Page 253 of Mad Girl

“I regret it!” I said, pushing you back. “I regret asking! I regret being reminded that no matter how badly you want to be with me, you won’t let yourself be. Am I supposed to feel good about that? Am I supposed to be happy? That’s how you feel about me—while you’re out there giving yourself to other people? To Sienna, more than once? While you’re pushing me away and hurting my feelings? I’d rather not know how you really feel, because now I also know that these little moments we share from time to time? They’re stolen. That’s all they’ll ever be: stolen. And, yeah, they feel pretty great while they’re happening, but they never feel too great the next day.”

And, yes, I’m well aware: I had no room to talk or accuse you of anything, given my secret history with Michael. But I justified it by convincing myself we’d never actually given ourselves to each other, and I’d probably never be with him again.

“Okay,” you said firmly, “let me be clear about one thing: I’m not out there giving myself to anyone—not in any real sense of the word. I sure as shit never gave myself to Sienna, I can promise you that. And, yes, I’ll admit: I’ve been with too many people, and I hate that about myself, but I’m not out there screwing my way through Harvard. On the contrary, I’ve slowed down quite a bit because of you. I would’ve stopped completely if you hadn’t got yourself a boyfriend over the summer.”

“Not my boyfriend,” I said. “And yeah, right.”

“You’ve no idea how many times I’ve turned someone down and rushed home to you, hoping to spend just a bit more time with you before bed. Tonight? At Willoughby’s party? With that girl? I barely heard a word she said, too worried about you, and how you were coping, and what Willoughby was probably doing to you in his room to keep your mind off things. So stop giving me that murderous look, Wednesday.”

Your confession pricked my heart. How could I be so awful and unfair to you?

You pushed your fingers across my cheek. “Don’t be like this,” you begged, dropping your forehead to mine. “None of those people have ever meant anything to me. You know me better than all of them. I’ve been more real with you than I’ve ever been with another person.”

My heart squeezed, and I so wanted that to be true, even if I didn’t deserve it. “But this can’t ever go anywhere, right?” I said, drawing back. “So maybe being real is pointless.”

“Ever is your word—not mine. I’ve told you: I need to sort myself out. To stop asking your dad to lie for me. To tell the Harrises the truth.”

“And what if it takes too long? Or what if, by the time you’re done, I’m with someone else?”

You shrugged. “You’ll break up with him.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you to assume. What if I’m in love with this guy?”

A look of pure indignation crossed your face. “Don’t even say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re meant to be with me. You and I are meant to be together.”

A laugh huffed out of me, despite the liquid-hot pleasure of those words coursing through my veins. “Again, that’s awfully presumptuous of you to assume.”

“I’m not assuming anything,” you said, blue eyes flashing. “I know. I feel it. Don’t sit there and tell me you don’t feel it, too.”

“Let’s say I do. Let’s say I want that. What happens when I get too real and you can’t handle it?”

“It’s you. I’ll be able to handle anything.”

“Anything? So if I had a drug problem, you’d be okay with that?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You don’t have a drug problem, Elliot.”

Leaning back on the counter, I reached down between us and lifted my skirt. “No, but I have this problem.”

You swallowed hard at the sight of my lace underwear—at the lace garter belt, attached to the tights—but the second you clocked that huge purple mass on my hip, your expression changed, tightening with concern. Just like I knew it would.

“You did this to yourself?” you asked, lifting your gaze to my face.

“It makes me feel better. I said all that horrible stuff to my dad, and Halloween was coming up. And I”—I watched your face—“I needed it.”

You glanced down to study the bruise again. Then, so tenderly that a lump formed in my throat, you swept your fingers over the dark mass and whispered, “This isn’t okay.”

“No shit. It’s part of the reason I ended it with Willoughby tonight. He couldn’t handle this about me.”

“I’m not him. I get why you do this stuff. I don’t like it, but I understand it.”

“That’s impossible—even I don’t understand it, Casey. It’s messed up.”

“It isn’t the best way to cope, I’ll give you that. But there are worse ways.”