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I’m not tired of them. I’m just exhausted. My throat is starting to close from all the aching. My eyes burn with tears. I’m frustrated with Emerson’s father. With my family, for wanting me to have different answers. With myself.
Carter comes to sit on the sofa. He arranges the blanket and tucks it in around my lap. We weren’t close the way Leo and I were close. The way we are close, if he can get over himself, and if I can find a way to talk to him that doesn’t end in me having to move into his house for safety. Still, Carter and I understand each other. He lost himself in books and biology and academia. I lost myself in paint.
“I’m just…” I open the sketchbook and trace faint lines over what I’ve already done. I’m drawing by feel almost entirely now. “I’m overwhelmed. I didn’t realize what was happening here. I missed you guys so much.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “But?”
“But honestly I miss him. I miss Emerson.” A tear drifts out onto my cheek. We all have secret inner selves, but the difference was stark with Emerson. He seemed so good, and then he seemed so evil. At the core, he took care of me the way he promised he would. He didn’t hurt me unless I wanted it. And if he called me one of his acquisitions, it was in a loving, obsessive way. He admitted that in front of his brothers. Emerson tried his best to make me happy, even if I couldn’t be happy in a cage. He saw that about me, too. He called me a hummingbird. I felt like a hummingbird. A bird ready to throw itself through the bars and into the world.
Only I would have had to fly back. That’s what I know about myself now. I’d have returned to him. I couldn’t give up hope in the ocean and I can’t give up hope for Emerson now. I need to see him, to know he’s okay, the same way I need to paint.
Another tear drips onto my sketchbook. “I really miss him.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
“Is that completely fucked up?” I meet his eyes, my deepest fear welling up from the pit of my gut. That it is completely fucked up to miss Emerson. Completely fucked up to have a single positive thought about the man who held me captive. “It has to be, right?”
Carter just laughs. Softly. Kindly. The way he always has. “Yes. But that’s the Morelli way.”
“Falling for a terrible person?”
“Loving people who are a little fucked up. Or being a little fucked up and finding someone who can love you anyway. In this family, everything’s slightly fucked. You’re just one of us.”
It rings like a bell in my head. I’ve been trying so hard not to be like my family. Not to rely on their money. Not to accept my life being shaped by them. I lived in my shitty apartment. I made art instead of money. But the way Carter says it shifts the perspective. It could be freedom, if I let it.
“This guy. Emerson,” he says, thoughtful. “You think you’re not allowed to miss him because of the way you got together, right?”
“I know I’m not allowed to miss him.”
“First, you can miss whoever the hell you want to. Second, it might be helpful to think of rhizomes rather than roots.”
“Carter, please. Emerson isn’t a sweet potato.”
“A sweet potato is a tuber. But the point is—stop laughing, Daphne, this is serious.” His eyes twinkle. It’s hard to cry when your genius brother is trying to bring plants into a situation where no plants can possibly apply. “Normally, you think of plants as having those delicate root systems. You can see everything on the surface, with thin tendrils underneath. Rhizomes are different. They’re stems, not roots, and they grow horizontally, under the soil.”
“So you’re saying he’s a horizontal root system.”
“I’m saying that the rhizome is a protective structure. It allows the plant to stay alive between growing seasons. It’s not better than a root system. In fact, some rhizomes have root systems as well. It’s just a different method of survival.”
“In your metaphor, Carter, the method of survival was keeping me captive.” And then falling for me.
“It’s a different method,” he says, looking me in the eye. “But the plants still reach for the sun. That’s their natural instinct, even if the foundation differs. You can still care about him, even if it started off sideways. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Are you saying this just to make me feel better?”
“What? No. I’m saying this so you can learn a thing or two about rhizomes. Nobody here knows anything about them. It’s disheartening, frankly. I can’t share my work with anyone.” Carter cracks a genuine smile then, and I smile back. This small understanding has to be a hopeful sign.
What about Emerson, though? Does he have a hopeful sign, wherever he is? Is he in any position to see it?
“What are you thinking about?” Carter asks, and I realize I’ve stopped smiling.
“I’m wondering if Emerson’s okay. I really hope he is.” I look down at my sketchbook and find him there. Standing at the shore, his board under his arm, his hand over his heart. Giving me one last look.
My own drawing does me in. More tears land on the page, then more, until finally Carter takes it out of my hands. Panic attacks. Emerson has panic attacks if he leaves the house for more than a few hours. Because his father used to keep him in a closet. My heart breaks for the little boy. And the powerful, broken man he’s become. Except he can’t go home anymore. Not while his house is swarming with cops. Not while it’s a crime scene.
So where is Emerson now?
