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EMERSON
Sin takes a seat at my kitchen island and folds his arms on the surface. He’s bold color set off from winter pale in the natural light from the windows. In the summer I almost never have to turn on lamps, there’s so much glass.
“Seriously, Emerson. What the fuck?”
What the fuck indeed. Sin’s presence here is making me waver. My brother has seen what I’ve done. My little painter opened her mouth and told him herself. Her bravery made me hard because I’m a bastard, and it shifted the perspective of the house.
I see it the way Sin would. Or anyone else who didn’t live here. Daphne probably sees it this way. All the new, clean spaces. Fresh paint without any scuff marks. Minimal clutter. It’s the opposite of a jail cell or a closet.
Sin’s presence has also made me consider the alternatives. I could let her leave with him. Set her free outside the house. Hearing her beg for help in her low, pretty voice threw my actions into stark relief. I’ve done a terrible thing. I’m still doing it as we speak. Daphne retreated upstairs when Sin and I came to the kitchen. Despite this relative freedom, she’s still one of my belongings.
Part of me wishes I was that better man. But part of Daphne wishes I was even worse. The angry sex we had was hot. It was far too intimate. Dangerously intimate. I’d do it again regardless. I need to be buried in her cunt, even if it means exposure. Never mind that exposure means an inevitable death of one kind or another.
“What did you come here to talk about?”
Sin huffs. “Clearly the wrong thing. I can’t believe you kidnapped her.”
“I didn’t. She asked me to bring her here.”
“Emerson.”
“Get to the point.”
“Did Dad come around here again?”
The memory of him standing at the threshold constricts my gut. “No. And I doubt he will.”
“He came to see me, too.”
More bread in the toaster. “I don’t care.”
“You should. It might be worth selling this place.” I crack an egg too hard against the side of the pan and shell drips onto the stove, the air going out of my lungs. I force it back in. Sin is being foolish. “Better for you if he doesn’t have your address.”
“I’m not selling my house.”
“He’s not going to stop. The conversation I had with him doesn’t give me high hopes.”
“The conversation I had with him almost ended in murder. I’m not moving.”
Sin’s eyes burn into my back. Light gleams from my countertop. The same wintry cool that skimmed across the waves as dawn broke. I went out this morning in the dark, when Daphne was deeply asleep. Forced myself to maintain my routine. I was dutiful about it, though I wanted to stay in bed next to her.
Sin already knows I won’t sell. Won’t move.
That I can’t.
“Then I’m moving here. I’m not going back to LA.”
This is the most haphazard, violent scrambled egg I’ve ever made. “Trust me when I say, Sin—no one wants that.”
“I don’t care. Safety in numbers.”
A laugh that feels like barbed wire bursts out of me. “We fucked up, then. We should have turned out fine.”
“Who said we didn’t?”
The curve of the pan is like an eclipse on the dark stovetop. Rivulets of egg surge out toward the nonstick boundary. Yellow on black. An open sunflower. Bread pops up from the toaster. I’m making an identical breakfast for Sin, and he hasn’t stopped me. I’m reaching for a paper towel to wrap the finished sandwich in when Sin appears at my side.
“Call me if he comes back.”
