Page 78 of Mad Girl

Nic dropped his hand from the bottle and squeezed her fingers. “I’m fine, Lib.”

“Are you sure, Dad?” I asked.

His hazel-green eyes swung over to mine as he took his seat. “I’m sure,” he said, scratching his dark jaw, covered in overgrown stubble. He hadn’t shaved in days. A rarity for him. “What have you and Michael been up to the last couple of days?”

Michael coughed beside me, so I kicked him underneath the table. He quickly rallied, gulping down some water.

“Just lounging by the pool,” I said. “Playing card games. Going into town. Stuff like that.”

“That’s nice,” Nic said, nodding in a way that suggested he hadn’t actually registered my response at all.

Later that night, when I couldn’t sleep, I texted you. It was seven a.m. in England, which meant you’d already be up, prepping your kettle for a cup of tea before your coffee.

I said, Hey. Are you okay?

Your response came a minute later: Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?

I don’t know, I texted back. I haven’t heard from you in a couple days, and my dad’s acting weird.

You asked, How so?

Withdrawn, I said. Quiet. Hasn’t shaved. Drinking a lot.

A couple minutes ticked by before you replied, Well, now you’ve got ME worried.

I asked you why, and you said: He wants to talk about something important when I get back. Maybe it’s to do with that?

You asked if I’d been good, and I claimed I hadn’t been. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but you took it to be one, anyway.

I told you the truth, Casey: I snuck out. Went to a party. Kissed a boy.

The boy in question happened to be lying beside me—shirtless, tousled, and fast asleep.

And that definitely niggled at my conscious. I promise it did. I’d been having some hot make-out sessions with your best friend. He might’ve been mine first, but he was yours, too.

You didn’t believe a word of it: Sure you did. Stop being cheeky.

The text sent a pang of regret shooting through me. Letting you believe I was lying was a lie of its own, and my lies were stacking up.

Then you—being you—said I should be asleep by now. You ordered me to leave my troubles with you and go to bed. So I snuggled up to Michael, and I did.

The following morning, over breakfast, Nic’s behavior hadn’t improved. I watched him read The Wall Street Journal on his phone while hunched over the table, fingers rubbing at his forehead. I asked if Michael and I could take the Roadster out for a drive that day so I could practice driving a stick again, and he said yes.

We practiced on a little back road, lined on both sides with trees, and it didn’t go too well. Once again, we yelled and swore and fought.

But all the fighting turned me on, so I parked the Roadster and hopped over to Michael’s side.

“What are you doing?”

“Doing whatever I have to,” I said, straddling him, “to shut you up.”

Michael slipped his hands underneath my sundress while I jerked his head to the side, scraping my teeth down the side of his neck. His breath hitched, but he still nudged me back. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Are you holding back with me? Because sometimes it feels like…you’re holding back.”

My stomach tightened. “I just—I’m not ready. I want to be ready. I want to do that with you—I do. I just⁠—”