Page 98 of Mad Girl

“It became clear,” you went on, “that very few people actually got to know Michael Harris. But I got to know him. He let me know him, and it made me feel pretty special. Then your dad said it, too, that night—when we first met. Nic said, ‘You must be pretty special.’ Only he said it in this really intense way that greatly intimidated the shit out of me. Followed, of course, by you…who threatened to castrate me. So when I left that night, I thought maybe knowing Michael Harris was also sort of dangerous.”

I laughed. Even though I felt like crying, I laughed—and you watched me laugh with this funny little smile on your face. Then you glanced down at my tea, untouched, and pushed it toward me, saying, “You’re letting your tea get cold.”

I took a small sip. “I think he felt the same way—about you.”

“You think so?” you asked, your expression so adorably hopeful that it squeezed my heart.

“Casey, you’re the only guy he’s ever brought to brunch. He wanted you to get a place with him. On more than one occasion, he let himself be emotional around you, and that’s not like him—to show vulnerability around a guy who isn’t John or my dad. He’s never had a guy best friend, either. Not until you came along.”

You winced. “And I deceived him. He let me in—he trusted me—and I’ve been deceiving him the whole time.”

“You didn’t know,” I said. “You didn’t know who he was.”

“But I could’ve told him the truth. I could’ve let him in, and I didn’t. I didn’t want him to see what it would do to me if it didn’t work out with Nic.”

“Were you really upset when you found out my dad wasn’t your father?”

You nodded. “Nic was my whole reason for coming here. I didn’t give a shit about his money or social status or any of that superficial stuff. I only wanted a dad who cared—who truly accepted me. I wanted to belong somewhere. And Nic…cared. Nic accepted me. Nic treated me like part of his family. I couldn’t imagine a situation more ideal than the one I already had with him, so when I found out I’d have to start all over again, I was so devastated that I nearly left Boston on my birthday.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I snuck out that morning—while you and your dad slept—and went to the airport. I sat there for hours. I wanted to leave and give up on the whole thing. But then…you.”

I drew back. “Me?”

“You sent me a text: Please come back to me. And I remembered that, family or no family, I had one purpose here—you. So I stayed.”

“I can’t be the only reason you stayed,” I managed through the gigantic lump in my throat.

“Well, no,” you whispered, gaze locked with mine. “But you were definitely the biggest one.”

“And now you have three bigger reasons,” I said, looking away. “John, Bree, and Michael.” I couldn’t be a reason. You’d have expectations, and I’d inevitably let you down.

“Elliot,” you said, speaking so gently my heart fluttered.

“Give Michael some time,” I said, forcing myself to ignore the plea I’d heard in your voice. The one that always wanted to tug me back. “He’ll snap out of this.”

But I worried that wasn’t true. Which is why, later that night when I climbed into bed, I texted him: I miss you. And Casey does, too.

He left me on read.

The following week, I barely slept for the guilt gnawing away at my conscience. What if Michael couldn’t get over what had happened between us over the summer? What if he avoided you indefinitely? What if the special bond you’d already begun to form with him was forever altered or ruined because of me?

However, I did take some consolation in watching you build a closer relationship with Bree.

When she hung out with me after school, you offered her tea and biscuits. You asked her questions: what she liked to play on the violin, what she liked to do in her free time, what she liked to read. You asked about her classes at school, where she wanted to go to college (Boston College, like John), what she wanted to do with her life (something in politics, obviously). You even did that thing with her—your truth-pulling thing—by asking, “Do you really want to devote your life to politics? Will it make you happy?”

Bree blinked. “I’ve never considered anything else. Harrises are either lawyers or politicians. Always have been.”

“What happens if you decide to do something different?” you asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “But Michael asked something similar once, and it made my mom pretty angry.”

But what really shocked me, besides Bree’s willingness to open up to you, was how easily you made her laugh. I loved watching your eyes twinkle when you smiled back at her, or when she accepted your help studying for an upcoming test in French (which, to my surprise, you spoke fluently), or when she asked personal questions of you, too.

Though I have to admit: I did feel a little miffed when she asked about your black-and-white beaded bracelet, and you were more forthcoming with her than you’d been with me.

“Claire used to work at a care home with the elderly,” you told her. “She had them make bracelets for an activity once, and she made this one for me. Our mum had just died, and I couldn’t pull myself out of it. The bracelet was her way of reminding me she was there, that we would always have each other. I don’t know that she ever intended for me to wear it this long, but I’ve never taken it off. Except to change the string a couple of years ago.”