Page 79 of Mad Girl

“Hey,” he said, taking my face in his hand. “That’s not what I mean. It’s okay if you aren’t ready. That’s not a big deal. I mean…I told you I loved you, and we still haven’t talked about it. I think maybe you’re afraid to admit you don’t feel the same way.”

There we were, sitting in my dad’s Roadster, sunlight filtering through the thick canopy of leaves overhead, Michael’s eyes sparkling bright as they searched mine. My heart tugged at the vulnerability etched across his face, and I didn’t want to hurt him. Because I was always hurting him, wasn’t I? Always stabbing and shooting and taking. “Of course I do,” I said, stroking my thumb down the scar on his lip. “You’re the only boy I’ve ever loved.”

And that was true.

Until the complicated little problem of you.

I lowered my forehead to Michael’s and whispered, “I love you.”

A few minutes later, when he bit down hard on my shoulder like I asked, the warm hush of a summer breeze swallowed my cry.

Those last days of summer on the Cape were a whirlwind.

His fingers, experienced, my heart beating fast. Frenzied kisses in the Range Rover, in his bed and in mine, in the rain, in the middle of the night. Things whispered—and bitten—in the dark.

On our final night, we were lying in my bed facing each other when Michael threaded his fingers through mine, pressed his lips to the top of my hand, and murmured, “How will we do this when we get back?”

I blinked at him. “I’m not sure,” I said, because I hadn’t thought about it. Those ten days had felt like a dream, disconnected from our regular lives completely.

“Maybe you should spend more time studying at the library,” Michael suggested.

“Multiple times per week?” My throat constricted with panic. “Casey will never buy that.”

“Then say you’re hanging out at Tinsley’s.”

“I don’t know if I feel comfortable lying to him that often.”

“So what if you don’t? What if you tell him the truth?”

I gulped. “I don’t think he’d go for it. I don’t think he’d feel okay letting me hang out at your apartment all the time, knowing how Nic feels about me dating right now.”

“What if I talk to him?” he asked, his gaze searching mine.

“Talk to Casey?”

“Yeah. I’ll tell him how we feel about each other.”

That panicky feeling grew, clawing at my chest. “But he got kind of weird when he thought I might’ve snuck off to your apartment that time. I don’t think he’d like it.”

Michael separated our hands, lifting himself up. “Why does it matter if Casey likes it or not?”

“It—it doesn’t.”

“You sure? Sounds like maybe it matters to you, Elliot.”

“No,” I rushed to say. “No, it’s not like that.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what it is like?” Michael asked, his gaze so full of hurt and anger that it sucked my breath away. “Because it sounds like you want to keep Casey in the dark for some reason.”

“I just—I don’t want to disappoint him.”

“And being with me would disappoint him why, exactly?”

I shook my head, unable to answer.

“You know what I think? You don’t want Casey to know about us because you have feelings for him.”

“That”—I swallowed—“is not true.”