My desk chair creaks when I fall into it, holding the bird, overrun with emotions, and flooded with our stories—stories that have taken on a whole new perspective after everything she purged last night.
I think of her falling from the tree and wonder, for the first time, if she’d been running from something that day as I had.I remember her hidden sadness, her stiff upper lip, the distance she kept, how she wouldn’t hold my hand in the halls at school the few times I tried, how she said she was fine when she wasn’t—I wonder, now, if she’s been running this whole time.
Until last night.With me.
I switch on the desk lamp, move all my notes aside, and find a blank composition notebook in my desk drawer.My fingers slide over the black-and-white cover.Composition notebooks remind me of Venus.I set the bird on the edge of my desk, recalling what Uncle Jay said about being there for her as many times as she needed—a mission I failed.I long to capture everything about her and us into one place.I couldn’t purge her from my system with sex, but perhaps I can through words, ink, and paper.
To get to the heart of us.The heart of her.And not for some damn book, but for me.To have her exist somewhere other than at the core of me.
To have something to hold on to when she’s gone.Again.
And shewillleave.She always leaves.
I reach for my favorite pen and start writing my earliest memories of her—the dirty girl in class, the tree-climber, the hero against bullies—and give every thought a place on the page just as she gives detailed lines to her drawings.Smiles find me through the stories.So, do tears, dripping onto the page and smearing the ink.
But it’s fitting for us, as if love can’t exist without pain.And I still ache for her.Even with her in my bed right now, with only a few feet and a wall between us.
An hour or so later, I look up to see gentle bands of sunshine creeping over buildings to hit the river outside my window.I feel satiated in a different way, that parts of our story have made it to paper, even if no one ever reads it but me.Though some stories are safe with Olly, there’s more to us than childhood adventures, and I want to relive those memories, feel them, and see them from new angles.To discover our true history.My fingers crack and feel tight from effort.I stand, stretch, and make coffee.
I collect her things—her discarded clothes, scarf, boots, and phone from downstairs.I shake out her wrinkled dress and bring it to my face, inhaling her scent on it.She still uses rose-scented lotion.She smells like a botanist.I drape the dress over my leather chair to smooth out the wrinkles, and set her boots and phone beside it.
I resist the urge to rejoin her in bed—it’s still early, and remembering what she said about sleepless nights, I want her to rest.
And I want to keep her here.
I have my coffee on the flat roof outside our apartment, presently cluttered with bikes and outdoor toys.The sun dances across the water, though the world remains dim and quiet.I love this time of morning.
On the Riverwalk below, I spot Derek walking his dog Pepper.I want to thank him for his kindness.However beautiful Venus is, I doubt she receives much positive attention, and DeeDee lavished it on her last night.
The open sign flickers on in the bakery window on the corner, and I imagine introducing Venus to their decadent cinnamon rolls—she loves sweets.
I rush inside, pull on sneakers, and grab my wallet and keys.
CHAPTER16
Venus
My eyes flutterwith the soft light coming through the window and a thud from somewhere.In a breath, it all comes back to me like a dream—I’ve never had a more perfect night.But the bed feels cold beside me.I sit up with a start and say, “Henry?”
He’s not there.
I wander through his apartment wearing his t-shirt.His place has been recently painted, given the faded smell in the air, mingling with the scent of coffee.Sage green covers the bedroom, hall, and the adorable room across from Henry’s, presumably Olly’s.I peek in the open door to find a twin bed covered in superhero linens—no surprise, given Henry’s underwear choices in elementary school.Toys and books fill the shelves.Hooks on the walls hold jackets, a cape, and a baseball glove.Library books form a wonky stack near the bed.I wonder if Maggie, a librarian, hand-picked them like she sometimes did for Henry and me.Colored pencils and markers are scattered across his desk.I step in to view his unfinished artwork—a rudimentary drawing of a man and a boy, both wearing glasses, staring up at a large tree with a woman standing on a high branch.She wears a mask and a billowing cape.
It reminds me of the day I helped Henry find his home.
But it’s clearly a figment of young Olly’s hero-laced imagination.I backstep from the room, feeling guilty for invading the child’s personal space.
The living room, kitchen, and Henry’s office space are painted a soft yellow.The open space is full of bright windows that showcase the outdoor roof space around it.The low rumble of air purifiers catches my attention—there’s one at both ends of the room.Henry needs plants, though, and while the efficacy of indoor plants in improving air quality is widely debated, I still catalog a mental list of ones to bring him.
But the list dissolves into brain dust.He doesn’t want plant advice from me.He doesn’t wantanythingfrom me, except to let go and move on.To commit to someone else.
I won’t linger.I just…
Unused camping equipment occupies the corner near the small dining table—an unpackaged tent, an air mattress, sleeping bags, a propane cooking stove, tools, cooking utensils, and an almost laughable assortment of contingency items, like a battery-operated radio, sunblocks in varying SPFs and application styles, bug sprays, and enough first aid to handle a small army.This all sits beside a converted tackle box with the words “Olly’s Ouchy Kit” scrawled on an index card with “9-1-1.”
That looks like Maggie’s doing.
Regardless, I wonder what their plans are, and why these things haven’t been used or even unpackaged yet.But it’s not my business.
