When my eyes open, the afternoon sun beats down through the branches, heating my face.My head hangs nearly upside down off the side of the hammock, hair grazing the ground, and one leg spills from the other end—I’m barely hanging on.
I hear laughing.
Finding my footing with my untied boots, I see my father and Christie, each carrying a mug at different levels near their faces, watching me like I’m a creature in an exhibit.This is a rare Venus in her natural habitat.Don’t provoke her.She may become… difficult.
A glance at my watch reveals I’ve slept twelve hours.
Christie snickers at my clear confusion.“Travel exhaustion.Here, drink this.”He hands me a mug, which warms my hands and fills my nose with delicate smells—cinnamon, ginger, and lemon.I inhale deeply, awakening my senses.I’ve been all over the world, and nothing compares to my father’s homemade teas.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
“Are you unwell, Venus?”Dad’s forehead scrunches with concern.
“I’m fine.”
“Was the bed uncomfortable?”he asks.
“You’re the first to sleep in it,” Christie explains.
“It’s not the bed… It’s the lack of movement,” I say, standing and stretching.
“She has sea legs.She has to get her land legs again,” Christie summarizes.
“Ah, it may take time to adjust your equilibrium,” Dad agrees.“Come inside.We fixed you a late lunch.”
Over tea and grilled cheeses at the small table near the front window, Dad skims the local paper through his reading glasses, occasionallyhmmingor commenting.Meanwhile, Christie giggles and gasps over his paperback.I fetch my journal, perusing pages in my lap so they can’t see, while I eat and sip.Despite the addition of Christie, this is how we used to eat our meals—Dad, Ivy, and me.It’s oddly comforting—our version of normal.
“Tomorrow morning, I’ll take you to the university to get you acclimated,” Dad announces softly.“Classes begin Monday at nine.”
“Is it too late to make it a virtual class?”I ask.
“Yes.Most students prefer a classroom experience,” he says, “with discussions and camaraderie.”
Christie’s eyes cut to Dad’s like they’re sharing a secret.
“As the professor, you’ll have control,” he adds.“You’ll enjoy that, I think.It’s an entirely different dynamic than you remember from school.”
“So, I get to torture students this time?”I say, deadpan.
While Christie snickers, Dad and I share a look that carries an entire conversation.
Hmm, torture seems an exaggeration.
Torture is the intentional infliction of suffering.Not an exaggeration.
No one intended to hurt you, Venus.Some of your teachers might argue that you tortured them.
Scoff.I was a child.
A child, yes, but not always an innocent one.
I stood up for myself.
Knocking others down in the process.Academic showdowns with teachers and conflicts with peers—you didn’t make things easy for anyone, least of all yourself.
I didn’t realize that making things easy was my responsibility.No one made it easy for me, either.
You insisted on proving that you were the smartest in the room.You didn’t give them a chance to love you.
