“Um, wrestling with some old ghosts,” I answer simply.
She nods, her bright brown eyes glancing toward the jukebox as if she’s thinking about Uncle Jay.
“Jay, yes, but I don’t mean him.This girl I knew.Venus.Not that I want to talk about her.Sorry for unloading my drama on you.I’ll have my usual.”
“Never apologize for drama,” she says, waving her hands in the air, motioning toward her restaurant, which isalldrama, from the neon lights, the red vinyl booths and barstools, to the exquisitely dressed drag queens waiting on tables and manning the long counter.Her red lips widen again as she assesses me.“Besides, I know about Venus.Jay and I were friends, remember?Missing him has probably made you miss her, too.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
With a gentle squeeze on my shoulder, she says, “I get it… I’ll get your order started and prep Olly’s double-decker grilled cheese.”
“And a strawberry milkshake for Carly?She loves those,” I say.
“Absolutely.I’ll put it in a to-go cup, in case she’s in a hurry.”
“Thanks, DeeDee.”
Sunshine through the window catches on my glasses, drawing my attention outside to the concrete grays and rusty bricks of downtown, the flow of foot traffic, and the stream of cars, but none of it distracts me.
It’s impossible not to think of Venus now that I’ve started.Not that I’ve ever stopped.
I wonder where she is and if she ever thinks about me.
CHAPTER2
Venus
“Who’s Henry?”Dr.Miner holds up my worn, overfull field journal, which contains illustrations and notes from the last several months.I’ve documented my experiences in nature since my father gave me a black-and-white composition notebook in kindergarten, the cover of which bore the words “FIELD JOURNAL” in bold letters.“Keep records of what you see and discover,”he said.
So, I have.
Perched sea birds, cresting whales, and fields of sea kelp adorn the most recent pages, as we are on a ship—The Poseidon,to be exact, a NOAA research vessel currently six nautical miles off the coast of San Pedro Bay, California, where we will soon dock at the Port of Los Angeles.
“That’s private,” I say, reaching for the journal.She pulls away, flipping it open.
“These illustrations are quite detailed.”Her eyes soften but only a little.I detect amusement, edged with critical annoyance, her common expression when talking to me.“If not somewhat rustic.Have you ever considered publication?There’s a market for material like this, particularly in education or coffee table books.”
I gape at the suggestion.My journals are scientific, not decorative.
“You’d have to stop addressing your field notes to Henry, of course,” she adds dryly.
My shoulders slump as if weighted.I haven’talwaysaddressed them to Henry.Only since I’ve been without him.Has it been ten years?My therapist, Dr.Broderick, claims that my journals provide an imaginary connection, a poor substitute for the life I could’ve had if I’d made a different choice.She calls it my surrogate boyfriend.I disagree.Sometimes, a journal is just a journal.
I address them to Henry simply because I miss him.
I straighten in the seat across from her desk.“That seems counterintuitive to my mission as an environmental scientist.It’s a waste of trees, energy, resources, space?—”
“The world needs books, Venus.”Her brown eyes roll behind her reading glasses.“And there’s more to life than field work and research.”
My eyes narrow.Her remark seems paradoxical, considering that I’ve spent the last decade by her side conductingherfieldwork and research.
“Who’s Henry?”she asks again.“I vaguely remember your father mentioning?—”
“No one.He’s… no one.”
Her small office feels stuffy and uncomfortably confined, especially with this interrogation.It’s highly unusual for Dr.Miner to examine my private property or make personal comments.Our ten-year relationship has been mutually beneficial and blissfully impersonal.At my request, my father entrusted me to her care at eighteen.She has mentored me through my higher education and provided the hands-on experience for my profession.
But I wouldn’t call us friends.
