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I’ll be damned if she’s been damaged.
“Now, Daphne.”
Daphne bites her lip and climbs the stairs. I follow behind her. I’m not under any illusions about the damage my own excursion into the city has done. My vision slides between hallucinatory brushstrokes and painful clarity. That was the longest panic attack I’ve had in years. Every muscle is at its limit.
It has to wait.
My little painter hesitates at the landing, and I gesture her into the studio.
Daphne stops just inside the door. I put my hands on her shoulders and move her to the canvas.
I’m at the shelves, collecting the paints she uses most often, when she sucks in a breath. “I’m not doing this.”
“Not doing what?”
This shade of blue. That one. White.
“I’m not painting anymore.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I won’t paint the ocean.”
“Don’t push me, little painter. I can make you.”
When I turn to look at her, Daphne is exactly as I pictured. Her shoulders sag with relief. Her cheeks are pink. Her chin dimples, like it does when she’s trying not to cry.
She doesn’t look at me as I return to her. Doesn’t look at me until I’ve watched her for many heartbeats in silence.
“You sent me a message.”
Daphne nods, the movement subtle.
“You said you would finish your painting. Did you change your mind?”
“It’s too late to paint.”
“Too late for the piece?”
“Too late in the day. You’re tired. We should go to bed.”
“No.”
Daphne’s stubborn frown is so perfect, so adorable, I almost agree with her. I won’t make it more than a few hours anyway. I’m running on the adrenaline from a close brush with death, which guarantees a crash.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Why are you being like this? I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
“I am fucking overjoyed to see you. I never thought I would see you again.” My pulse gets louder in my ears. Daphne doesn’t fight me when I unfold her arms and pull her sweater over her head. She doesn’t help me, either. “I’m not overjoyed to discover that you hurt yourself.”
She scrunches her face, narrowing her eyes. “I didn’t.”
“Your brother said you refused to paint. Is that true?” I take off her undershirt. Her bra. Daphne shivers. It’s not particularly cold in here, but maybe she’ll be more motivated to move.
“I didn’t want to.”
“Did he ask?”
“Yes, but you weren’t there.” Daphne’s eyes flash. “It didn’t feel right without you. I didn’t know what it would mean if I went ahead and did it anyway. What if I couldn’t? Or what if I could? It would have been even worse if nothing had changed. So I didn’t paint. And I’m not going to do it now. It can wait.”
