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I scoff. Shake my head. I wish I could hate this, too. How he makes statements instead of asking questions. How he pretends to know everything about me just by watching. As if that were possible.
And then I feel my fingers.
They’re searching for a paintbrush. Curved, like I’m already holding one. I grab for the collar of my T-shirt. Of Emerson’s T-shirt. I try not to do this in front of people. It’s a nervous habit my father always hated. Ironic, because he’s the one who gave it to me in the first place.
Emerson’s eyes flick down to my hand, then back up to my face.
I manage not to scowl at him while I unclench my fingers. Drop my hand back to my side. He has a chair in here, by the window. A low bookshelf built into the wall behind it. Taking the chair feels like surrender. The bed is closer.
“Fine.” I pad to the bed and perch on the edge, smoothing the hem of the T-shirt over my lap. It’ll be embarrassing to explain to Leo how I ended up wearing Emerson’s shirt and nothing else. But—no. He won’t ask. He’ll just take me home. “I’ll sit here.”
Emerson hasn’t moved from his spot in the center of the room. He handed me the mug of coffee and created space between us. I don’t know that I was ever conscious of him leaving the side of the bed, but he did. He wanted to observe me.
You’re my newest acquisition.
I fold my hands in my lap. I’ll make it a game, somehow. I won’t give him any more information about myself. Not any more than he’s already taken. I’ll just wait. I know how to do that. Growing up, I attended lots of events where waiting was a requirement. The family Christmas gala. My siblings’ birthday parties. Catechism classes. Those were always a waiting game. I wanted to draw the ideas, paint them, but I wasn’t allowed. Leo had to explain everything to me afterward. He sponsored me for my Confirmation. We’d been in church our whole lives, but I was still afraid to make a mistake in front of the bishop. The bishop might not mind, but my father would. So Leo stood next to me at the front of the church. Even if I screwed up, he’d take responsibility.
I knew it.
“You think your brother is coming, don’t you?”
“You don’t know anything about my brother.” My mind is still hanging on old memories. Sketching them out. Anything to pass the time.
“I don’t have to know anything about him.”
“Right. Because you already know everything about me. You can read my mind.”
“No.” I expected a joke, but his tone is even, not mocking. “I can’t read your mind. But I can see you.”
Another shiver. This one straight down the spine. Straight down the center of me. “See me sitting here? You’re full of it.”
“At the charity auction, when I asked if he’d hurt you—”
“He didn’t.”
“I know. You were furious. Real fury, and then—disgust, I think. You were disgusted. You tried to turn away from me.”
“What does that have to do with me sitting here?”
“When you heard brother is coming, your hands relaxed. You didn’t reach for your collar.” He lifts a hand and traces a line in the air. “Your shoulders…” He lets down his own a fraction of an inch. A tiny movement, but it changes everything.
The tension’s coming back. Drawing my shoulders up tight.
“You think he’s coming.” Emerson drops his hand to his side. “No one is coming to save you, little painter. I took care of that.”
