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He’s serious.
I look again to buy some time. I need to keep my teeth from chattering. I need to keep the shaking under control until no one’s watching.
“Original or—” Fuck me. If he doesn’t leave soon, the panic will break its frame while he’s standing here, and I don’t want to give a repeat performance. “Reproduction?”
Will sticks his hands in his pockets. “Is there an original you’d part with?”
I wish I didn’t feel half-dead, halfway in another reality. Perhaps this is what it’s supposed to be like to have brothers. Asks and offers. Small bonds.
It’s because you had Daphne, that black-oil voice whispers.
My breath catches.
I don’t have her anymore.
It’s for the best. That’s what I told her. She needs a man who doesn’t lose his goddamn mind every time his plans break down. She needs a man who isn’t consumed with his obsessions. She needs a man who wouldn’t dream of owning her. Who wouldn’t dream of binding her to a frame in his gallery. Who wouldn’t dream of locking her with him forever.
The conversation.
Will’s question.
He saw how valuable Daphne was, which means that I misunderstood him. I thought he couldn’t see how much a piece can mean. I didn’t give either of my brothers a chance, for fear of—
For fear that you’re all your father, every one of you, and they see you the way he does, as a burden, as a waste of a man, as an embarrassment.
Wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t have to feel this?
I’m fighting the dark thoughts, but it’s hard. Impossible, really. Like kicking up from the bottom of the ocean, lungs already burning for air. “There are a few that come to mind. I’ll send you photos and you can tell me which one you want.”
Will huffs a breath. “There’s no fucking way I’m leaving.”
“Why, prick? You wanted a suggestion.” If only the irritation was genuine. Everything is drowned out by panic.
“Because you look like hell. You’re offering me a painting from your collection.”
He’s covered in brush strokes. The texture moves with his skin. His shirt. His pants. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. The world becomes art. The things that split my nerves become framed pieces. I hang them up. I keep them far enough away to breathe.
I’m not supposed to be in it like this. There’s no distance.
“You asked me for a piece.”
“And you said I could choose.” Will’s mouth twists. “You don’t keep bullshit in your collection. Only things you care about.”
“I fail to see—”
“If you’re giving it to me, that means you’re planning on not caring. Jesus Christ, Emerson. I know we haven’t been that close, but I can’t leave you here if you’re like this.”
Dangerous, he means. Dangerous to myself. I’ve been dangerous to Daphne for so long. “It’s a cold,” I insist. I lock down every muscle to keep the trembling to a minimum, if only for a few more minutes.
“You don’t get colds. You hardly leave your house.”
“Well, I fucking got one. Someone in your lobby was probably sick. The only thing I’m planning to do is go to bed.”
“The art—”
“I’m not offering you art because I don’t care about it. I’m offering it because you asked, and you’re my fucking brother, Will. I trust you to care for whichever piece you choose.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but what argument can he make? “Is that what Daphne was about, then? That night with the picture frame? Was it a test?”
