Page 80 of Mad Girl

“You have been holding back with me, and it’s because of him.”

“No.”

“I know you love me—because we’re best friends, because we have so much history together—but tell me something. You don’t love me the way I love you. Do you?”

Tears sprang to my eyes. “I don’t know,” I whispered. “I don’t know yet.”

Michael tossed his legs over the side of my bed. “If you have to even think about it, you don’t. So you know what? Fuck this.”

He slammed my bedroom door behind him.

LETTER TWELVE

80 WEEKS LEFT

The Thursday before school started, you returned to Boston, surprised to find me waiting for you on the stairs. In the entry hall, you dropped your bags to the floor, looking me over so fondly that I rushed forward and practically leapt into your arms.

“Clearly, you haven’t grown attached to me at all,” you said, chuckling as you cradled my head to your chest.

The sound of your voice instantly soothed me, a balm to my aching heart. I closed my eyes, refusing to let go, even when your arms loosened.

“Hey,” you whispered into my hair. “What is it? Has something else happened with your dad?”

I shook my head against your chest. “No. I just missed you.”

Your voice sounded all rough and gravelly as you said, “I missed you, too.”

With a sigh, I pulled away.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You picked up my braid, smoothed it between your fingers, and let it fall back against my shoulder.

I forced a smile. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

But I wasn’t. For three long days, I’d been obsessing over Michael, who hadn’t replied to any of my texts or calls.

You must’ve seen it—a crack in my faux happy veneer—because that crease between your brows deepened and you started to say something else.

But my dad strode across the entry hall, cutting you off. “Casey,” he said, taking your face between his hands, “it’s so good to have you home.”

The gesture caught you off guard. You smiled uncertainly, narrowing your eyes at him. Then Nic surprised you again—surprised us both—when he wrapped you in a hug. You shot a baffled look over his shoulder that said, What is happening?

My dad rarely slipped into a mood I’d ever describe as cheery, but that night, over dinner, he came pretty damn close. With a smile permanently fixed to his face, he asked how Claire, Rhys, and your brother-in-law were. He bragged that I’d finally gotten the hang of driving his Roadster. He laughed out loud at a story you told about Rhys. The troubling behavior he’d shown those last couple of weeks on the Cape suddenly seemed inconsequential. A weird funk he’d shaken—or maybe just stress. Probably something to do with the firm.

After dessert, he asked you to join him in his office.

While you guys talked, I hung out with Garland. Tried a new TV show. Texted Bree and Tinsley. Started a new book.

More than two hours later, you finally wandered out.

I tossed the book aside and followed you into the entry hall, watching as you stopped to stare at your luggage.

“So what’s going on? What did he want to talk to you about?”

You continued staring at your suitcase, both hands jammed in your pockets. “What?”

“The talk. What was so important?”

“Oh.” You bent to snatch up your bag. Hoisted it over your shoulder. Grabbed the suitcase next. “Nothing. Turns out it wasn’t that important after all.”