’d left early, leaving him free to party with his friends. He told me to drop by sometime, and—lucky for me—one of these parties happened to fall on a night when Nic and the Harrises were a chartered one-hour yacht ride away on Martha’s Vineyard, attending a summer soirée slash hobnobbing event of their own.

Michael appeared in my doorway just as I finished applying my lip gloss. I saw him reflected in my floor-length mirror, leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over a pink button-down shirt.

“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked, gaze sweeping over my minidress—another loan from Tinsley. White eyelet. Sweetheart neckline. Corset bodice. Fitted on top. Flared at the bottom. Also: pretty damn short. I felt both girly and sexy in it.

“I’m going to a party.”

“Whose party?”