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Chapter Ten
Emerson
Daphne squeezes tight, her body trembling. The foyer is nothing but brush strokes. Layers upon layers of paint. I close my eyes and shut it out.
It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to see anything. Now that we’re alone, Daphne’s presence is an overwhelming rush of sensation. I’ve spent my life trying to keep all sensation and emotion at a careful distance, and now I can’t.
She’s been at her brother’s house. The scent of the shampoo she uses there is at the edge of every breath I take. The warm, clean undertones of her skin. Something that reminds me of paper, or paint. It reminds me of the first time I went to the Met. The signature of his laundry detergent is already fading, to my intense relief. I need her to match. I need her to be familiar.
I need her to be mine. Just for now.
Under her coat, her shoulders rise and fall in little hitches that trend toward crying. I don’t mind if she does. I cover her shoulder blades with my palms, as if I’m trying to coax away incipient wings. Or draw them out. Daphne’s breathing evens. One hand down on her lower back, and it steadies further. I missed this like I missed my own heart. Paying attention to her is the most worthy way to spend my time. Anyone’s time.
Worries fade in and out like someone pacing behind a closed door. A shadow moving through the light. I’m still certain I have to give her up. Absolutely sure it was the right thing. But leaving her here to be collected by her family is entirely different than turning her away.
We don’t have long.
The obstacle to forever isn’t her family. It’s me.
A door slams shut, locks clicking all the way up and down the frame. Not now. Not now. Not now.
Not yet.
Feel her. Daphne’s bones are delicate but her body is resilient. Winter water couldn’t drown her. Captivity couldn’t stifle her. I couldn’t scare her. Not enough to hide the truth. She doesn’t tremble from regret or shame. She missed me. That’s why she can’t let go. I remember her hummingbird steps in the gallery, flitting away from me, afraid to get close.
Not afraid enough to run.
Even then, she was stronger than she seemed.
“I was so worried about you,” Daphne murmurs against my shirt.
She’s never refused to paint before.
The memory jars me into the moment. Daphne, not painting. Refusing to paint. Whether it was out of worry or spite, my little painter hurt herself while we were apart. That can’t happen again. When I’m not with her, she has to keep painting.
If she thought her life at her brother’s house was confined, she’s mistaken. My world is much smaller.
It’s like separating a painted-in canvas from the frame, but I push her back. Detach myself from her. Take my hands away.
Daphne stares up at me, her dark eyes wide. “Emerson?”
I was wrong. Her status as the woman I love doesn’t supersede the fact that she belongs to me. If she’s here, she’s part of my collection. She’s a woman, and she’s art. It’s a game, and it’s real.
It’s also temporary. This has to be done while we still have time.
“Give me your coat.”
Her hands shake as she undoes the buttons. It’s very similar to the one she wore on the first night I saw her. Dark gray. She gives it to me, and I feel the heat of her eyes as I hang it up in the closet next to mine.
“Go upstairs, little painter.”
She opens her mouth, lips parting as if she has any argument to make. Daphne decides otherwise.
Good. Because I can see it, now that my brain isn’t on fire.
Pain. In her eyes. The small muscles around her eyes keep tensing, over and over again, every time she shifts her balance.
The heat in my chest swings between touching warmth and an infuriated burn. I bat both of them away. Shove them, and all their variations, onto the walls in my mind. There’s not enough information. I’m going to get it.
