It was a dark time, and even now, hope is only beginning to sneak in, but like the light through the multicolored panes in the Blakes’ greenhouse, it feels muted.Weak and diluted.Not the bright beacon it should be.
Now, with Venus, tears come naturally.Tears over our history that I didn’t fully understand, tears over my misplaced bitterness, and all the ways I let her down, tears over ten lost years and unfair what-ifs.If something,anythinghad been different, could we’ve had this?If I’d seen her pain and done something to make it better, would she have stayed?
And what would our lives be like if she had?
Our separation led to me having Olly—he makes the what-ifs pointless.
Even so, holding her like this is as close to perfect as I’ve ever come, and it’s hard not to dream of possibilities a little.
We made the most of last night, like we were starved for each other.It felt like another decade had passed in merely a day since the last time we were together.The longing and relief had us against the couch, then the wall, and finally on the floor, right there in her family’s living room.
The second time was different.She held my hand as she led me upstairs, and once there, we stood at the foot of her bed in this dazed and gentle fixation, exploring each other’s scars, tattoos, curves, veins, everything.The slope of her nose, the puff of her cheeks, her sweetly determined chin, the goosebumps playing on her skin as I ran my fingers over the dark lines of her tattoos, and every other inch of her, mapping her for my memory.She did the same to me, and our kisses were slower and deeper for the tears behind them.
Now, lying here with her draped over me, arms locked to my torso, I will that tiny flower of hope to bloom.She’s here.Love still exists between us.We have the summer.I think of what Dr.Blake said, that she doesn’t believe we want her, and her admission that she thinks she’s a burden.I now understandwhyshe thinks that, but I want the chance to bring her through her faulty reasoning to the truth—I owe her that, at least.
And if I did prove that she’s loved and wanted, would she stay?
I think of the day ahead, and reality chokes out any hope.Olly comes home at three.He’ll rave about his weekend with Carly for a solid half-hour, a tradition that used to bother me—the whole fun parent versus the boring one.But I got over it the first time he got sick in her care, and wanted me to pick him up.That our kid preferred me for vomit duty secured my parental ego.With school out, our new schedule starts—me at UNCW and him at his summer day camp.We’ll get everything ready for tomorrow.Then, we’ll go to Mom and Fred’s for dinner.Once home again, we’ll start our bath and bedtime routine.When he’s asleep, I’ll write about her, probably starting with this weekend first, while it’s fresh, and I won’t stop until my fingers hurt.I’ll stay up late, restless and frustrated, and inevitably drift off sometime in the middle of the night, imagining she’s with me.
Like she is right now.
A sun band edges through the window, hitting the wall over her desk and reflecting off the glass jars shelved there.Her desk still looks as messy and full as it did the last time I saw it.Test tubes, beakers, and flasks line the walls.Plants tower over the shelves and hang down from the suspended baskets, lush and stretching.Her father must’ve cared for them in her absence.
I edge out from underneath her and silently tour the room.
A composition notebook is splayed open on the desk next to pens, pencils, and paints spilled from a pouch.It’s thick with inked pages and captured treasures.It calls to me—a siren of art and beauty, her experiences without me.
Notwithoutme—I discover with a quick inhale.My name corners the open page in thick, precise lettering with a comma after the Y, as if writing me a letter.The following text elaborates on the giant kelp forest she explored on a dive that day—words that make my mouth drop in awe and respect.
Venus goes on dives?But, of course, she does.
Macrocystis pyrifera isn’t a plant, Henry.Don’t be confused by its height, coloring, and overall aesthetic.It’s algae, and quite miraculous in its growth rate of up to two feet per day, up to 160 feet overall.
She elaborates on its zoospores and sporophylls—words that have no place in my vocabulary—and I focus, instead, on the detailed image she’s drawn—thick stalks, holding long, leafy blades with sea life filtering around it.It’s beautiful, pulling me in with her thick strokes, blues, and greens.
Behind an asterisk at the bottom, she writes:
It’s edible, but given your reaction to Maggie’s seaweed snack that time, I doubt you’d like it.
A baffled smirk emerges as I fall into her desk chair and flip through the pages.I stop on an incredible humpback whale stretching across two pages, and the words:
Henry, I had a whale of a time!
She captures the whale’s marks and lumps with such accuracy that it almost appears animated, ready to swim off the page.She tells me about the hauntingly lovely whale songs they heard one night, and they made her think of her father’s records, specifically Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.”
We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year
My lungs tighten—that’s how it feels.
In the same breath, I imagine being there with her, on the ship, staring out at a black ocean under a star-filled sky, and hearing the ghostly melodies of whales.I picture slipping my hand around her, pulling her close, and her head resting on my shoulder while her hair plays in the wind.
It never happened, but it feels like it did.Like I was with her.She dreamed I was, anyway.
And just like that, this old love feels renewed and as deep as the seas she traveled over.She never let me go.She carried me with her.
Tears well in my eyes as I flip through more pages.Seabirds feature often, complete with detailed drawings and sample feathers taped in the corners.
On other pages, she draws what she sees through the microscope in the research vessel’s lab, and explains polymers and the process of extracting microplastics from water, but she notes, rightly, in a corner that:
