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DAPHNE
I did worry about Emerson when he was out there on the waves. It shouldn’t have concerned me. He captured me, for one thing. He’s used to doing dangerous things. He’s in danger right now. My family is looking for him. But I was nervous anyway.
I didn’t like it when the waves got larger. I didn’t like it when he did tricks over the crests. It was impressive, because he’s impressive, but when he went under the surface and out of sight—
My breath caught.
I hated when he rolled off his board and disappeared. If something were to happen, if he was really in trouble, I wouldn’t be able to drag him back. I couldn’t pick him up out of the water the way he did for me.
I’m still not sure if I’ll be able to save him. Not from the ocean. From all the rest. There’s a broken part of Emerson, deep down, that makes him surf when it’s cold enough to make ice chunks form on the surface. That traps him inside his house. That traps me with him.
I wasn’t strong enough to save my brother, so, you know. There’s evidence.
But it was good to be out with him. Good to be invited by his warm, just-woken voice in my ear. It was refreshing on the shore, and now I’m wakeful and warm. Eventually, the cold leaves Emerson’s hands. When it does, he picks me up, presses my back to the wall of the shower, and pushes himself into me while he tells me all about the water today. All about the way I looked on the shore. The colors he saw in the water. How it felt as light as summer. The moment feels almost stolen, somehow. He makes me come first, biting into his shoulder, and follows me after, his mouth over mine.
We finish the shower and dry off. Emerson watches me dry my hair. He chooses clothes from my closet—comfortable leggings and a long-sleeved top that’s light as air—and we go down to the kitchen.
He cooks breakfast for me.
Emerson’s comfortable here. He reaches for things in the cupboards without looking. Everything is exactly where he left it. His shoulders relax. His expression is peaceful. It takes my breath away to see him like this. I didn’t realize that he could relax. I just assumed his personality involved constant tension. That it was part of his intensity. But when he is at home—when he feels safe—his body doesn’t try so hard to protect him from the world.
We might have had this if he’d asked me on a date when we first met.
That wasn’t possible for him, though.
I understand Emerson now. More than I did by far. That kind of interaction wasn’t available to him. He interacts with the world through purchases and acquisitions. Through obsessions. That’s how he maintains stability and focus. That’s how he stays in control. And Emerson, more than most people, needs that.
He can’t go out into uncertainty. He can only buy pieces of safety for himself. A date in the city would have been an incredible risk.
I prop my chin on my hand and watch him put bacon onto a tray. Jesus Christ, he’s beautiful. It should make me sad to think he couldn’t risk a date for me, but it doesn’t.
Emerson came to me the only way he could.
He came to me like he comes to his great love, which is art. This is how he approaches paintings that speak to him. That make him feel something.
This is how he loves.
Really, it’s consistent. This is how he is in every area of his life. If he loves a painting, he shows that love through acquisition and collection. He speaks that language to his brothers. It makes my heart ache now to think of how they spoke it back to him. They might not be collectors, but they’re his family. He’s even like this with nature. He owns his private beach. He insists on mastering the waves, even though it’s not comfortable.
Emerson only understands ownership. He owns himself as much as anything else. It’s how he’s caved out an island of peace in a sea of panic.
He’s quiet while he cooks. My thoughts come and go in soft waves. I take him in. The light on his face. The sun comes out from behind a cloud and warms the kitchen. He makes eggs. Toasts an English muffin, hissing when he pulls it from the toaster.
The timer rings on the stove. “Bacon?”
“Yes. Please.”
He puts the eggs and the English muffin and the bacon on a plate in a balanced arrangement. Emerson makes up a matching plate for him. Does he know he’s approaching this in a very artist-like way? When he’s done, he pops open the fridge and takes out two ramekins. These go in the negative space he’s left in the center. So, yes. He does know. He’s thoughtful about this, and efficient. He gathers silverware and mugs of tea and brings it to me. I think I’m hungriest for how happy he looks.
He sits with me at the kitchen table. The ramekins turn out to be filled with sliced strawberries. Along with salt and pepper shakers, Emerson has a sugar dish. He dusts this over his strawberries, then does the same for mine.
“Good?”
“One thing.” I take his chin in my hand, pull him close, and kiss him. He tastes minty and clean, and he makes a little satisfied noise into my mouth.
I let him go.
“What was that for, little painter?”
