Chapter 50
Venus
Dad and I stand on the front deck of the fairy house, staring at the crowd of future botanists and environmental scientists from the special topics course on rare plants.
I planned it weeks ago, unaware that Dad would be here or that I would be a mess, held together only by my scarf, boots, and overalls.
For once, I almost blend in. Everyone wears boots and gardening gloves.
They carry their own field journals. They eye us with hopeful anticipation—today, it’s their turn to get their hands dirty.
I’m excited for them.
For me, too. It’s a pleasant diversion. I need to accept the New Zealand position, but every time I sit down at my laptop, my fingers freeze after typing ‘Dear Dr. McCullum’.
Perhaps it’s the word dear that hinders me.
Though an acceptable salutation, it feels disingenuous.
He is not dear to me. Only a few people in the world are, and those people are here.
Not New Zealand. Not at the other end of an email.
Myla Rose looks up from her clipboard. “Everyone’s here, Dr. Blake.”
“Thank you,” Dad and I say together, though she was talking to me.
We share a bemused glance before he clears his throat. “Apologies, Venus.”
“No need to apologize,” I say, before announcing, “To avoid confusion, please refer to my father as Dr. Blake, and to me as Venus for today.”
Myla smiles, bouncing on her boots. “Yes, Venus.”
“Today, you’ll assist with routine maintenance of the gardens,” I continue before my father, and I take turns describing their duties.
“During the second hour, we will be harvesting flytraps and pitcher plants for the on-campus garden installation that we’ll build during class time tomorrow.
.. Your challenge for today is to study flytraps in various stages, and to identify invasive species or any other threats. ”
The crowd disperses at my instruction, spreading into the garden or congregating around the baskets and tools I’ve laid out.
Dad gives me a surprised look. “A campus garden?”
I shrug. “A raised, circular garden near the turtle pond. It will be called the Blake Bog. It’ll be similar to the installations at the Raleigh Botanical Garden. The campus should have carnivorous gardens. Don’t you think?”
“Why yes! Of course! How did that come about?”
I shrug lightly. “Administrators are surprisingly amenable toward requests from faculty who’ve gone viral in a positive way.”
“Does that mean you’re still considering their offer?” he asks, leaning closer. “You said you were accepting New Zealand.”
“I will. I am. Soon. I’ve neither accepted nor rejected anything yet, but teaching holds the least appeal. I want to be in the field, doing the work that brings about real, large-scale environmental impact.”
Dad nudges my shoulder softly as we survey the area—students fan out amongst the wild and lush bog, edging carefully between growth on the pavers and bending to examine the flytraps nestled near the ground.
“Look what you’ve done here. In my experience, the biggest impact comes from small acts and concentrated effort.
As long as there’s dirt under your boots, you can make a difference.
” A gentle hand lands on my back consolingly.
“Perhaps your decision will come easier without hefting the entire world on your shoulders, hmm?”
A sigh escapes with my tentative nod. Dad’s words bring some consolation, especially in view of the twenty-four bodies in our domain, excited and respectful about the world they’re observing.
There’s more hope here than I ever had with Dr. Miner, especially at sea.
A glance at my dirty boots makes me smile—I didn’t have the earth underfoot there, either.
“Excuse me, Venus,” Myla says, timidly approaching the deck with Jayden behind her. “Jayden had a great idea.”
I manage a weak smile at my most loyal students. “I’d like to hear it.”
“Me, too,” Dad says.
Myla gives Jayden an encouraging smile, and he says, “Um, so I was on my 5k at Long Leaf park this morning, and thought, why isn’t there a carni-garden there?”
Dad and I share a glance while we mentally translate his question.
“Is that what we’re calling them now?” Dad asks.
“No, but expanding carnivorous gardens to the parks department is an intriguing proposition,” I say.
Dad rubs his chin. “Perhaps we could create more natural habitats to combat those being destroyed by development.”
“We should explore this further,” I say.
“Can Jayden and I come up with a proposal for it?” Myla asks with excitement. “We’d love to research it together.”
“By all means. Perhaps we… I mean, you and Dr. Blake can meet next week.” I turn to Dad with a questioning look, realizing I shouldn’t make plans. I’ll probably be on a plane by then.
Dad agrees to the meeting, and once a time is established, the students disperse into the carnivorous field. He gives me a look as if this proves his earlier point. I shrug lightly, and we separate, infiltrating the garden on either side to assist students in their endeavors.
But my thoughts are elsewhere.
Two nights ago, after my dramatic display at the airport, Dad, Ivy, and I returned with Buster to the fairy house, where we initiated what Ivy called a “self-care slumber party.” We ordered takeout, dished about our boyfriends, and performed beauty rituals that even Dad participated in.
Ivy took selfies of us on the couch, our faces covered in clay masks that she claimed would “detoxify” our skin and our bad feelings.
My bad feelings remained, at least until I purged my innermost thoughts and feelings about Henry and my future.
We bonded over glossy fingernail polish, scented lotions, and the sweet validation I didn’t know that I needed.
My family understands my conflict and has stressed the importance of exercising patience with myself in making such an impactful decision.
My inability to type my acceptance letter proves I’m reluctant about New Zealand.
I keep thinking of Henry’s words. Everything’s okay.
It’s just a storm. It’ll pass. But what will pass exactly?
My discomfort with choosing New Zealand, missing Henry, Maggie’s disapproval, or the need to escape back to my former existence?
Will I get to New Zealand and discover I’ve made a colossal mistake? Would I realize the same if I stay?
The pressure to decide mounts, making me perpetually nervous and uneasy.
How can I leave?
How can I not leave?
How can I stay? How can I go?
The class concludes three hours later, but students linger in the gardens, continuing their work and enjoying the beautiful day.
I watch them from the deck, in case they have more questions, but as they mill about, a car snakes up the dirt driveway, parking diagonally between a Braxton pear tree and a longleaf pine.
I’m not pleased to see Maggie. She wears a cornflower blue dress and sensible shoes—her office-wear as if she’s on her lunch break from the library. Reading glasses are hooked to her collar. She retrieves a box from the backseat, hefting it awkwardly in her arms.
She makes her way to us on the deck, looking apprehensive. She leans the box against the bottom railing of the deck’s steps. A weak smile emerges as she motions to the students. “Um, what’s going on here?”
“A special topics course on the rare plants of North Carolina,” I answer.
“You are not enrolled,” Dad says with a surprising snap to his voice. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not welcome.”
I gape at my father, who, to my knowledge, has never raised his voice in his life. His face is flushed with anger on my behalf.
“Dad,” I gasp. “Thank you.”
He sterns his stance. “Of course.”
My shock compounds when Maggie puts her hands up delicately and says, “Please. I only want a moment with Venus. To apologize.”
Dad’s questioning brow matches mine when we look at each other, and a whole wordless conversation occurs between us:
Hmm, are you alright with this scenario?
I don’t know, but I want to hear what she has to say.
I’m curious, as well. Would you like me to stay for moral support or leave for privacy?
She might be more forthcoming in your absence. Besides, you could make tea.
“I’ll put on the kettle,” he says aloud, with an uncharacteristic huff, before turning toward the house.
My attention returns to Maggie, who stands nervously at the foot of the stairs. I motion to the settee on the deck. She reminds me of a skittish intern about to explore a cave for the first time after admitting a predilection for claustrophobia.
“Are Henry and Olly alright?” I ask as we sit down.
“Olly’s fine. They’re headed to the optometrist to replace his glasses. Henry’s kept him out of camp this week as a precaution.”
I nod and hesitate. “And Henry?”
Her head tilts as she shrugs and tears well in her eyes. “You’re the love of his life, Venus… so, he’s miserable, thinking you won’t be in it. That’s what happens when soulmates aren’t together as they should be—misery. He’s desperately afraid that he’s losing you again.”
Her words surprise me. I used to believe that the concept of soulmates, as frequently depicted in the rom-coms Henry made me watch, was a failing in their storylines.
Attraction, sure. Chemistry, yes. But a mystical, almost magical connection that forges two people together for life, regardless of any other?
That gave me doubts. More likely, I believed that couples in love subconsciously weighed the pros and cons, mentally measured the long-term likability of their partners, and latched on to their most compatible mate. More science than mysticism.
But that’s not Henry and me. We’re a terrible match on paper, but we yearn for each other anyway.
Our long separation should’ve destroyed any existing bond, but it didn’t.
Even now, I struggle to do what used to be so easy—booking a flight and getting lost somewhere, because wherever that is will be too far from him.