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I take a deep breath. “Nothing like—nothing close to what happened to you. My dad didn’t lock us in closets, but he did hit us. My brothers more than me. I was—” I’m about to say lucky, but it wasn’t luck at all. It was because of Leo. Emerson’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t like this, though he’s prepared for it. The first time we talked at the beach, we discussed this in an oblique way. We’re the same like that. We talk about art instead of life. “I was younger, so it didn’t happen very many times. Only twice. My brother was—is—very protective.”
“Leo.”
“Yes. He—” Hesitation comes on strong. Telling anyone about what happened at home is against the rules of being a Morelli. We don’t let outsiders know about our private business. Which makes total sense, looking back. It’s how our parents kept their reputation intact at church. We kept their secrets for them. Still, this isn’t only about them. It’s about Leo. And I want Leo to be able to trust me, too.
“I won’t repeat anything you say.”
Jesus. It’s like he can read my mind. If I say that to him, he’ll insist it’s my expressions that tell him everything he wants to know.
Either way.
“Leo would fight with our dad. He would distract him. Draw attention to himself so that he didn’t hit the rest of us as often. But he couldn’t always be there. There was a time when I was small.”
Now the words ball up and ache in my throat. I don’t really want to talk about this. I wish I could forget it had ever happened. I’ve painted it out a hundred times, a thousand, and I’m tired of painting it.
Emerson waits.
“I colored on my dad’s shoes. I don’t know what I was thinking. I knew better. And I knew there would be consequences, but I thought that I could avoid them. Leo always knew when Dad was angry. I was just—” A laugh that’s pure sadness slips out of me. “You know, for a long time, I thought it was a game. He would take me upstairs to my room and tell me to listen to a whole CD while I drew or colored. He didn’t want me to know what was happening. But that day, he wasn’t there.”
“Daphne…”
“I don’t even want to describe it, Emerson. It was in my father’s office. And it didn’t last very long. Thirty seconds, maybe. A minute. But I was so afraid and so—so shocked, somehow. The memory won’t drown no matter how many oceans I paint.”
“He hit you?” Emerson’s voice is steady. Soft. He’s taking care with me now. I can see it. Hear it. Feel it.
“He had this leather strap.”
A few tears escape my resolve and run down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand.
“It’s really nothing.” I’ve insisted this to myself so many times. And even as I say it to Emerson, I know it’s not true. Leo knew it wouldn’t be nothing. That’s why he worked so hard to stop it from happening in the first place. Yet it wasn’t torture. It didn’t keep me from the world. “I’m not trying—oh, Jesus.”
I’m not trying to show him up.
“I would never think you were comparing, little painter. What was the second time?”
“It was later. It didn’t matter as much.” A tumble. A rush. I want this part to be over. “In high school. He was drunk, and he slapped me. I turned my back on him and ran.”
Emerson holds out his arms to me, and I go. I mean to stand between his knees and keep my composure, but instead I fall into him like he’s the only place I can stand to be.
It’s true.
He is.
His hands move up and down on my back. Emerson breathes. He’s doing the same thing that I tried to do for him. He’s trying to show me that it wasn’t too much. “You know that won’t happen to you here. That won’t happen to you ever again. Don’t you, little painter?”
“I know you take care of all your acquisitions.”
Emerson tips my face up toward his. “Not me. Not here. Not ever. You’re right. I take care of all my pieces. But I care for you the most. I need you to know that.”
“I do.” My heart flutters. “I’ve always known that, I think.”
“I’m not better,” Emerson says, strain edging into his voice. “I’m not a better man than my father, or yours. But you have my word.”
I think I have much more than that.
“How do you do it, then?”
“Do what?”
