Page 85 of Mad Girl

That’s when it finally hit me.

The oh-shit moment.

The I’d-fooled-around-with-your-brother moment.

It was bad before, when I thought you and Michael were friends, but this was bad bad. Siblings trumped friends, didn’t they?

But we weren’t anything, you and I. Just two people who were forced to tolerate each other. That’s what I told myself—what I tried telling myself—despite the awful nagging feeling, deep in the pit of my stomach, that I’d betrayed you somehow.

I cleared my throat and swallowed. “How does it feel to know you’ve been hanging out with your brother for the last year?”

You swiped a hand over your mouth. “It feels surreal. It’s all—it’s a bit jarring, to be honest.”

“So when do you plan on telling John the news?”

You straightened and shook your head. “I don’t—and I asked Nic not to tell him, either. I’m not ready to reveal myself. In fact, I can’t see myself being ready to do that for a long time.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because, Elliot. They’re perfect as they are, and then I come along—to what? Blow up their lives? And what about Libby? How might she react to something like this? She’s planning to run for mayor next year. Did you know that?”

“Of course I know—but, Casey, John would be thrilled about this. He’d want to know who you really are.”

“Nic said the same thing, but I don’t want to be a burden. It was one thing when I thought Nic might be my father. He’s a single dad. His life isn’t constantly scrutinized by the public. If it came out Nic had a son he didn’t know about, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But with the Harrises, with John, it’s altogether different. If this came out, it might embarrass him and his family, and I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

“So you plan on keeping this from Michael, too?”

“For the time being, yes. I plan to tell Michael someday. But that would require me to also tell him the true nature of how we met, and I—” You paused to swallow. “I’m afraid it might be quite difficult for him to accept me as his brother.”

You stared down at your hands, twisting your beaded bracelet, like you often did when you were upset. I hated seeing you so despondent over something that should’ve brought you closure and joy, so I slipped my hand into yours and rested my head on your shoulder. You squeezed my hand and rested your head on top of mine. We stayed like that, silent for a minute or two, until I had a thought.

“You know what’s really weird about all this?”

“What’s that?”

“If you’d grown up here, you’d have this…totally different accent. You wouldn’t even sound the same.”

Then you did that thing, which still makes my skin crawl to this very day. You dropped your accent completely and said, “You mean I’d sound like this? Like your average American guy? Talking about football and hot girls on TikTok and other, like, totally pointless shit? I’d talk insanely loud and get fired up about topics like gun control and racism. Oh, and I might also claim the USA is the single greatest country in the whole world. All while drinking out of a red plastic cup, obviously.”

I pulled my hand free of yours, slid away from you on the bed, and gaped at you in disbelief. “Okay, never—ever—do that again. It was super fucking creepy.”

You laughed.

“No, I’m serious,” I said. “I have actual goosebumps. Look.” I held my arm out and you laughed again. “You know who you sounded like?”

“Who?”

“Michael,” I said. “Almost exactly like him.” The English accent gave your voice the gentle, soothing quality it normally possessed. Without it, your voice sounded much deeper and, therefore, eerily similar to Michael’s.

“Hey,” I said, thinking of something else. “What about your biological mother?”

“Nic says he has a pretty good idea who she is, but he’s not sure of her maiden name. He wanted to do some digging, but I told him that wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Why not?”

“Because I already have a wonderful mother. Or, at least, the memory of one. So I don’t need—” You stopped to gather the right words and tried again. “I don’t need to track down this person who decided it was absolutely necessary to give me up. For some reason, my biological mother didn’t want me. She handed me off to Eleanor and sent me to an entirely different country, and I’m choosing to respect that.”

“Maybe she didn’t want to give you up,” I said carefully, “but felt she didn’t have a choice. If she was John’s age at the time, she would’ve been barely over eighteen.”