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DAPHNE
My heart won’t stop pounding.
I hate this so much.
All I have is the burner phone and a place to sit in the studio.
All I want is Emerson.
I could throw up. Scream. Cry some more. I don’t do any of those things. I sit on the stool in my art studio and take calm breaths. I dried my tears on the way up. Tried to put myself back together.
Emerson has been gone for five minutes.
The house feels empty without him. Unstable. Like he’s sucked all the supports out of the walls and blown the windows out. I stood at the studio window and watched him push his board out into the waves. He looked back at me before he went. Emerson didn’t wave. He put his hand to his heart, his face already going distant and blank.
He was lying about being okay. He couldn’t have been telling the truth. I swallow hard and try to hold the memory of his touch in my mind. How it felt to have his palms on the sides of my face. To have his mouth against mine. At the tips of my fingers, I can feel the phantom movements it would take to paint that moment.
This is not what I wanted.
A half-finished painting behind me in the studio. Emerson gone. His father in his house. I heard his voice from where I hid, out of sight, at the top of the stairs. He has a voice like my father’s. Sometimes it sounds polite and genteel, like at parties and at church, and other times he spoke to us the way Emerson’s father spoke to him.
Like a monster.
I exhale, controlling my breath instead of screaming all the anger out. I didn’t have time to finish my painting. It bothers me now. Enrages me. It gives me a headache. We had just enough time to see how good things could be, and now it’s ruined.
I love you. That’s why I have to let you go. You can’t be with a man like me.
Men are always doing this to me, aren’t they? They make plans and don’t ask permission. Emerson’s father didn’t do this because I asked him to. He just wanted money. And Emerson–
I love you and it’s over in the same sentence.
It’s not over. It can’t be.
Another deep breath. I run my fingers through my hair and relax my face. I refuse to look shaken. I refuse to look hurt. I refuse to look as if Emerson has done me any harm, because he hasn’t. No harm, only heartache.
The burner phone waits in my hand. In one more minute, I’m supposed to call.
Tick.
Tock.
This is just about staying alive until things settle down.
They never will, sings that voice in my head.
The minute ends.
I dial Leo’s number. There are voices in the background. “Daphne?”
“It’s me. Are you—are you outside?”
“Yes.”
“Please don’t—just be careful when you come in. There’s nothing dangerous in here. I’m okay. But there’s—” I’m about to say expensive art. “There are valuable things in here.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m on the second floor.” Tension fills the space between his words. They won’t know for sure that I’m telling the truth until they’re inside. “In the art studio. I’m alone. It’s safe to come in.”
