“If something bothers you,” I said evenly, “you can move it yourself.”
Silence.
The rain tapped against the windows. The house felt smaller, tighter.
He wasn’t used to resistance. He was used to control. And control only works when the other person participates in it.
He studied me like I was a puzzle that wouldn’t solve itself.
“What’s wrong with you tonight?” he muttered.
I tilted my head slightly — just like Emma does when she’s thinking. “Nothing’s wrong,” I replied. “I just realized something.”
“And what’s that?”
“That I’m not afraid of you.”
The words landed heavier than shouting ever could.
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