Chapter 11
Henry
I rush through the museum, rehearsing what I might say to Venus in my head and worried that I might lose my nerve between here and the fairy house.
How do you calmly and reasonably demand an explanation from the woman who not only broke your heart but forever rendered it partially inoperable?
And if I manage to ask, will her answer hurt worse than not knowing?
Hours have passed since Venus left, but I’m still so consumed with thoughts of her that I don’t notice the work still being done. Dot and Marnie pop up from the display case they’re working on and stop me like a wall before I can slip through the hall to the main door.
“Henry, wait,” Marnie says.
“I didn’t realize you were still here. Sorry, I have to go out,” I say.
“Yeah, you do,” Dot smirks like she knows exactly where I’m headed.
“You’ll want to see this first.” Marnie hands me a hurried sketch that makes my heart skip a beat, and my lungs tighten.
The black-ink drawing shows Venus, perched on a barstool and staring into a drink at a docked tiki bar—a place I’ve seen not far from the museum. She appears to be waiting… waiting for me.
I read the message at the bottom.
If you want to talk, I’m here. Either way, I’m sorry, Henry.
“I caught her taping it to the door,” Marnie says softly. “She was worried about causing another asthma attack.”
“She seemed genuinely upset,” Dot adds.
“So, what’re you going to do?” Marnie asks slowly.
I take a deep breath. “Get some answers, I hope… Lock up for me?”
“Go get her, tiger,” Dot says.
“Only don’t be an angry tiger,” Marnie adds. “Be a purring kitten. Listen to what she has to say, huh?”
I thank the ladies for their support and advice as I’m heading down the hall and out the door.
I’ve imagined seeing Venus again thousands of times. In my reunion fantasies, anger would rule, fueling my words. I’d accuse her of being exactly what my friends used to say—cold, calculating, and emotionless. How else could she have left me like that?
But when my eyes find her, glowing in the afternoon sun and in vivid color, like she might be a mirage, it’s not anger that rules me. Not even close.
It’s relief. I’m fucking relieved. She’s okay. I’m okay. We’re together.
She looks surprised that I showed. She slides off the stool and meets me at the boat’s edge. Her lovely, tattooed arm reaches for me on the pier.
“Henry, I-I’m glad you’re here.” A weak smile emerges as she motions to the boat. “See? This way, I can’t run. Come with me?”
I use the word boat generously here. It’s a flat-bottomed floating dock with a bar, barstools, an outer railing, a grass hut overhead, and an almost laughable outboard motor.
Still, I take her hand and step aboard.
Finally, face-to-face with this confounding and devastating woman, ready to demand my answers and tell her exactly how shitty she made me feel, I do the fucking unthinkable.
The relief of her drives me straight into her arms.
Her breath hitches against my bearded cheek as I clasp her against me—I have to, to make sure she’s real. I latch on to her, my hands roaming over exposed skin, rough fabric, and soft curls, unsure where to settle. Her hands lock around my midsection, bringing me closer.
“Henry,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
“I can’t believe it’s you. Earlier, I panicked. Sorry.”
“Me, too,” she says. “It was my dad.”
“I know.”
“A misguided attempt to reunite us,” she goes on, still pressed to me tightly. “Are you okay now?”
“I’m okay,” I whisper.
I hesitate, dragging away from her slowly. I catch hints of rosemary in her hair and roses on her skin. Her glassy green eyes widen as she takes me in, and she smiles with what seems like relief, too.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispers, her breath hitting my lips as I leave her.
I want to say it back, but I don’t. How could she have missed me when she’s the one who left?
Still, my fingers trace her as we pull apart—her bare shoulders, her arms, over her bracelets, and to her fingers.
They mingle together, like old friends, as we soak each other up.
Her sun-toasted skin, her softness, her tender smile, and the tears brimming in her eyes—this updated version of her, lovely, artsy, emotional, overlays Venus of the past. She’s no longer the awkward, blank-faced girl from high school—the one no one understood but me.
She’s different, and somehow, still as perfect as I remember.
Her bold, green eyes watch me as mine travel to the cheeks I loved touching, the full, pink lips I loved kissing, and her dimpled chin that I often ran my finger over. Her hair is all over the place, held loosely by a scarf, but I love the way the tendrils dance around her face in the breezes.
Her former slenderness has transformed into etched, broad musculature across her arms and shoulders, as if she has filled out to her full form—capable and strong. The deep curves of her breasts draw my eye, as do the striking and detailed daisies over her heart. Daisies are the friendliest flowers.
My eyes trail the connecting tattoos, shamelessly ogling her like a museum piece I want to remember forever. They’re her tattoos, her art—I recognize it at once. Her field journal sketches were so realistic that I expected the birds, bugs, and leaves to fly, crawl, or fall off the page.
The same is true for the ink on her body. My thumb runs boldly over the roses, peonies, and tangled vines along her arm, and her smile strengthens behind the distress in her brow, the worry in her eyes, and the nerves pulsing through her fidgeting fingers.
All of this from the woman I’d decided was cold and emotionless.
I release my hold on her, realizing that my touch has lingered too long.
Her hands fall to the dress she’s wearing, fisting it in her palms. “It’s my prom dress.”
So focused on her, I barely noticed her clothes.
A dress? The Venus I knew only wore a dress once—it didn’t go well.
That had been one of many things I’d been looking forward to with prom—Venus in a dress.
She looks as elegant as I imagined she would—a sparkling, tempting package I want to touch, wonder over, and admire before giving in and tearing it open to ravish her properly.
“Um, why?” I manage to ask.
“I thought seeing me in something silly might,” she says, almost breathlessly, “prevent your lungs from constricting.”
“Silly isn’t the word I’d use.” Alternatives stream through my thoughts, far removed from silly. Radiant, sexy, fucking gorgeous. But I can’t find my breath to say them.
She bends slightly, motioning to the worn, muddy hiking boots now peeking out from the pink layers.
A laugh rumbles from me, because, yes, it’s a little silly to see a beautiful woman in a stunning dress while sporting old hiking boots.
“Ivy stole the shoes I bought to go with it,” she explains. “I wanted to show you that I… I planned on prom. I wanted to go. To try.”
“Then, what happened?”
“I want to explain…” Her voice trails off as she searches for words. “If you’re willing to listen and I can calm down enough to… enough to… talk.”
She hides her flexing fingers behind her back, bounces on her boots, and takes a deep breath. With so much tension and heartbreak between us, I feel the tension, too.
Though perhaps not as much as she does.
“I, um, have my inhaler and a backup, if it helps,” I offer with a short smile.
She snort-laughs—a sound I never thought I’d hear again. “Good thinking.”
She hesitates, as if finding her place in a book after losing her page.
“How about a drink?” I say, motioning to the bar.
“That’s a good idea.”
We perch on the awkward barstools. She moves what looks like water with lemon aside and orders a Vodka Cranberry from the pirate-esque bartender. I ask for a beer. The captain revs the weak motor and unties us from the dock. The bar tilts as the engine drives us toward the middle of the river.
“On a scale of one to ten, how safe do you think this boat is?”
“Three, at best. But don’t worry. I’m an expert swimmer and hold an EMT-B certification. I studied and trained… after.” She swallows hard at the word and looks away, as if embarrassed. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
“I know. I didn’t mean it that way.” When it’s clear that she’s too nervous to start, I say, “I, um, I like your tattoos.”
She swallows hard and manages a smile. “I like your beard. Very distinguished.”
I graze it with my fingers in that thoughtful way I use when I need a dramatic pause with my students. “It helps to look less like the middle schoolers I teach.”
Her brow quirks, and her green eyes flood with fresh emotion. “You did it? You’re a teacher?”
“Yeah, history, geography, and government,” I answer, surprised at her reaction. After what she went through with her education, I imagined she’d hate the idea.
Instead, she looks genuinely happy. “Your students are very lucky.”
Coming from her, that’s an incredible compliment. “I don’t know if they’d agree, but, yeah, I love it.”
The captain lights a cigarette and breathes out a heavy trail of smoke. I don’t smell it yet, but I will.
“Sir? Excuse me, sir?” Venus’s voice pulls me away from my beer. She repeats herself until he can’t ignore her. “Could you please extinguish that? My friend is asthmatic.”
He huffs. “We’re outside.”
Her eyes narrow in a challenge. “Yes, but he’s sensitive, and so am I. Please?”
The irritated man grunts as he takes a long drag. He flicks his cigarette into the water, which makes Venus cringe, but she lets it go.