Chapter 21
Venus
My clearance rack rescue mission has produced mixed results.
I pick off the yellowed, brittle ends of a drooping tomato plant, hoping its energy will redirect to the healthier leaves.
The yellow squash and cucumber plants face similar challenges, having been denied the nutrients needed for proper growth.
Now embedded in nutrient-rich, composted soil, it may be too late.
Still, I pluck the dried and withering parts, smiling as I remember young Henry calling them baby pickles, which I found amusing because, yes, they could’ve become pickles, one day, but only after they were cucumbers first. Not these, I decide, dropping the dead bits into the canvas tote hooked to my waist for scraps.
The pepper plants slump, but there’s hope in their tiny flowers.
Their plastic identifiers claimed they were sweet green peppers (Capsicum annuum), but the dark center of the white flowers suggests otherwise—these are most certainly a spicier variety (Capsicum chinense).
With my father’s endless supply of extra-large popsicle sticks, I have labeled them correctly, hoping that restoring their proper variety will encourage them to become their true selves.
Thunder rumbles in the gray skies overhead. The humidity thickens as the pressure drops. I lift my chin, expecting raindrops to hit my face.
“It’s going to rain. We should go home, Venus,” Henry’s young voice echoes in my head. He usually played the unofficial weatherman of our friendship. It’s hot. It’s cold. It’s chilly. It’s going to rain. And I countered with reason. “It’s just a little rain. It won’t hurt us, Henry.”
The weather proved me wrong. We were forced to crouch inside our newly constructed lean-to as the sky opened and lightning struck the ground so close that we screamed at the searing crack in the air and felt the jolt through the earth. He latched on to me, and I said, “Tighter.”
The storm had been like many others in the summer—fierce and fast. By the time it drifted away, a tree had been splintered to dark spikes not twenty yards from our lean-to, and Henry was panting.
Two days later, he was diagnosed with bronchitis, likely brought on by the overexcitement, dampness, and the bloom of allergens that occur in the rain.
Maggie blamed me. I blamed myself, too. The ten-page report I assigned myself on Henry’s asthma did little to alleviate my guilt, but I like studying how things work. Or don’t work.
Henry liked it, though. He said it taught him more about his condition than his pulmonologist. I wonder if he still has it. Tucked in a box or drawer. Another piece of me.
Now, I close my eyes to the heavy air, breathing it in. The breeze catches my hair, sending it around my face, and I still smell him on me. I imagine he’s the breeze, sweeping over me, touching me.
The thunder rumbles again. I finish my work and deliver my scraps to the compost bin. I harvest a bulbously ripe beefsteak tomato, basil, and a green pepper from his overflowing beds, and retreat inside just as rain starts pelting the deck.
Ivy texts to confirm plans tomorrow—I try to look forward to shopping with my sister, rather than getting lost in thoughts of Henry. Tonight will be the hardest—I’m alone, fresh from Henry’s arms with little to do.
Ivy will distract me tomorrow, and Dad’s classes will engage me throughout the week.
If I can get through tonight, I’ll be fine.
Or close to fine.
Fine adjacent.
Fine enough.
Though I’m not much of a planner, I create one for the evening. I force myself to shower, even though it means washing Henry away. I cry through it, but it has to be done.
Proud of this huge first step, I permit myself to wear his t-shirt afterward. I complete my evening ensemble with only panties and long socks, taking full advantage of the empty house. I wrap a cornflower-blue scarf around my head and tie it into a loose mermaid braid.
Then, I explore Dad’s vinyl collection before deciding on Def Leppard’s Hysteria album. “Love Bites” screeches through the surround sound because that’s how I feel.
Music fills the empty house, making it feel warmer even as rain batters the windows and lightning and thunder play their game of tag.
I prepare a dinner just for me—another thing I haven’t done in a while.
I roast the veggies with olive oil, salt, and pepper, then drizzle them with fresh basil and mozzarella.
I find crusty bread to go with my meal and a bottle of Pinot Noir to sip instead of my usual Vodka Cranberry. It feels nicer, somehow.
Then, I sit at the table with one of Christie’s romance novels to read while I eat.
Perhaps romance isn’t the best choice of reading material, but I suspect it will be too far-fetched to take seriously.
It carries me through dinner, and when the kitchen is clean, I retreat to the living room, book in hand, where I curl up with a blanket on the couch like I used to.
The story is outlandish, but very engaging.
Even I want to discover how the treasure-seeking, swash-buckling pirate will win the heart of the beloved princess he accidentally saves from a witch when she’s already betrothed to a powerful wizard who will protect her mother’s kingdom.
It’s the first romance I’ve read for pleasure, and the appeal isn’t lost on me. Everyone wants to feel wanted.
“Tell me what you want to do to me, Venus.”
I close my eyes, tapping my forehead with the worn pages like it’s a reset button.
When that doesn’t work, I lean back and stare at the skylights overhead.
Rain splatters against them in sheets, and wind whips through the trees outside, creating an odd backdrop to the music.
Huddling in our lean-to during the first storm we faced together helped us rely on each other through others.
Too many to count or remember. But I wish I could relive each one, to have a collection of us like the classic romcoms in Maggie’s basement to play whenever I want.
One for yesterday, too.
But a mental highlight reel hardly compares to the real thing or even keeps an accurate account.
I already feel those memories slipping away, fading with time.
Soon, I won’t remember what amused him on the tiki boat, what his usual was at dinner, or the sweet words he said to me.
I won’t remember his touches or kisses, only that we had them. Only that we won’t have them again.
Sadness envelopes me in a sudden wave. I miss him.
I always miss him. But it’s sharper now, digging deeper, hollowing me out. The agony resurrects the parts of me I’ve worked so hard to numb. Feelings I don’t want screech back to life like rusty gears in motion again, and I hate the rush of energy all of these conflicting mechanisms inspire.
I don’t want this.
And yet, when it comes to Henry, I’d rather hurt than feel nothing. If I’m hurting, he’s still with me.
The book slips to the floor as my hands grip my hair and tighten until it hurts. Impulsive energy gurgles and spits inside of me. I want the storm noise. I uncurl myself from the couch and switch off the record player without raising the needle. The spin slows with mumbled jargon before stopping.
Rain pounds on the roof through low growls of thunder. But it’s not enough—I need to feel it.
To drench myself in it.
To run into it.
To trade one storm for another.
To let the rain extinguish the lit fuse burning inside me.
My socked feet slip on the hardwoods in my dash toward the door. I sling it open and rush into a black curtain of darkness and rain. I flee to the deck stairs, trip over my soaked socks, and fall straight into the arms of the man racing up to meet me.
With my arms locked around his shoulders, he lifts me by the waist from the step below. “I’m here. Everything’s okay,” he says against my ear. “Please, don’t run.”
“Henry,” I sigh, relaxing against him.
He carries me to the front door and shuts us inside. When my damp socks squish against the wood floors, I stare up at him in desperate confusion. Did I conjure him from my deepest pain? Is he real? Or a fantasy?
I reach out, desperate for him not to be a dream.
My fingers slide over his bearded cheek, and he leans into my touch, his lopsided smile emerging weakly.
Water drips from the ends of his brown hair like tears.
His dark t-shirt is soaked—it’s unlike Henry to forget his raincoat.
But when his eyes close to my affection, like it’s exactly what he needed, I decide that he wasn’t thinking about weather preparations.
Disheveled and worried, he looks as conflicted as I feel, and his grip on me tightens, like he’s afraid I might disappear.
“It’s not working.” Raindrops speck his glasses, but not enough to prevent me from seeing his pupils blown wide, worry lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Your plan… It’s not working.”
“I know.”
“It wasn’t enough,” he says.
“I know.”
“One more night.” His voice is strained, rough. “Please?”
“Yes, Henry. Yes.” He’s here. He’s really here. He’s here for me. His perfect lips curl in relief before his mouth meets mine—our kiss as unrelenting as the storm outside.
“Is that my shirt?” he asks at my lips, moving us further inside.
I pause our wild kisses to meet his eyes. “I’m keeping it.”
“It’s yours,” he groans, looking me up and down. “Whatever you want is yours.”
“You, Henry,” I mutter, needily tugging his collar toward me before kissing him again. “After the shirt, just you.”
An unsynchronized dance ensues as we kiss, touch, talk, and circle into the living room.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers, biting my bottom lip and toying with my loose braid.
“Me, neither,” I mutter breathlessly, finding the hem of his t-shirt and letting my hands wander underneath. “And the storm, too.”
“The storm,” he repeats with anguish, devouring my neck while his hands grip my ass. We stumble to the back of the couch, and he pins me against it. “It makes me think of us—our lean-to. I still get nervous with lightning.”
“No matter where I am or what I’m doing, storms bring me back to you,” I admit, ridding him of his damp shirt.
He traces my jawline with his finger, his eyes wide with delight. “I still dream of you sneaking in my window, even now when I’m three floors up.”
A delighted chuckle escapes me as my fingers drag across his back. “I still can’t fall asleep without imagining your arms wrapped around me.”
His hands find my cheeks, and his thumbs sweep across them as his brown eyes delve into mine. A gentle crease forms at the bridge of his nose. “We might be in trouble here.”
“I know,” I say, as his forehead rests against mine and our noses nuzzle. My arms settle on his shoulders, and the hot breath between us fogs his glasses. I reach up, slip them off, and drop them onto the couch cushions behind me. Our gazes lock again. “Do you wish I hadn’t come back?”
“No. Never.” His quick answer brings relief, but his brow furrows again. “But you’ll leave again.”
“Yes,” I breathe, knowing I don’t belong here. Or anywhere. My transitory life has served me and everyone else well.
He nods against me. “So, you’re you, and I’m me, and this will never be more than it is. What do we do?”
There’s no suitable answer except to say, “We love each other now, and save the aftermath for tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he says, kissing me again. “Tomorrow.”