If I can get through tonight, I’ll be fine.
Or close to fine.
Fine adjacent.
Fine enough.
Though I’m not much of a planner, I create one for the evening.I force myself to shower, even though it means washing Henry away.I cry through it, but it has to be done.
Proud of this huge first step, I permit myself to wear his t-shirt afterward.I complete my evening ensemble with only panties and long socks, taking full advantage of the empty house.I wrap a cornflower-blue scarf around my head and tie it into a loose mermaid braid.
Then, I explore Dad’s vinyl collection before deciding on Def Leppard’sHysteriaalbum.“Love Bites” screeches through the surround sound because that’s how I feel.
Music fills the empty house, making it feel warmer even as rain batters the windows and lightning and thunder play their game of tag.
I prepare a dinner just for me—another thing I haven’t done in a while.I roast the veggies with olive oil, salt, and pepper, then drizzle them with fresh basil and mozzarella.I find crusty bread to go with my meal and a bottle of Pinot Noir to sip instead of my usual Vodka Cranberry.It feels nicer, somehow.
Then, I sit at the table with one of Christie’s romance novels to read while I eat.
Perhaps romance isn’t the best choice of reading material, but I suspect it will be too far-fetched to take seriously.It carries me through dinner, and when the kitchen is clean, I retreat to the living room, book in hand, where I curl up with a blanket on the couch like I used to.The storyisoutlandish, but very engaging.EvenIwant to discover how the treasure-seeking, swash-buckling pirate will win the heart of the beloved princess he accidentally saves from a witch when she’s already betrothed to a powerful wizard who will protect her mother’s kingdom.
It’s the first romance I’ve read for pleasure, and the appeal isn’t lost on me.Everyone wants to feel wanted.
“Tell me what you want to do to me, Venus.”
I close my eyes, tapping my forehead with the worn pages like it’s a reset button.When that doesn’t work, I lean back and stare at the skylights overhead.Rain splatters against them in sheets, and wind whips through the trees outside, creating an odd backdrop to the music.Huddling in our lean-to during the first storm we faced together helped us rely on each other through others.Too many to count or remember.But I wish I could relive each one, to have a collection of us like the classic romcoms in Maggie’s basement to play whenever I want.
One for yesterday, too.
But a mental highlight reel hardly compares to the real thing or even keeps an accurate account.I already feel those memories slipping away, fading with time.Soon, I won’t remember what amused him on the tiki boat, what his usual was at dinner, or the sweet words he said to me.I won’t remember his touches or kisses, only that we had them.Only that we won’t have them again.
Sadness envelopes me in a sudden wave.I miss him.
Ialwaysmiss him.But it’s sharper now, digging deeper, hollowing me out.The agony resurrects the parts of me I’ve worked so hard to numb.Feelings I don’t want screech back to life like rusty gears in motion again, and I hate the rush of energy all of these conflicting mechanisms inspire.
I don’t want this.
And yet, when it comes to Henry, I’d rather hurt than feel nothing.If I’m hurting, he’s still with me.
The book slips to the floor as my hands grip my hair and tighten until it hurts.Impulsive energy gurgles and spits inside of me.I want the storm noise.I uncurl myself from the couch and switch off the record player without raising the needle.The spin slows with mumbled jargon before stopping.
Rain pounds on the roof through low growls of thunder.But it’s not enough—I need to feel it.
To drench myself in it.
To run into it.
To trade one storm for another.
To let the rain extinguish the lit fuse burning inside me.
My socked feet slip on the hardwoods in my dash toward the door.I sling it open and rush into a black curtain of darkness and rain.I flee to the deck stairs, trip over my soaked socks, and fall straight into the arms of the man racing up to meet me.
With my arms locked around his shoulders, he lifts me by the waist from the step below.“I’m here.Everything’s okay,” he says against my ear.“Please, don’t run.”
“Henry,” I sigh, relaxing against him.
He carries me to the front door and shuts us inside.When my damp socks squish against the wood floors, I stare up at him in desperate confusion.Did I conjure him from my deepest pain?Is he real?Or a fantasy?
