Page 20 of When Sparks Fly

It never occurred to me the aggressive interaction had anything to do with Stephanie or Alan.

Her eyes linger on mine. I say nothing.

Stephanie’s words break through the memory. “So we moved. You were so angry with me.”

I remember the feeling well. A week before I was supposed to start high school, my entire world flipped upside down. Almost overnight, we moved from thirty minutes away from my family, to two hours away. No one would explain anything.

She returns to her task and her voice smoothes over. “I was doing my best to keep you safe. Alan was obviously frustrated and you wouldn’tspeak to us. Mother was furious. She never agreed with our decision to move somewhere safer.”

As usual, her demeanor lacks any sense of empathy. She always seems upset with everyonebutAlan.

“But you wouldn’t let your walls down for Alan. You couldn’t see what had been sacrificed to protect us.”

My brows furrow. Beneath the composed surface, something she drilled into me over the years, my blood is raging. I’m about to snap.

“It was a weird custody agreement with his son, and once we moved, he basically never saw him. They communicated through letters and email for a while, but every time I asked about him, Alan got more agitated so I stopped asking.” Stephanie presses her fingertips to her cheek bone for the tiniest of seconds.

I zero in on the movement, my rage quieting. Has Alan hit her? Have I been so self-consumed that I missed it? He was always cold and calculated, but never aggressive.

Except for the one time. But that was directed at me.

Before I can ask, Stephanie continues.

“More than once, he told me he just wanted a thank you. An acknowledgment of all we had done to keep you safe.” She looks pointedly at me, halting her efforts to remove the contents of the hutch.

A thank you.

“You’re both delusional if you think you’re going to get gratitude from me.” Taking after Stephanie, my words come out icy. Her stare doesn’t waver. “You and your gambling-addicted husband put me in danger. Putyouin danger. Paying them back was his own dues. Moving was responsible.”

All the hatred and anger I’ve kept bottled inside pressurizes. “You just said the entire situation was caused by him. I owe him nothing. Nothing. The very least of which is a thank you.”

My mother gives me her bored look again. “I thought you’d say as much.” She sets the trifle dish she’s holding onto the coffee table among the other items. “I did what I could to protect you.”

“Protect me? Itoldyou what happened the night he kicked me out. Did you know he was aggressive?”

He’d been brewing for days. I never knew why. He snapped during a disagreement about what time I should be home. At which point I told him that having turned eighteen, I was no longer bound by his ridiculous rules.

Fury coats her face. “You were a teenager! A spoiled teenager! You had massive attitude problems and all my mother did was coddle you. A thank you wouldn’t have hurt. An apology every now and then.”

“An apology? For what?” I’m positive my voice is echoing through the house now and red spills into the edges of my vision.

“For your attitude.”

“My attitude?” I deadpan. “For being upset that you moved me away from my family, my friends,a weekbefore I started high school? That at every opportunity that asshole—"

“Watch your mouth.” In an instant, she’s like a rabid dog, baring her teeth at me.

“Thatasshole,” I repeat louder, leaning forward, “attempted to belittle me and make me feel inferior. That after everything, he put hishandson me, trying to strong-arm me into submission and you sided with him.

“Atbest,you stood idly by while I was verbally abused and insulted about clothing and normal teenage activities among so much more. At worst, you kept me in a situation where I was in physical danger, that youwere aware of, by the hands of a man you were married to. You didn’t protect me. You were a willing accomplice.”

She’s unaffected by the venom in my words. “You pulled a knife on him, Maci!”

“Yes! To protect myself! At the end, I did pull a knife on him. And he’s lucky I didn’t gut him like a fish!”

Alan had backed me into the kitchen wall, snatching my chin in his hand and telling me what a princess I was. How I would follow his rules or leave. His fingers dug into my jaw so hard they left bruises.

Following the incident at the grocery store, I carried a pocket knife with me. It came from Nana’s shed and provided me with a semblance of protection. His actions mimicked that August day and the knife basically pulled itself out and greeted his hip in a whisper.

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