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He looks at the windows like he looked at my paintings in the gallery.
With awe in his eyes. With obsession. Seriously, as if I haven’t been throwing a silent, sustained tantrum on the glass.
“How do you like it?”
It’s unbearable not to ask the question. My nerves fire with fear and a tiny, desperate need for him to approve. He could say it was a waste of paint. He could order me to clean it up. Really, he could make me do anything. He’s big enough. Strong enough.
Cruel enough.
But he just keeps looking. Emerson didn’t give three seconds of his attention to Peter Clay’s painting. He’s giving moments upon moments to mine. Heartbeat after heartbeat. His life, that voice whispers again. I’m probably fully out of my mind now.
He turns back to me, a shock of wonder in his eyes. As if I’ve done something special just for him. I can’t speak. If I speak, I’ll cry, and I might never stop. I’ll put my face in the pillows and sob until there’s no more tears left in the world.
“It’s better this way,” he says.
“You’re kidding.” I choke on the words, then snap my mouth shut around them and refuse to say anything else.
“It’s evocative. Look at the progression.” Emerson skims his hand in the air, and I see it—what he’s talking about.
“There is no progression.”
“Perhaps not.” His hand drops. The lift at the corner of his mouth says he’s not really agreeing with me. It doesn’t matter anyway. I tried to make a disaster, and he still found the pattern there. He still found depth. Leave it to him to claw beauty out of the isolation and pain he’s causing.
His blue-green eyes are the most breathtaking color in this godforsaken studio. Emerson turns them on me and watches. His chest rises and falls below his shirt. Easy. Comfortable. He’s at home.
“Come downstairs, little painter.”
“And do what?”
“Eat.”
