That should have been the end of it. I didn't shout. I didn't insult her. I put the album under my arm and reached for the second one. Vanessa stepped between me and the box. Her expression changed so quickly that I thought I must have missed a word. She asked whether I had any idea how much trouble I caused in her marriage, whether I knew how tired Marcus was of my attitude, and whether I understood that his house was not guaranteed to be mine forever. Then she said something that explained the last two years: "As long as you live here, he will never put me first."
I stared at her. "He doesn't have to choose," I said.
"That's what you think," she answered.
She reached for the album in my arms. I stepped back, keeping both hands on it. Her fingers caught only air. For one second we looked at each other across the coffee table. Then her eyes went toward the front windows. I heard a car door close in the driveway. Dad was home earlier than expected. Vanessa's face changed again, this time into an expression of alarm so convincing I nearly believed something bad had happened. She clutched at the front of her dress, stumbled backward into the edge of the cream sofa, and let out a cry loud enough to carry through the open front door.
"Jordan, stop!" she screamed. "Please don't hurt me!"
I froze with the album still pressed to my chest. "What are you doing?"
She sank onto the sofa and held her arm as though I had twisted it. Dad's footsteps sounded in the entryway. By the time he appeared, Vanessa had tears on her cheeks. The room looked exactly the way a stranger would expect after a struggle: an open box, the displaced album, a frightened woman, and a young man standing three feet away with his heart pounding. Except there had been no struggle at all.
Dad came into the living room wearing the navy suit he saved for important meetings. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and I had seen that same serious expression on his face when a contractor tried to cheat one of his workers. It had always made me feel protected. Now it was aimed at me. Vanessa jumped up, crossed the room, and caught his arm. "Marcus, I was trying to calm him down," she sobbed. "He grabbed me. He shoved me into the sofa. I didn't know what he would do next."
"That's not true," I said. "Dad, listen. I never touched her."
He looked at the album in my hands, then at her arm. There wasn't a mark on it, but she held it as though the smallest movement hurt. "Put that down," he said.
I laid the album on the table. "She was boxing up Mom's things. I told her to stop. That's all."
"Don't bring your mother into this."