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“Not yet.”
My brother’s silence goes on longer this time. He’s got a ceiling fan, wherever he is. He’s so quiet the noise cancellation on his phone doesn’t pick it up.
“Emerson.”
“What?”
“When you say dating, you meant…like a date, right?” Open suspicion edges Sin’s tone.
“A restraining order would only complicate things.”
“Emerson—where are you right now?”
The lamp turns on in Daphne’s living room. Her shadow is diffuse behind the lace curtains. She’s not close enough for her shape to be visible.
“I’m in the city,” I tell him. “Don’t come to my house.”
I hang up on him before he can ask more tedious questions.
Daphne steps out into the alley, and then she’s headed in my direction. She looks soft and rumpled, in lounge pants and a matching hoodie with the hood pulled up over her hair. Is she wearing—my god, she is. Bunny slippers. Daphne stops at the curb and checks both ways for traffic. There is none. With zero hesitation, she crosses the street. I’m so fucking glad to see her. It’s the most bizarre thing. I didn’t intend to talk to her today. She can’t see me through the tinted windows. She knocks on my window regardless, as if she knows I’m here. I roll it down and there’s nothing between us anymore.
“Surprise,” I tell her.
Her dark eyes hold a mix of fear and flattery. “How long were you going to sit out here?”
“How did you know it was me?”
Daphne’s teeth chatter a little. “This isn’t really an area where glossy black SUVs like this sit and hang out.”
I try not to notice her nipples through the hoodie. It’s not made for warmth. It’s made for fashion. For sitting inside houses that always have heat. She must be wearing next to nothing underneath. The hoodie readsNew York is always hopeful.–Dorothy Parkerin a typewriter font.
“Are you here because I sold you the paintings?”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
She pulls her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie. “This isn’t really an area where people stand in the street and chat. It’s not exactly safe.”
“It’s broad daylight.” Close enough, anyway.
Daphne purses her lips. “It’s still not…you know. It’s not the safest.”
“You could get in and go with me.”
Her eyes widen. “Where?”
“Back to the beach. I want to watch you paint it.”
“The other pieces weren’t enough?”
“No.”
The corner of her mouth turns into a wry smile. “Is that all? Me, painting the beach?”
I’d like to watch you paint while you’re naked. While you’re crying. While I’m inside you. It would be the purest form of poetry. It would be like nothing you’ve ever done, nothing I’ve ever done, and I want it more than I have ever wanted anything.
“No.”
“At least you’re honest.”
