Page 87 of Mad Girl

Your eyes narrowed. “Isn’t it Victoria?”

I nodded. “But I don’t know if she has a middle name or what her last name is. I only know she went by Victoria, and Libby sometimes calls her Vicky. My dad won’t tell me anything more than that. No one will.”

Your head snapped back in surprise. “Really?”

“Really. I don’t know my mother’s full name. How messed up is that?”

Over the years, I’d scoured my house, the Harrises’ house, my grandparents’ house—looking for a yearbook, an old driver’s license, my own birth certificate. Anything that might tell me her legal name.

But my searches had never produced the answers I craved.

Which meant my dad had ensured those items were well hidden—where I might never find them. Probably to keep me from looking her up online.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t know her name was Victoria myself, until Libby mentioned her at the beach. Prior to that, your dad always referred to her as ‘Elliot’s mother.’ Never by name.”

My stomach sank. “Oh.”

The disappointment on my face must’ve troubled you, because you quickly placed your kettle on the counter and pulled me into a hug.

Brunch that Sunday turned out to be an interesting ordeal.

You were fidgety and restless all morning, constantly adjusting your clothes, patting your pockets, and telling my dad you needed a smoke—just one smoke. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

You tried helping Henriette in the kitchen, and when she kicked you out, like she often did, I caught Nic leading you into his office, where I suspect he gave you a shot (or two) of something to calm your nerves. Because you seemed a lot less jittery by the time you joined me and Garland later.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“It’s ridiculous,” you said. “I’ve seen them a hundred times now. I’ve known them a whole year, for Christ’s sake. Why am I so nervous?”

“Because you’re about to see them for who they really are.” I squeezed your hand. “Your family.”

You swallowed hard, fear flickering across your face.

“Hey,” I said softly. “As far as they know, you’re just Casey—Michael’s friend.” I rolled my eyes. “And Elliot’s, like, keeper or whatever.”

That made you crack a smile. “Right. I’m just Casey—some strange foreign guy.”

“Exactly.” I laughed, grabbing your hands and pulling you up from the sofa. And I can’t say for sure what made me do it—your smile fading, or that terrified look crossing your face again, or maybe the way my heart squeezed at seeing you that nervous—but I lifted up and pressed a kiss to your cheek. You leaned back, caught off guard. But it certainly wiped the the look of fear off your face. “Come on,” I added, pulling you with me. “It’ll be okay.”

Before we all sat down to eat, John greeted you in his normal way: big grin, hand on your shoulder, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Casey,” he said. “How was your time at home? Did you enjoy seeing your family?”

What a bizarre thing, seeing a father glow in the presence of his own child. To know John could look at you, his firstborn, without realizing exactly who you were. To hold a secret this powerful without dropping it.

The weight of that moment pressed hard against my ribs. I wondered how my dad carried it. How he didn’t just…blurt the truth out.

You quietly said, “I did. Thank you for asking. It was great.”

John’s very perceptive. He’s a lot like you that way. He narrowed his eyes and said, “Everything good, I hope? Everything okay?”

“Of course,” you told him, forcing a smile.

The normal seating arrangement at brunch goes like this: you, Michael, John. All three in a row. And me? I’m directly across. You know that. So I studied you guys. I looked for the similarities. And they were there—if you knew to look for them, those similarities presented themselves in small, meaningful ways.

The hands. You, Michael, and John have hands that are identical. Their shape and size. The long fingers that aren’t too long—or too slender.

The noses. Yours, Michael’s and John’s—Bree’s, too. The flattened point at the tip, clearly a dominant trait. How had I never noticed that before?

The eyes. All blue. Yours a touch brighter than theirs.