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The two of them meet.
Daphne lets out a breath, and the neutrality of her expression collapses into something sleepy and vulnerable and sweet. She turns her head, but only to find a place to put down her mug.
And then she comes to me.
She stops, inches away, and looks up into my face.
“I’m tired,” she says again, and holds out her arms.
It’s not like pulling her out of the water. It’s nothing like that. Folding my arms around her is like coming home.
“This is the wrong direction,” I mention. She wanted the ocean before. “You’re supposed to be running the other way.”
“Shut up, Emerson.”
I stand like that, with her cheek pressed to my chest, rubbing her back, until my legs ache. When the panic becomes unmanageable it leaves all my muscles weak and worn from the effort of not running. Daphne makes no argument when I take her in my arms and carry her to my armchair by the window.
“Not the bed?” Daphne helps me pull a throw blanket over her and rests again.
“I’ll fall asleep.” When my heart stops racing, anyway. “I thought you wanted to talk to me.”
“I do.”
It takes no time at all to figure out how to sit with her. Legs stretched out on my ottoman. Daphne’s head near my shoulder. She is completely relaxed, which is at odds with the woman who flung herself into the ocean to get away from me.
The sea rolls lazily against the shore. Clouds gather in front of the sun. The day tips into afternoon.
Daphne takes in a breath, steadying herself for something. “I want you to tell me about your dad.”
My mind freezes, then struggles to restart, tripping over itself in the process. It requires effort to override the instinct to lock my arms down over her. “What did Sin say to you?”
“He didn’t say much.” A delicate irritation creeps into her voice. “He would hardly tell me anything. That’s why you’re going to.”
“It’s not for you to know.” It’s not for anyone to know.
Daphne traces the seam at the sleeve of my shirt with her fingertip. “Do you think you’re the only one with a bad father?”
A rush of realization cuts through my exhaustion. Another fact about her life slots into place. Daphne’s been purposefully vague. I’ve been purposely vague.
What the fuck is this?
Hope, I think.
“No. I think most fathers are bad fathers.”
What I don’t say is that most sons take after their fathers. I think it’s nearly impossible for an apple to hurl itself away from the tree, as it were.
“Sin says that what happened to you in the cave…” I have never heard another person speak with such considered patience. Or maybe Daphne’s just exhausted. “That it’s been happening for a long time. I want to know about it.”
“No.”
“You have to tell me,” she insists. “You’re keeping me prisoner.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” I counter. “I’m keeping you prisoner.”
She pushes herself upright and spears me with her gaze. “You do. I can’t spend my entire life here not knowing anything about you, Emerson. If you’re going to keep me here forever, you have to tell me.”
The suggestion that I could trade my secrets for her presence is so intoxicating that I lean forward and kiss her. I should have done it in the cave. I should have done it every minute since she’s been in this house. Every second. Daphne makes a soft sound into my mouth, but she pulls herself away from the heat. Touches her lips. Her fingertips drop down to her collar and she blows a purposeful breath out.
