Page 159 of Her Wicked Plan

I was twelve, almost a teen, meaning I had a lot of bottled-up anger. Karate would have been a great outlet for me, but my parents pulled me out, given all the complaints the instructor got from the parents.

After that, Stephanie's curiosity for karate died once someone accidentally hit her in the face. When she chose to leave the karate days behind, our parents were ecstatic. They set both of us up with some lady who taught us how to crochet.

It was awful, which is probably why I hate craft days here.

“Ballet was something that I wanted to do,” she tells me as if I didn’t already know. “Mom forced you to go, too. You hated it there. You hated the structure, the other snobby girls.”

“Don’t forget the tutus,” I remind her. “Those made me feel like an idiot even at the ripe age of six. Plus, they itched.”

A smile tugs at her lips. “I tried to get you out of it.”

Her sentence takes me by surprise. “You what?”

“I told Mom how miserable you were. How much you hated being there and that you sat in the corner most of the time, defying the teacher.” She sighs, her eyes dropping to her lap. “I begged her to take you out of the classes, but she told me no. She said if I was doing the classes then so were you.”

Swallowing, I breathe out of my nose. Confused. “But you stayed in classes. You had recitals and everything.”

Her eyes meet mine. “I threatened to quit ballet if you had to stay. Mother had a fit at my tantrum, and when she could see I was being serious, she allowed you to never return to classes.”

“I thought it was because you didn’t want me around.”

She shakes her head. “I couldn’t let you be miserable at my expense, Veronica. Believe it or not, I wanted you to be happy.”

“Yet, you were mean and ignored me half the time.”

“When I became a teenager and got friends, yes, I’ll admit I wasn’t the nicest.”

“But your friends saw how much of a freak I was, and you had to play the part, right?” I lean forward in my seat, forearms resting on the surface of the table. “You couldn’t let them see you cared for me because, God forbid, you had a nice bone in your body.”

“I’m ashamed of the way I treated you. Even when we were younger, I wasn’t always the nicest.”

“Yeah, but when we were even younger, you were more nice than mean.”

“If I could turn back time, I would.” Her eyes are heavy on me. “I would treat you better. Be nicer to you, even if it meant losing my friends and pissing off our parents. Maybe if I did that, then...”

“I wouldn’t end up the way I did,” I finish the sentence for her.

She rolls her lips together, nodding. “I’m sorry I treated you poorly. I’m sorry I let our parents treat you like they did.”

My eyes bore into her, the tears lining the rims of her eyes. If she were to blink, one would roll down her cheek. Would she wipe it away or leave it there for the dramatics of it all? I hold her stare as I watch her gaze shift from the apology to waiting for me to say something. I know exactly what she wants me to say.

Too bad she will not get it.

“Those acting classes paid off.” Those were the words that left my mouth.

She blinks that lone tear falling, yet she lets it stay on her face. “What?”

“I’m not stupid, Steph. The fake apology? The fake sincerity in your voice?” I point to her face, where a single tear has now reached her chin. “The fake fucking tears? You were apologizing because you thought that if you did, if you told me how sorry you were for being such a bitch, I would feel bad—that I would turn around and apologize to you for what I did.”

“Veronica, I...”

I raise my hand to stop her. “I wish it was honest... the apology. Because I would have forgiven you, but you know what?” My hand slams down on the table, Steph flinching at the abrupt noise. “If I gave you my apology, you wouldn’t have accepted, would you?”

The façade is gone; her face is now made of stone. “No. I wouldn’t have. Sure, I treated you like shit, but you killed my boyfriend. The only man I ever truly loved!”

“Do you know the only person I ever truly loved in my life, Steph? Hmm?” My hands grip the table’s edge, steadying myself from losing it. “It wasn’t mom or dad. It wasn’t some guy I met. It was you.”

I tighten my grip, knuckles glowing white, and for a split second, I’m afraid I’ll flip the whole table over.