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He’s the frame, isn’t he? He’s the thing that keeps me here. That pins me, panting, to the wall. That bars me from going outside. It’s not the wood or the windows. It’s him.
And he is no window. What I saw in his eyes the other night—
I don’t know what it was.
Today my throat is too tight to be curious about it. My heart aches too much. My soul is too heavy, dramatic as that sounds.
He leaves, though. He’ll leave at some point.
Right?
The wondering is exhausting. It presses down on my shoulders and tugs the brush in my hand toward the floor.
Pain would be easier.
That soundless, annoying voice laughs at the thought. Pain isn’t easier. I’ve seen that in my brother’s face. From what he said it’s just as much a cage as being a captive.
I push Leo out of my thoughts. Can’t think of him right now, or any of them. This is the first time in my life that I’ve had zero access to my family. I’ve fantasized about it before. What child hasn’t? You dream of packing a backpack and walking away on some grand adventure.
You go home again at the end of those adventures.
I can’t go home. Or see it, or talk to the people there.
Nope.
No more thinking.
Only painting.
I run out of glass. I cover the last corner standing on tiptoe on the stool. Once upon a time I might have liked this explosion of color, but I detest it now. It’s a painting I never wanted to paint. I hate this color scheme. I hate everything about it. That there’s no artistry to it at all.
Just a mess, like I’m a mess.
So much for painting out of spite. So much for not giving him anything else of myself. I settle back on my feet. My balance is not great. I could fall and hit my head. It would be a hard fall, with my lungs filled with rocks.
I was kidding myself.
Emerson’s kidding himself if he thinks I’ll get used to this.
“Maybe you will,” I say to the paint. To myself. “Maybe you will get used to it. People can survive almost anything.”
The air in the room shifts, like half a breath on the back of my neck.
I’m frozen up here. A statue. My balance seems less certain with every breath I take. I don’t dare move, honestly. If I shift my weight to step down I’ll fall. It wouldn’t kill me but it would be embarrassing. Bloody, maybe.
Soft footsteps approach.
Hands at my waist.
Emerson lifts me easily to the floor like I’m a statue on display, or a vase. Something that’s on the wrong shelf. Safer here, I can imagine him saying. But he doesn’t comment. He just moves slowly down the length of the room, looking at the windows.
He slips his hands into his pockets. Soft pants and a T-shirt, like he’s not planning to go anywhere. It’s monstrously unfair that he’s this hot in pants and plain long sleeves. Even less fair that I can’t seem to look away from him.
A person that beautiful shouldn’t also be evil. It makes no sense.
I try to look at him like I would any subject in art school. Shadows and light. Depth and color. It’s impossible. He’s more than anything I’ve tried to paint. Sun pushes its way through the rainbow on the windows and the faintest echoes reach his skin.
His gaze is much brighter than the sun. So much more intense. I don’t have the same urge to shield my eyes when it’s not trained on me, but it still makes my breath catch.
