Chapter 12 #3
I grab a napkin from the metal box on the table and dab my eyes, vaguely remembering how it felt to be myself without fear of judgment and missing that comfort and freedom.
This conversation has probably been the most honest of my life.
It hurts being this vulnerable, like I’m offering consent to be dissected on an examination table.
Ah, here’s Venus’s broken heart. Let’s get that under the microscope and measure the cracks.
Henry was the only person I could trust to hold a scalpel to my inner workings, and even then, sometimes the scalpel would slip, nicking my heart.
I ache to return to our weird and lovely relationship that no one understood but us, and now that pain surges in me, a flood of want, bursting through my carefully designed barriers.
I want him to know me beyond being the woman who devastated him.
Devastated. I never thought I could hurt him like that.
When I left, I grieved. I feared the unknown.
I lost my entire world, everyone, and everything I’d ever known.
All those former pains shift behind a bigger one—that I devastated Henry.
I trusted in his love for me then, but I suppose I expected him to dismiss it, the same way he did at school, or when we drifted into one of our long silences.
Rather than grief, I imagined relief for him. Eventually.
Taking the scalpel to my inner workings means enduring another nick—I see how much I hurt him. His pain pours into me, saturating me, devastating me all over again.
A feeling that worsens when he says, “You were everything to me, Venus. I would’ve run with you if you’d let me. You and me, off on another adventure, like always.”
His hand flies up to catch the tears slipping from his eyes, and I crumble into a quiet sob, imagining that missed adventure. I never considered the possibility that he’d run with me.
“That would’ve been… I wish I could’ve… I’m sorry, Henry. Feel whatever you need to feel about me. Hate me, resent me, never speak to me again, forgive me, forget me. But please know that it was love and desperation that made me run. Not you. You were and always will be the best part of me.”
I guzzle my beer, needing relief. A break. A timeout. Something. The paralyzing tension inside clenches and growls at me as it grows.
“I never hated you. I wanted to. Hate would’ve been easier. But how could I? You taught me to climb trees, get dirty, and stand up against bullies and false claims,” he says, his lop-sided smile returning like he needs the distraction.
I laugh, thinking of Frank the Frog and grateful for the relief.
“I just… missed you,” he adds.
I nearly crumble again. “I missed you, too. I missed us, and I’m sorry.”
He nods, a gentle smile on his face. “Thanks for helping me understand.”
My bare shoulders bob in a weak shrug. “Only took me ten years.”
“Better late than never.”
Two heaping cheeseburgers arrive with a tower of fries.
I can’t help but chuckle over his exorbitant “usual.” I dig in, suddenly ravenous and anxious for my tears to dry.
Outside, streetlights pop on as the sun dips and fades behind the buildings, and I fixate on the traffic streaking by the window.
I don’t know what to say now that my heart lies dissected on the table between us.
There are no conversational guidelines for moving on after such an emotional purge. Are there?
“Are you… okay?” he asks finally.
“Yes, fine, thank you.”
“I’m, um, about to finish my Master’s,” he says. “In education with a specialty in AIG students.”
“That’s commendable.”
He looks sheepish as his eyes narrow at me. “Commendable, huh? How many degrees do you have?”
“I have a doctorate in botany and two master’s degrees in environmental science and art.
The latter I did for fun. I may pursue another Master’s in Art History soon—it’d be an easy addition to my resume.
I’m also an EMT-B, a Mensa member, and a contributing member of several environmental organizations. ”
He laughs.
“Is that funny?” I ask, unsurely.
“No, Venus. You’re amazing. It’s just… I was trying to impress you.”
A smirk curls up my cheek that he’d even want to impress me. “You want to help exceptional learners. I find that very impressive, Henry.”
“You went from barely passing high school to stockpiling degrees,” he says, twiddling with a fry. “What made the difference for you?”
“Freedom to learn as I pleased. Guided, virtual instruction and hands-on field work with my mentor,” I explain.
“Dad kept me in school because he feared I wouldn’t socialize without it.
Perhaps he had a valid point. Though ironically, all it did was reinforce my feelings of isolation.
And I’m still socially awkward. It’s funny that schools don’t offer a class on socializing and connection, right? ”
His brows perk as he considers the question.
But I go on, grateful to be talking about something other than my emotions.
“Most students thrive with rules and routines—a system. But I performed better in classes where I was given trust and more freedom and had teachers who were willing and able to engage in discourse with me, without labeling me as belligerent for asking questions. The Socratic method, a forum of intellectual discussion and ideas, would’ve been my ideal when forced to learn with others. Self-guided study, if on my own.”
I shove a fry in my mouth and reach for another.
“Receiving my diagnosis and the Individualized Education Program helped me, and others, understand my ADHD. Understanding my high IQ and being raised on books and experimentation rather than TV and video games presented the greater challenge—many teachers couldn’t relate to me. I was a difficult case—”
“I hate that word,” he says, breaking my dialogue. “It’s loaded with negative connotations and overused generally, especially with you. Difficult. Even you call yourself that now.”
“What would you have called me?” I say, surprised that he noticed.
“Complex,” he says, his earthy brown eyes meeting mine, “an intriguing opportunity. You deserved better.”
“Thank you.” Heat rises to my cheeks at his gentle acknowledgement.
He stares, nibbling the inside of his cheek in almost sad contemplation. It’s a look I’ve seen before, like he doesn’t know what to do with me.
“It wasn’t all bad, Henry,” I say. “I excelled in my art classes. I had the library, science labs, and… you.”
His eyes slip over me with something softer, almost wanton, tracing the lines of my tattoos and pausing at my breasts. “Didn’t you tell me that flowers are little more than lovely sex organs?”
A laugh emerges while my cheeks heat under his gaze. “So, you did listen to me?”
“Always,” he says. “You’ve covered yourself in lovely sex organs. What does that say about you?”
“Freud might have some theories. But they’re not all sex organs.
Fronds, foliage, and seeds, too. They all mean something to me, though.
” I motion to the daisies he can see peeking over the corset of my dress.
“The heads of daisies aren’t just one flower.
They’re made up of many tiny flowers. A whole world on each tiny flower head, all its friends and family in one place…
no wonder Meg Ryan deemed it the friendliest flower in You’ve Got Mail. ”
“Is that why you got that tattoo?”
“This was my first. I got it for you, to keep you close, even if we couldn’t be.”
His lips form a rigid line as his eyes lock on me, in an expression I can’t gauge, but that makes my heart sputter and race in the fear that my admission hurts him further.
DeeDee arrives with the check, which I snatch before Henry can. I quickly pay with money from my phone case. When she returns for it, I tell her to keep the change and say, “Thanks for making me feel pretty.”
“Oh, honey, you’re gorgeous! Come back anytime you need the reminder,” she gushes. “Hope you two enjoyed catching up.”
I nod, tears circulating in my irises at the realization that it’s over. She saunters off, carrying our dirty dishes, and my eyes return to Henry’s, fixating on him because he’s already staring.
“Thank you for listening to me,” I say.
“Thanks for coming back and explaining.”
I nod, desperately holding back tears over our looming end and not wanting to say goodbye. “I could install the garden, if you want. I mean, I could do it when you’re not there or…”
He slips from the booth and reaches out to me.
My hand falls into his as he helps me scoot out.
The tips of our fingers linger together as he leads us through the brightly lit, friendly restaurant.
We exit to the dark street, lightly peppered with people, and music thumping from a bar on the corner.
He takes my hand, almost roughly, and pulls me along the sidewalk, away from the activity and toward the museum.
Under a streetlight on the Riverwalk, he suddenly stops, drops my hand, and pushes up his glasses, looking frustrated.
“Do you feel better?” he asks.
“Yes. Being with you always makes me feel better. It was good to explain. Do you feel better?”
His hand skates through his messy hair while he groans at the question. “No, Venus. I don’t feel better. I feel fucking worse.”