“Emerson.”
Sin’s got his hands folded in front of him. I don’t know how long I’ve been paying attention to the room. All I know is that it kept my heart from racing out of control.
“Tell me what you’re doing here.” He doesn’t react to my tone, which is not polite, which is not kind at all. I don’t know why he’s here in my space. I’m finished playing games. He just watches me. It’s worse than what Will does, which is to harass me until I want to kill him. Sin lets all his worry show on his face. “I can see what you’re doing, prick. Tell me why you’re here or get the fuck out of my house.”
“I got a call from the prison.” Sin looks me directly in the eyes as he says it. He’s not in the sunlight. He is in shadow, which makes his eyes slightly more difficult to read. Eyes like mine. Like our mother’s. Other than this one feature, he looks like our father. All the light is behind him. The expression on his face, the tilt of his mouth—it’s serious.
Hope feels like catching a wave. “Is he dead?”
He blows out a breath and looks down at his clasped hands. Back up at me. “Dad’s up for parole.”
Dust motes whirl softly through the air behind Sin’s head. The wall behind him could be a still life featuring Daphne’s painting. A round candle my housekeeper put underneath it. A small silver bowl that was given out at a charity event. There are angles at play in the light. Angles in the painting. They intersect and double back. Like a lattice. Like a pattern. Like light from around a closed door. A sliced-out rectangle on a bare floor. Sin, sitting in his chair. Waiting.
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do. We all care. You don’t have to pretend it’s not a big deal.”
“I don’t know why you think I’d have a problem with it.”
He stares at me. “You do have a fucking problem with it. Why are you lying to me?”
“You could have told me this in a text.”
Sin shakes his head slowly. “No, I don’t think I could have.”
“Did you forget how to read? How to write?”
A frustrated, irritated grin spreads across his face. This grin is what makes him a minor Instagram celebrity. Women love to look at that shit. They don’t know he only grins like that when he’s pissed.
“I didn’t forget anything, Emerson.”
“This was a lovely visit.” I stand up from my chair. Sin stands up, too. “Time for you to go.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
Anger and disappointment fight with each other. Going for blood. They’re about to get loose. I thought that motherfucker might be dead. I’m a fucking fool. And I don’t need Sin to see it. “Leave.”
“No.”
“I don’t want you here.”
“I don’t care that much.”
“What are you so afraid of?” I’m taunting him. Baiting him. Trying to back him toward the door, to get him the hell out of my house, but my brother stands his ground.
“Are you going to make me say it?” Sin laughs and sweeps his hand through the air, gesturing at me with my hands in my pockets. “You? Being like this? That’s how I know everything is fucked.”
“Oh? A person standing in his own den, waiting for his asshole brother to leave? That’s how you know? It’s how I know you should leave. I’m fine, and I don’t give a fuck about Dad.”
“I can see what you’re doing, too.” Fear is beating at the inside my chest now. An old, humiliating fear. It’s cold, with long fingers that could pick a lock if it needed to. If it couldn’t find another way out. “I see what you’re doing, Emerson, I can see your face. You’re making it into art.”
I hate, hate, that Sin knows this about me. I hate that he knows how I keep the world at arm’s length. By making it into a painting in my mind. By making it art. Considering it like art. At a frozen remove.
“Bold of you, to think you’re art. You look like shit.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I am.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s not.”
“You should have taken a swing at me by now.”
He’s right. Emotions are a bell curve. On the one end, they’re still lifes in black and white. Motionless. Bolted to the wall. No need to react to anything. On the other end, they’ve come to life. Full color. A riot inside my head. The most control is necessary at those times, to keep myself in check. To keep them hidden. It takes all my attention to make the world into art. To freeze it in place. To make it into a representation of itself. A harmless commodity.
But in the middle, there’s a space where I might let up on that iron grip. I might let myself fight with my brothers. Or punch Sin in his damn fool face.
“Get out.” Light tone. Light light light. The opposite of the rocks weighing down my gut. The opposite of crushing disappointment. I thought he was dead, goddamn it.
“I’m staying. A few days, maybe the week.”
“I have an event.”
“Go to the event, then. I’ll watch your house while you’re gone.”
“I’d like it better if you left. And if you never came back.”
Sin presses his lips together and blinks. It hurt him, what I said, but I can’t fathom why. I don’t know why he wants this from me—this thing I can’t give him. I’m never going to be able to give him the kind of brotherly bullshit he’s looking for. Sin’s wasting his time on me. He should concentrate on Will instead.
“Have you eaten lunch?” he asks.
“No.” I don’t tell him I wasn’t going to eat lunch. That right now, I don’t find food particularly interesting. The only thing I find interesting is Daphne. Her messages are infrequent. That makes me want them so much more.
Sin rubs his hands over his hair. “What’s your favorite place to order in?”
“Any of them.” I take my phone out of my pocket. I’m hungry for Daphne. Sin can’t order her for delivery. “I don’t care.”
Emerson: I want to know what you taste like, little painter.
“Could you fake it, then?”
I meet Sin’s eyes. I don’t like what I find there. Genuine concern. The last thing I need is for him to insist on staying past this week. The last thing I need is for him to interfere in my plans. And if he gets worried enough, he will.
My phone goes back into my pocket. “La Table. If Marie answers the phone, she prefers you order in French.”
Sin rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”
“My apologies. Should I have pretended to care a little less?” I actually do like La Table. But now that I’ve sent that message to Daphne, all my nerves have kicked into overdrive. If she would tell me where she was…
I can’t leave.
I would take her. Spirit her away. Take her far from whatever nonsense is keeping her from me. I would spread her sweet thighs and find out how my little painter tastes.
My heart pounds. I’ll have to do something soon, because living like this—it’s not tenable for anyone, but least of all me. I can be very, very patient. I will be so fucking patient with her.