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Chapter Twenty-Two
Daphne
The ocean still looks like safety to me from my studio window.
It also looks like a witness. Someone who saw us when no one else did. It saw everything, actually. My escape attempt. His. The two of us coming back home.
All those oceans I painted should have been a sign, honestly.
I’m bundled in a blanket on one of the chairs with my sketchbook and pencil. Emerson moved the two chairs so they’re both facing out. He would rather that I stay in bed, but it just feels too much like the Victorian times. I’m not that wounded, and I’m not dying of a broken heart. So we compromise on the chairs.
One day out of the hospital, and I’m still tired. I thought I’d bounce back from my singular fall out of the van and my sprint for safety, but I haven’t yet. If anything new aches seem to pop up as the adrenaline and shock fully wear off. Most annoying is the way the emotions from that time keep popping up, over and over again. The moment at the edge of the cliff is the worst one. I could have taken one more step and fallen.
I didn’t. I saved myself. And then Emerson saved me again.
He doesn’t mind discussing those few heartbeats at the cliff, or if he does, he doesn’t show it. Every time it comes to me, he listens. He nodded the first time I described it to him like he knew exactly what I was talking about. He probably does. Did, anyway.
Now I think the main pull is to me.
It’s mutual. I’m pretty obsessed with him, too.
I told him about the cliff, and he told me about watching me fall out of the van. That was his cliff moment. He saw me hit the pavement before I ran into the forest. The words he used to describe it were like a painting. I could see it in my mind. I would never want to paint the feeling of seeing someone you love get hurt right in front of you.
Not that I am painting. My wrists still ache, and my hand’s bruised from when Emerson’s dad wrestled me into the van. It’ll be a few days yet.
For now, I sketch. Lightly. Carefully. Stopping when I get too tired.
I’m alone, but only momentarily.
The doorbell rings. Eva texted me earlier to say she was on her way.
Waves crawl up to the shore on the beach below. It’s still cold, but lukewarm breezes are beginning to find their way back to us. It’ll be spring, then summer, then fall. Leo and Haley’s baby will be born. I’m so excited for them, and my heart aches to think about it. I came close to missing everything. One more step over that cliff, and I wouldn’t have gotten to hold my niece or nephew in my arms.
That didn’t happen, but I can still see it so vividly.
I can see my own absence in my life, too. When this happens, I close my eyes and remind myself, sternly, that I am not gone. That I’m here. That Emerson’s here. Everyone who matters to me is okay. Somehow, my body knew when to stop and how to live.
How to survive, I guess. Living is a little different.
I’ve officially moved into Emerson’s house. My stuff has been arriving from Leo’s on and off all day. I can tell he packed some of the boxes himself. Those are the ones that say DAPHNE in big letters on at least four sides. They contain the important things, like my phone charger and my current non-emergency sketchbook and my favorite pair of shoes.
Leo doesn’t send my painting supplies. He knows I have plenty of them at Emerson’s, but just in case, they’ll be at his house, too.
He’ll keep a studio for me for the rest of his life. That’s just the way he is.
Emerson comes in through the studio door. “Your sister’s here, little painter.”
Eva follows him in, a tray balanced in her hands. “I brought soup.” She catches sight of me and frowns. “Daph, your blanket’s falling off. Are you cold?”
“No,” I say, but it doesn’t matter, not to the mother hen that is my sister.
She bustles over and puts the tray on the little table between the chairs. Emerson comes to my side and fixes the blanket himself, then bends down and kisses my cheek. “I’ll leave you two to talk. I have a call. Let me know if you need anything.”
Eva waits until he leaves the room, then re-tucks the blanket. She looks into my eyes, scanning, and brushes a lock of hair away from my face. “How are you? Are you okay? Do you have everything you need?”
“Of course I’m okay. It’s Emerson’s house.”
I want to reassure her, but I won’t tell her to stop fussing over me. It feels good when she does. I spent a long time trying to be sullen about having my siblings’ attention, and I’m done with all that. I’m not taking it for granted anymore.
