Page 89 of Mad Girl

As Michael stalked off, you stared after him with that groove of concern between your eyebrows. You started to follow him, but Eleanor called your name from the sitting room across the hall, diverting your attention. So I went after him instead.

In the kitchen, I found him grabbing a water from the fridge. “Hey,” I said, leaning my hip against the counter. “Can we talk?”

Michael wouldn’t look at me. “Talk about what? There’s nothing left to say.”

“Don’t be like that. I need to know how to fix this.”

“What’s to fix? We were just having fun. That’s all it was.”

“Are you kidding? Fun? Don’t reduce it to that.”

Michael’s eyes finally flashed up to meet mine. “What do you want me to call it, then?”

“It meant a lot to me, Michael. You mean a lot to me.”

“Please,” he said, a look of pure disgust on his face. “Don’t try to placate me by saying shit like that. You knew what you were doing.”

I stepped back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Willoughby wouldn’t touch you, then I told you how I felt. You saw an opportunity there, and you took it. We didn’t go all the way, but in the end, you got what you wanted, right?”

I crossed my arms. “What did I get exactly?”

“Pain. Out of everything I could’ve offered you, that’s what you wanted most: pain. Pain from me. A way to punish yourself.”

I flinched at his accusation—and he noticed.

“Oh, come on, Elliot,” he said, voice soft but cutting, a dagger to my heart. “You think that slipped by me? You think I didn’t know what you were really asking for every time you asked me to bite you?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“You told me you loved me, and you didn’t mean it.”

“Of course I did. I do love you.”

“Not the way I want,” he said thickly. “Not the way you said it. You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”

I reached out to him, but he backed away, and that stung like hell. How could I have screwed him over so royally?

“I’m sorry it’s not exactly the way you want,” I said, voice trembling, “but I do love you. Just tell me how to fix this. You’re my best friend, Michael. I can’t lose you.”

“Don’t worry.” He backed up, closer to the door. “I’ll be here like I always am. What other choice do I have? I wouldn’t be able to escape you if I tried.”

When Michael left, I fled upstairs before anyone could see me crying. At the time, I didn’t see a way we could ever go back to what we were. It felt like I’d lost him forever, and it crushed me.

But that’s nothing compared to the heartache I feel today.

LETTER THIRTEEN

75 WEEKS LEFT

For the first half hour of your visit today, our conversation centered around you. Namely, what your daily routine looks like now that you’re not “looking after” me. You told me you’ve been bartending again—at the weekends—and I didn’t say it out loud, but I don’t like that. It makes me feel edgy to think of you being ogled and finger-brushed by strangers, being slipped numbers and asked out, or worse—potentially hooking up with people after your shift.

“I keep busy,” you said, fingers tapping the steel table. “I have to. Otherwise, I start thinking of you. And that night.” You swallowed, still tapping. “And how—despite how angry I am with you—I’m also responsible for what happened.”

I shook my head. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes. And the worst part is, I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to make you cry. I wanted to rip your heart out like you’d done to mine. And I’ll never forgive myself for that. Because now you’re here, and it’s all my⁠—”