Chapter 28
Henry
“The problem with sunflowers, Henry, is that they need space to thrive. Vertically and horizontally. We never should’ve planted them here, with other plants, or in an enclosed space,” Venus once said, pointing to our small garden bed in the greenhouse where the sunflowers wilted and sagged over the thriving tomato plants.
“They have thick, stubborn stalks that need support, and their big-headed blossoms require six to eight hours of direct sunlight a day. They need more than this place can give them, Henry. That’s why they’re dying. We killed them.”
Crossing the campus to my first class, I rehash the words from my paper and sigh, considering Dr. Kwon’s notes. This is the heart of Buttercup’s story. She needed more space to thrive.
But does she still? I wonder.
That paper, Dr. Kwon’s notes, and my nearly full composition notebook are safely secured in my messenger bag. Every spare moment I’ve had has been spent writing in it, as if Venus unleashed the dam holding my stories in. I can’t stop them.
Inside the education building, I navigate the bright, crowded halls to my class, thankful that I’m familiar enough with the place to know where it is, as my head is elsewhere.
I want to apologize for yesterday. She was great with Olly.
He couldn’t stop talking about her, much to Mom’s dismay at dinner.
Still, I was awkward about their interaction, and Venus noticed.
My reluctance had nothing to do with her taking care of Olly, despite her little joke about rappelling and starting fires. I know she’s capable.
It’s not her. It’s me. I hesitate for the hurt that’s to come.
In only a few minutes, watching her with Olly, I started picturing the three of us together.
Really together. I imagined a better life for us with Venus in it.
One weekend with her makes me want a million more.
I shouldn’t entertain those ideas—it’ll only hurt worse when she leaves again.
I take a seat near the window in class and glance across the pathway to the sciences building. I notice a woman with long, blonde hair bouncing up and down the stoop, repeatedly like a march. After a double-take, I realize that it’s Venus.
She looks different. Professional. A long floral skirt billows around her tight calves, and the slit catches on her leg as she marches downward, revealing her sunflower tattoos on her thigh—our sunflowers, I realize sadly.
Her top seems molded to her every curve, and the cropped sleeves reveal her toned arms. Uncharacteristically mud-free, white sneakers replace her worn hiking boots.
A canvas tote dangles from her arm. She fidgets with her rings and bracelets as she goes up and then down the stairs again.
A blue and white scarf waves in her hair.
The woman who has no problem rappelling off mountainsides or picking up snakes is afraid to enter her father’s classroom. I understand her anxiety, probably better than anyone.
I should help her. A kind, encouraging word might be all she needs to wrangle her confidence—I’ve seen it with students a thousand times. I grab my things, shoving them into my messenger bag, and I’m almost energized by the opportunity to do something for her.
But the professor enters the class with a loud greeting, and when I look back at the window, Venus has already gone inside.