Chapter 16
Venus
My eyes flutter with the soft light coming through the window and a thud from somewhere. In a breath, it all comes back to me like a dream—I’ve never had a more perfect night. But the bed feels cold beside me. I sit up with a start and say, “Henry?”
He’s not there.
I wander through his apartment wearing his t-shirt.
His place has been recently painted, given the faded smell in the air, mingling with the scent of coffee.
Sage green covers the bedroom, hall, and the adorable room across from Henry’s, presumably Olly’s.
I peek in the open door to find a twin bed covered in superhero linens—no surprise, given Henry’s underwear choices in elementary school.
Toys and books fill the shelves. Hooks on the walls hold jackets, a cape, and a baseball glove.
Library books form a wonky stack near the bed.
I wonder if Maggie, a librarian, hand-picked them like she sometimes did for Henry and me.
Colored pencils and markers are scattered across his desk.
I step in to view his unfinished artwork—a rudimentary drawing of a man and a boy, both wearing glasses, staring up at a large tree with a woman standing on a high branch. She wears a mask and a billowing cape.
It reminds me of the day I helped Henry find his home.
But it’s clearly a figment of young Olly’s hero-laced imagination. I backstep from the room, feeling guilty for invading the child’s personal space.
The living room, kitchen, and Henry’s office space are painted a soft yellow.
The open space is full of bright windows that showcase the outdoor roof space around it.
The low rumble of air purifiers catches my attention—there’s one at both ends of the room.
Henry needs plants, though, and while the efficacy of indoor plants in improving air quality is widely debated, I still catalog a mental list of ones to bring him.
But the list dissolves into brain dust. He doesn’t want plant advice from me. He doesn’t want anything from me, except to let go and move on. To commit to someone else.
I won’t linger. I just…
Unused camping equipment occupies the corner near the small dining table—an unpackaged tent, an air mattress, sleeping bags, a propane cooking stove, tools, cooking utensils, and an almost laughable assortment of contingency items, like a battery-operated radio, sunblocks in varying SPFs and application styles, bug sprays, and enough first aid to handle a small army.
This all sits beside a converted tackle box with the words “Olly’s Ouchy Kit” scrawled on an index card with “9-1-1.”
That looks like Maggie’s doing.
Regardless, I wonder what their plans are, and why these things haven’t been used or even unpackaged yet. But it’s not my business.
I feel like a trespasser, but I want to soak up as much of Henry as I can. It’s my last chance to be in his life.
Action figures clutter the coffee table in the living room.
He uses the same desk from his childhood bedroom with the ink stain on the left corner where one of my pens leaked over my hands and dribbled onto the surface—Maggie wasn’t happy.
It’s crowded with papers and books, mostly historical tomes about local lore and legends.
A carved blue jay seems to stare up at me from a composition book, which sits closed with a pen sticking out of it.
I don’t intrude, though a sneaky part of me wants to.
I turn from the desk, and my breath hitches at the framed prints over his red sofa.
First, the black and white ink drawing I created of two crows squawking outside Henry’s bedroom window one morning hangs in the middle.
I recall sitting at his desk, watching them as he slept near me.
When he woke up and came over to see what caught my interest, he laughed and said, “Vee, two crows… It’s an attempted murder.
” I couldn’t stop laughing because, technically, the group would need a party of three to be described as a murder.
I gave him the eight-by-ten drawing a few days later with An Attempted Murder of Crows written in delicate handwriting across the bottom. He handed it back to me. “Vee, an artist is supposed to sign her work.”
I thought to debate him—I’m no artist. I’m a scientist. But his coy grin convinced me to let it go.
I lean closer to the framed drawing to see my scribbled VB in the bottom corner.
I’m stunned he kept it, let alone framed it.
Stunned that it now hangs over his sofa along with two of my other artful gifts: the robin’s nest with three eggs we found on a low-hanging branch when I finally got him to climb a live oak tree in the woods, and Frank the Frog, the inspiration for his tattoo.
Tears cloud my eyes as I remember his promise to keep Frank always—he did, twice over. Kept promises are a sign of love, not anger or disappointment. Regret swirls for the promises I couldn’t keep to him.
A familiar current of unwanted energy courses through me, making my hands fist at my sides. I don’t know how to feel about any of this—that my art hangs on his walls and is inked into his chest, that we shared such an incredible night, that I’m here at all. That he’s not.
I turn toward his worn leather chair, with my dress hanging over the side, my underwear and socks neatly folded, my boots on the floor, and my phone tucked inside; my foggy understanding becomes clear.
One night meant one night. It’s the morning. I need to leave.
I should commend him for avoiding an awkward and emotional goodbye. This is probably best. Still, as I scurry to get dressed, tug on my boots, and collect my jewelry from his bedside table, I feel disappointed not to have the morning with him, at least.
But that wasn’t the agreement.
I make the bed and fold his shirt to leave neatly for him. But catching his clean, minty scent on it, I hold it to my face and reconsider. Would he miss it? I pull it over my dress, deciding that I deserve a treasure, since he has so many from me.
Walking through the apartment, I hunt for excuses not to go. What about the garden? What about a goodbye? What about that vague promise to talk later that he mentioned last night? But anything more would complicate what I promised would be simple. Last night’s experiment can’t work if I linger.
So, ignoring what my heart wants, I do what’s best for us both and leave.