Page 74 of Mad Girl

My body went still, heart galloping in my chest. My stomach kept doing these funny little flips. “Wait,” I said, blinking at him. “Are you serious?”

“How is it not completely obvious? You’re a total bitch to my girlfriends, and I always forgive you. I let Sienna believe I cheated when I didn’t so Casey wouldn’t take away your freedom. Every time you touch my lip, I think about kissing you.” His expression softened as he walked toward me. “I tried telling you at Christmas. Tried telling you how beautiful you are. How being near you without touching you the way I want is torture. How even thinking of you with another guy makes me crazy jealous.”

Michael kept moving closer, and then he was there. Right in front of me. So close. His gaze searching mine. Fierce. Probing. Desperate.

While I remained frozen, he dropped his head, easily capturing my mouth with his. But this wasn’t anything like the kiss I’d shared with Willoughby. This was so much different. So much more. Because it was him. Michael. My best friend.

God, how do I even describe it?

That very first kiss?

The crushing weight of his lips on mine? How they coaxed and begged and urged me to respond? And how, eventually, after a few stunned seconds, I did?

How can I describe the all-consuming force of it? Of him?

He was a boy, stranded on an island, dying of thirst, and I was water.

How do I describe all those conflicting emotions as I kissed him back?

Just that it was strange, and yet somehow familiar. That it was absurd, and yet it felt totally natural—the way my mouth responded to his—as if kissing him were the most natural thing in the world. That it was terrifying in its intensity and yet, somehow, despite all logic to the contrary, kissing Michael felt right. At least, far more right than it had with Willoughby.

How do I describe all that pent-up longing and desperation, flooding out of him and crashing into me?

It was too much. It was way too intense.

Fighting for breath, I pushed him off me.

He stumbled back, breathless himself.

My hand flew to my lips—still charged and electric, like the space between us. Like that kiss had been. Already, I sensed a shift. A gaping divide between then and now. Our friendship, forever changed. We’d never be the same again.

“How?” I asked quietly, tears burning hot on my cheeks. “How long have you…felt this way?”

Michael dragged two fingers over his lips. Like he felt the difference, too. “How long have I been in love with you?” he corrected me. “I don’t know. Maybe always?”

“In love?”

“Yes, Elliot,” he said. “I love you.”

I shook my head, struggling to comprehend.

Michael? In love with me?

I fled his room for the refuge of mine, shut my door, and sank to the floor, needing time to process how that kiss—how Michael’s admission—made me feel. My mind raced as I twisted the ring you’d given me on my finger.

And here’s another truth: I actually wasn’t that oblivious. On some level, I had known. Sensed Michael felt something, at least. Something deeper than friendship.

The summer before you arrived—before Michael started his freshman year at Harvard and met Sienna—he’d often drift into my room at the estate, home late from a party and reeking of beer. He’d toss off his shoes, climb into bed with me, and wrap his arms around my waist.

It was our late-night routine. Michael’s head on my chest. My fingers in his hair. Him, mumbling nonsense.

One night, he’d said, “Remember that time Nic left you at my house, and you dragged me out of bed to watch the snow fall? I wish life could always be like that.”

“Like what?” I asked, tossing my book aside.

“Simple.”

“What’s so complicated about your life now?”