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Her family is a real difficulty. Daphne hasn’t spoken about the phone call with her brother since it happened, but I know it hurt her. I dismiss the idea of cutting her family off entirely. Any future will need to include them, somehow. Daphne suffers otherwise.
It seems fixable this morning.
And anyway, how am I supposed to give her up?
I can’t.
Even if that makes me feel like my father, even if it makes me a criminal, a devil, a bastard, I can’t let her go. And more than that, I can’t let this feeling go.
I’ve never felt it before, and I know it won’t subside. It’s far too real. The way I feel for Daphne has nothing to do with money and everything to do with need.
With obsession.
The good kind. The kind that doesn’t cause me any pain, except the pain of seeing something excruciatingly beautiful. The pain of imagining my life without her. Daphne burrowed into my soul with astonishing speed.
I catch a wave and stand up on my board, laughing at the thought. I haven’t thought of my soul in years. Didn’t believe I had one.
It’s the last wave in, the cold soaked into my bones. So cold that I’m shivering by the time I lift my board out of the water. Daphne closes her sketchbook and gets to her feet as I tuck the board under my arm.
“Emerson, look at you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.” She rubs her hand on my arm as if she can warm me through the wetsuit. “You’re going to freeze to death. You need to get inside.” Daphne hooks her arm through mine and pulls me toward the house.
“Don’t worry about me, little painter.”
“Too late.” She’s determined, hustling us across the yard. When we get inside, she flips the lock in the mudroom and hurries out of her winter clothes while I hang up my board. “Come on, come on, come on. We need to get into the shower.”
“Daphne.”
She ignores this and grabs my hand. Daphne takes the stairs two at a time and heads directly into my bedroom. Into my bathroom. She leans into the shower and turns the water on hot. Then she puts her warm, small hands on the hem of my base layer and pushes it off.
“You’re too cold.” Real concern in her voice.
“Oh, please. There’s no need to fuss.”
“Yes there is, Emerson.” Daphne puts a hand on her hip. “Get out of those clothes. I want you warm.”
“You’re still wearing your clothes.”
My little painter is shockingly fast at shedding the rest of her clothing. She steps into the shower and reaches for my hand again, pulling me under the water with her. Daphne gets goose bumps from the heat, shivering with pleasure. But her eyes open quickly and she positions me under the stream. “There,” she says. “Stay there.”
She runs her hands all over me. Rubbing hot water into my skin. And then she takes one of my hands between hers and massages it, her face serious, droplets clinging to her lashes.
My skin is still cold, but everything I feel is warm. Secure. Like arms wrapped firmly around my chest. Around my heart.
“What are you doing, little painter?”
Daphne glances up at me, a serious smile teasing at her lips. “Taking care of you. I got worried.”
This is what it’s like, then. Warmth everywhere. The scent of her in the air. Her sweet, genuine concern. Her hands. I take care of all my pieces. But this is what it’s like for someone to take care of me.
