Page 72 of Mad Girl

Before I could think of a retort, Willoughby ambled up, saying, “Elliot! You made it.”

Messing with those boys had lost its appeal, and I wanted the hell out of that crowd. I turned to Willoughby. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

“Sure,” he said, grabbing my hand. “Come on.”

Willoughby pulled me behind him as we weaved through the house and up a set of stairs. I scanned the crowd for Michael, spotting him in the living room, cornered by a couple of girls. Two hot girls, vying for his attention as he also scanned the crowd for me. I laughed under my breath at that.

Willoughby shut his bedroom door behind us, then led me over to the bed. We sat side by side.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked, pushing his dark floppy hair back.

“I don’t actually want to talk.” Like that first time, I crushed my lips to his. Unlike before, though, he had time to fully kiss me back, slipping his tongue into my mouth. He tasted like beer—which I didn’t particularly like—but I hooked my leg over his lap, anyway, and kissed him harder. Sparks didn’t fly or anything, but to a girl without choices, kissing Willoughby felt like liberation. And then it felt like power—as parts of his body hardened beneath mine.

Anxious for more, I unlatched a button on his shirt.

Willoughby broke our kiss and pulled back, still gripping my waist. “Hold on,” he said, gaze searching mine. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think?” I went for another button, but he stopped me. “What’s wrong? You don’t want to?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just—would it be your first time?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. But so what?”

Willoughby closed his eyes, easing me off his lap. “Elliot, we barely know each other. We’ve never even had an actual conversation.”

“We text all the time. We’ve known each other for years.”

“Yeah,” Willoughby said as he stood. “All these years later, you just started talking to me—so you could make that guy who lives with you jealous.”

“I wasn’t trying to make him jealous.”

“Tell me this, then. Do you even like me?”

“Sure. You’re…nice.”

Willoughby laughed, but the sound rang hollow. “Just what every guy wants to hear right before he takes a girl’s virginity.”

My temper flared. “Your buddies downstairs would take it for a lot less. Greer asked me to go off with him the second I got here.”

“That’s because Greer’s an asshole. He wouldn’t think twice before taking advantage of a girl like you.”

I drew back. “A girl like me? What’s that supposed to mean? And how is it taking advantage if I want it? Maybe I’m the one taking advantage in this situation. Did you ever stop to think about that?”

“So you admit, then,” Willoughby said. “You only came here to hook up and leave. I thought we could hang out. Talk. Get to know each other better. But all you want is someone you can use to your advantage—while your dad’s away—and you don’t care who it is. Everyone at school thinks you’re cold, detached, unknowable…and I keep thinking they’re wrong. I keep thinking there’s more to you than that.” He shook his head, disappointed. “But the way you jumped on me just now? Makes me wonder if they’re right.”

Willoughby was a nice guy alright—way too nice for me. I couldn’t decide what made me feel like crying more: cold, detached, unknowable or the blatant rejection. I hopped off his bed. “Fuck you, Willoughby.”

I shoved past him and fled downstairs, finding Michael near the bottom, heading up to look for me.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked, pausing with his hand on the banister.

“I want to go home,” I said, fighting the urge to burst into tears. “Can we leave?”

“What happened?” he demanded, his stony gaze pointed up the stairs.

“Nothing.”

Unconvinced, Michael tried slipping past me, but I put my hand to his chest.