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“It’s the smallest room in his house.” Sin says this like he’s looking at that box of cinnamon rolls from Emerson’s freezer. Like it’s obvious. It should have been, I guess, considering what his father did to him as a child. But there’s no time to be heartbroken.
“And when I get there?”
“Sit next to him or behind him.”
I remember this from the cave. “And hold on tight?”
“Until you think your arms are going to fall off. Say you’ll wait with him.”
“Of course I’ll wait with him.”
“No. Say the words I’ll wait with you.”
“And then what?”
“Then you wait with him. It’ll be almost done when he can talk to you again. Do you need me to come over? I can do it.”
The old version of me would say yes. She would accept being rescued. “No. We’ll be fine. I’ll text you in a while.”
Emerson is exactly where Sin said he would be. In the dark walk-in closet of the master bedroom. I see him in the slim cut of light before I close the door again. He’s sitting on the floor, his back pressed to the wall, one hand over his face. His whole body trembles the way it did in the cave. Love can’t magically fix things so he never has panic attacks. But it gave him someone to wait with him.
Nervous fear splashes through my chest, but it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t have a place here. There’s something more important than being afraid or not. Inadequate or not. Life doesn’t check your skill level against the people you love. It just puts you out in the world, ready or not.
There’s not really a way to get behind Emerson. I don’t think he can move that far from the wall. I’m not entirely sure I can get my arms around him if I’m sitting next to him, either. In the end, I get down on the floor and climb into his lap.
The second my arms go around his neck, both of his arms lock around my body.
It’s like hugging an earthquake. A strong one. I’m not actually big enough to pin it in place, but that doesn’t matter, either. A shudder moves through him, and Emerson’s arms tense so hard it knocks the air out of my lungs.
I get it back. Demand it back. “I’ll wait with you,” I tell him.
Silence. His breathing changes its pattern. It’s still too fast, but there’s an element of relief.
“I’ll wait with you,” I say again. “I’ll wait with you forever.”
One of the first things Sinclair did when he got to the cave was force Emerson to talk to him. I didn’t see it, because I was still drifting, exhausted. I only heard it. I have no idea how long it took. What I do know is that Emerson’s frantic heartbeat is too fast. It makes mine want to race, too. Except I need to be calm.
I squeeze him so hard my biceps burn.
“I was thinking about a new piece.” I say it like we’re having this conversation on the beach and not in a dark closet. “I was thinking about painting a man, surfing. The perspective would mainly be about the ocean, though. To emphasize the size of the sea compared to the man.”
I can see it. Like it’s hanging on a gallery wall.
“First, obviously, I’d tone it with blue. Light. A thin layer. You know what I’m talking about. This painting wouldn’t be a nighttime scene. Or—you know what? Maybe it would. I could see it in the moonlight.”
I describe the first foundational layers of paint. The growing, swelling shape of the wave. The moonlight’s reflections. I trace it onto one of his shoulders. Every time I think I might run out of something to say, more comes to mind.
Emerson doesn’t say anything.
I don’t know how long it’s been when I notice his heart is only jogging, not sprinting. That his breathing is past the shallow, ragged peak and heading toward a normal rhythm. That his hands are splayed out across my back, resting, not clinging for dear life.
I feel him take a deliberate breath.
Then another one.
He swallows.
