"Mercy." Adam was angry enough for the both of us: I could hear the grinding of his teeth.
He thought I would throw a bowling ball at a little girl.
I couldn't blame him for his anger.
I moved the walking stick until the base was on the floor, then rubbed my thumb on the silver head.
There was nothing I could say to defend myself-- I didn't want to defend myself.
I'd been recklessly stupid.
What if Adam had been slower? I felt sick.
"I don't understand women," he bit out, starting the car up and gunning the gas a little harder than necessary.
I gripped the fairy stick with all my might and kept my eyes closed all the way home.
My stomach hurt.
He was right to be angry, right to be upset.
I had the desperate feeling something was wrong, wrong, wrong.
I couldn't talk to him because I was afraid I'd make everything worse.
I needed to understand why I'd done what I'd done before I could make him understand.
We pulled into my driveway in silence.
Samuel's car was gone, so he must have headed into work earlier than he meant to.
I needed to talk to him because I had a very nasty suspicion about tonight.
I couldn't talk to Adam--because it would sound like I was trying to find excuses for myself.
I needed Samuel, and he wasn't here.
I released my seat belt and unlocked my door--Adam's arm shot in front of me and held the door closed.
"We need to talk," he said, and this time he didn't sound angry.
But he was too close.
I couldn't breathe with him this close.
And right then, when I could least afford it, I had another panic attack.
With a desperate sound I couldn't help, I jerked my feet to the seat and propelled myself up and over the front seat and into the back.
The back door was locked, too, but even as I started to struggle with the latch, Adam popped the lock, and I was free.
I stumbled back away from the truck, shaking and sweating in the night air, the fae stick in one hand like a cudgel or a sword that could protect me from .
.
.
being stupid.