It’s not as early as the winter makes it look, but it’s very firmly morning. It’s the kind of light that could trick a person into sleeping in. Doesn’t matter.
Sin never sleeps.
It’s boring. That’s what he says about sleep, as if he needs a 24/7 adrenaline rush to stay interested in life. And maybe he does. I think he avoids sleep for a different reason, though. Control. Scaling a mountain. Kayaking white water rapids. Crossing the desert with nothing but a backpack. They’re a big fuck you to nature. Proof that he’s not a victim to his surroundings. He’ll dominate nature or die trying.
“Emerson,” he says. He sounds surprised to hear from me. His voice inspires me to do nothing so much as hang up and never talk to him again, but I don’t. The voice of a news anchor cuts off in the background. “How are you?”
“The same as always. I heard you were thinking of coming to town.”
“Not thinking about it. I’ll be there soon.”
“Not here. You can’t stay with me.”
In the front, Logan sips coffee from a travel mug. I gave it to him for Christmas last year. It’s supposed to keep drinks hot for nine days or something ridiculous like that. It must be all right, because he uses it all the time. Or else he’s angling for a bonus. Just a joke. He doesn’t have to angle. He’s good at his job, or else he wouldn’t work for me.
“Why?” He was watching TV. I haven’t caught him about to jump out of a plane or off the side of a cliff. For once, it sounds as if my brother is inside like a normal person.
“Because I’m seeing someone.”
“Like, what, dating?”
“I guess you could call it that.”
Sin takes a beat. I wish I could forget what he looks like, what both my brothers look like, but I can see his expression now, clear as day. He has a way of furrowing his brow but not looking particularly bothered. “Is it serious?”
“Yes.” It comes out quieter than I meant it to. More truthful. It’s the truth, after all. The feelings I have are serious. If I can’t ignore them, if I can’t cut them out or force them away, they must be serious. They take up more room in my chest every minute. A need that verges on desperate, and a twin hate that she’s not here.
“Did she move in?”
“Not yet.”
My brother’s silence goes on longer this time. He’s got a ceiling fan, wherever he is. He’s so quiet the noise cancellation on his phone doesn’t pick it up.
“Emerson.”
“What?”
“When you say dating, you meant…like a date, right?” Open suspicion edges Sin’s tone.
“A restraining order would only complicate things.”
“Emerson—where are you right now?”
The lamp turns on in Daphne’s living room. Her shadow is diffuse behind the lace curtains. She’s not close enough for her shape to be visible.
“I’m in the city,” I tell him. “Don’t come to my house.”
I hang up on him before he can ask more tedious questions.
Daphne steps out into the alley, and then she’s headed in my direction. She looks soft and rumpled, in lounge pants and a matching hoodie with the hood pulled up over her hair. Is she wearing—my god, she is. Bunny slippers. Daphne stops at the curb and checks both ways for traffic. There is none. With zero hesitation, she crosses the street. I’m so fucking glad to see her. It’s the most bizarre thing. I didn’t intend to talk to her today. She can’t see me through the tinted windows. She knocks on my window regardless, as if she knows I’m here. I roll it down and there’s nothing between us anymore.
“Surprise,” I tell her.
Her dark eyes hold a mix of fear and flattery. “How long were you going to sit out here?”
“How did you know it was me?”
Daphne’s teeth chatter a little. “This isn’t really an area where glossy black SUVs like this sit and hang out.”
I try not to notice her nipples through the hoodie. It’s not made for warmth. It’s made for fashion. For sitting inside houses that always have heat. She must be wearing next to nothing underneath. The hoodie reads New York is always hopeful. –Dorothy Parker in a typewriter font.
“Are you here because I sold you the paintings?”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
She pulls her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie. “This isn’t really an area where people stand in the street and chat. It’s not exactly safe.”
“It’s broad daylight.” Close enough, anyway.
Daphne purses her lips. “It’s still not…you know. It’s not the safest.”
“You could get in and go with me.”
Her eyes widen. “Where?”
“Back to the beach. I want to watch you paint it.”
“The other pieces weren’t enough?”
“No.”
The corner of her mouth turns into a wry smile. “Is that all? Me, painting the beach?”
I’d like to watch you paint while you’re naked. While you’re crying. While I’m inside you. It would be the purest form of poetry. It would be like nothing you’ve ever done, nothing I’ve ever done, and I want it more than I have ever wanted anything.
“No.”
“At least you’re honest.”
Perhaps. I haven’t told Daphne anything, really. She knows nothing about me except what I want her to know. Real honesty might be admitting that I can hardly breathe when she’s standing this close. That goose bumps run up and down my arms when I think of her alone. The dream I had last night. That would be honesty. What I said was a plain truth. I want more than to watch her paint. I want so much more.
It’s painful to ask, when I could take her now. Daphne’s petite. Small enough that if I opened the door, I could have her in my arms and in the back of the SUV with minimal effort. She could not outrun me. If I did, if I gave in to the electricity wiring my nerves, everything would come apart. It would take forever for her to trust me again. It would take so long to make her see.
“Come with me,” I say. Her shoulders shake now with the cold. Daphne looks behind me, into the SUV, and glances up at Logan. This is a different calculation entirely than staying with me in the gallery. I know she made that call minute by minute. She was alive with her fear every second, and part of her loved it. I tasted it on her. Fear. Desire. Relief.
“I—” A door bursts open on the other side of my SUV, wood banging on brick, and Daphne jumps back from the SUV window. “What’s going on?”
I search for an answer, but she’s not asking me. Two men in suits come into the street. “Ms. Morelli,” one of them says.
Daphne’s hand goes to the pocket of her hoodie. She pulls out her phone and frowns at the screen, then shoves it away again. “Is something happening?”
“We need you to come this way.”
“Guys.” Daphne sighs, but she puts on a smile anyway. “This is maybe not the way to do this. I’m in the middle of a conversation.”
“We have orders,” says the second one.
“What, is it because I’m outside?” Daphne’s voice rises, but she doesn’t lose control.