Chapter 23
Venus
“The first thing we need to do is take a proper inventory.” Ivy stands in the middle of the bedroom, hands on her hips, eyes shifting between the open closet and the piles of clothes occupying parts of the floor like anthills.
She spies my prom dress in a pink heap in the corner and gives me a coy look.
“You tried it on, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you feel pretty?” she asks, even more coyly.
“Yes,” I admit, thinking about how it sparkled under the sunshine on the tiki boat, how the queens gushed over it at the restaurant, the way Henry’s eyes traveled over my exposed skin, and his delicious yearning when he got me out of it. “Yes, I felt very pretty.”
“That’s a big step for you,” Ivy decides cheerfully. “Hold onto that feeling as we’re putting together your wardrobe today. But before you get any ideas, you can’t wear a prom dress to campus.”
“My wardrobe is fine.” I sit on the bed’s edge, still in the silky kimono I found hanging in the bathroom this morning—left for me by Christie, I assume—and feeling all-around like a Grumpy Gus.
“It’s not fine,” Ivy says, holding up my cut-off jean shorts. “You can’t teach college classes dressed like a slovenly student.”
“My clothes are comfortable, durable, and shouldn’t matter to anyone but me.”
“Of course, your appearance matters.” She plops onto the bed beside me. “You want to be taken seriously, don’t you?”
“My extensive credentials will achieve that.”
“What will people see first, Vee? Your clothes or extensive credentials?”
My shoulders slump. “Fine. What do you suggest?”
“Shopping. But first, I want to get a feel for your style… or at least, what it could be.” She holds up a crocheted sweater from my exploded suitcase. “Do you like this?”
“Yes. I bought it from a local shop in Scotland. The clerk said it was hand-knit by an elderly neighbor.”
“What about the colors? You like them?”
I eye the ambers, blues, and reds of the multicolored blocks. “Yes, they’re nice.”
“What about this?” She tugs a red, yellow, and white sarong from the bottom of my backpack.
“I bought that from a street market in Madagascar. I appreciated the versatility, and I needed something to wear over my bikini on beach days and at night for pig roasts. That one’s torn, though. I was going to cut it into scarves.”
She rolls her bright blue eyes, though I don’t know why. “The colors?”
“They’re pleasant enough.”
She looks dissatisfied, but it fades behind curiosity when she holds out her hands for mine. She inspects them closely, focusing on my rings and bracelets.
“When I travel, I collect jewelry from local artisans, mementos that travel well and provide me with something to touch or twist or otherwise manipulate.”
“Fancy fidget spinners,” she giggles. “I get it.”
Her finger traces the long, oval shape of my always-black mood ring. “You had this one long before you traveled.”
“It was Henry’s grandmother’s. It’s my favorite.” I try to sound indifferent, but when Ivy’s probing eyes find mine at the slightest tremor in my voice, I know I’ve failed.
“It’s been a few days since Dad’s trick,” she says with a sympathetic tone. “Maybe you should try reaching out to him again.”
“I did.”
“What?” she blurts urgently. “What happened?”
“I apologized for everything. We came to an understanding. We had sex… five, no six times with penetration,” I say for clarification. “We ended our relationship properly, and he left.”
She looks dumbfounded, like I’ve just told her I’m a flat-earther and don’t believe in global warming.
She gawks. “Six times?”
“With penetration. More if you count individual orgasms. Yes.”
Her wide eyes and agape mouth are almost comical, especially when she says, “Wow! When you guys make up, you really make up. Hope you don’t get a UTI.”
I shrug lightly. “It’d be worth it.”
Her surprise morphs into a smile. “The sex was that good?”
“Better than I can possibly describe. We are extremely compatible… sexually.”
“Then, I’m confused. What do you mean you ended it?”
“Our compatibility stops with sex. Our lives are very different, and he expressed a desire to move on from me—that’s what this weekend was about, purging the tension between us to bring closure to our past.”
“Did you find closure?” she asks, brow triangulated on her forehead.
“I found…” My head spins in an exhaustive effort to find the right word, but I only come up with “comfort. And validation. Leaving was best. His life proves it. He has a son now. Did you know?”
She nods, though she still seems confused. “Yeah, but that shouldn’t deter you if you want more—”
“I don’t want more,” I lie sternly.
She looks unconvinced. “Does he?”
“I didn’t ask. But, yes. He wants a woman who will suit him, his son, and his life. He deserves normality and stability—things I can’t provide.”
“He said that to you?”
“He didn’t have to. That was our arrangement, regardless. It’s over.”
Her hand goes to my arm. “Are you alright?”
“I’m always alright.” When she doesn’t seem convinced, I offer a redirection. “Have you figured it out yet? My style?”
She smiles lightly, like she understands the need for a subject change. “Boho pro—that’s your new style. I know the perfect boutique to take you to. How about getting dressed while I clean up this mess?”
Ivy reaches for Henry’s shirt, draped over my chair.
“No!” I shout, startling us both.
“What?”
“Just leave that one alone,” I say softly. “Okay?”
“Okay.” A delicate smile crosses her lips as she nods.
I grab clean clothes from the floor and head toward the bathroom.
“Practice your Ins and Outs while you’re in there. Good energy in, and sad things out. Okay?”
I take a deep breath at her suggestion. “Okay.”
When I return, my clothes have been sorted and the room tidied. Ivy sits at my desk, flipping through my field journal. I rush over, closing it in her hands.
“Why does everyone feel inclined to browse through my personal belongings?”
Her thin lips curve into a grin. “Because, dear sister, we so rarely have the opportunity. Lighten up. I won’t hold any of your secrets against you, and—bonus—I’ll keep them, too. Now, let’s go.”
She drives us to a boutique in Mayfair, specializing in coastal decor, artisan gifts, and, as she puts it, “Boho beautiful.” It’s a quaint shop that reminds me of similar boutiques I’ve patronized in coastal towns in England and France.
“Here’s how this should go,” she says, as we circle the store. “Point out anything that catches your eye, that you really like, and I’ll build the outfits around your favs. Deal?”
“That sounds reasonable,” I say, perusing a rack of tops.
“How do you feel about starting the job tomorrow?”
I hold out a sage green t-shirt with cuffed sleeves and hand it to her. “Anxious. I don’t like classrooms.”
“Well, whenever you feel butterflies, just practice your Ins and Outs. Don’t think of it as a classroom. Visualize something more comfortable, like a coffee shop or campfire. Imagine you’re talking to me or Henry.”
I roll my eyes, wondering if she and Dad conspired with their teaching advice, too.
“Dad says you’ll have office hours,” she goes on, as I hand her cargo shorts that she quickly returns to the rack. “Are you worried about interactions?”
I huff, handing her a silk scarf with a blue and white French floral print. She smiles approvingly and matches it with a long denim skirt. “I’m always worried about interactions.”
“Want some pointers?”
I consider her expertise in breathing exercises and say, “Yes.”
“Okay, so, the first thing to do is smile,” she says, demonstrating as if I don’t know what a smile looks like. “Then, make conversation.”
“About what?”
She shrugs. “It depends on the situation. If a student comes to Dad’s office, then ask, ‘How may I help you?’ If it’s in a more casual setting, ask ‘What are you studying?’ or ‘What’s your interest in botany?
’ or… better yet… point out something you like about the person. ‘That’s a lovely shirt,’ for example.”
I groan. This is too much already. “What if I don’t like their shirt?”
“Then, find something you do like. Or forget looks. Try to connect personally. Let’s practice,” Ivy says, facing me. “Ask me something personal, something that shows you’re interested in me.”
“How many milliliters of morphine would it take to kill someone?”
She groans. “That’s not personal. It’s weird. I wouldn’t answer such a question for multiple reasons.”
I think again, scanning through our conversations for information. “Um, has Gil told you about his anxiety disorder yet?”
She lights up and slaps me playfully on the arm. “Much better. That ticks the box for a personal question and, double bonus, tells me you were listening the other day. Excellent.”
“Listening is loving,” I smirk.
“Alright, Dad!” She teases with a laugh.
I can’t help but flash a short grin. “Well?”
“No, he hasn’t,” she sighs, as the store clerk appears to take her selections to a dressing room. “It’d be so much easier, but he’s embarrassed, I suppose.”
“Yes, he’s embarrassed.”
“I don’t see why!” she retorts. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, and I’m a nurse. I’m trained in handling anxious patients.”
“He’s not a patient, and he doesn’t want to be handled.
It’s not his anxiety that worries him. It’s you.
You’re entirely perfect in every conceivable way.
He fears that you knowing about his perceived deficiencies might alter your opinion of him.
You should be patient and let him come to you in his own time. ”
She gapes over a rack of summer dresses, seemingly stunned. But then, she smiles. “Careful, Venus. That almost sounded like sisterly advice.”
A chuckle rumbles up from somewhere deep and forgotten, and I blush slightly. “I suppose it was.”
“I’ll take it,” she giggles.