“You are… that is…” My brain fails to connect the words for the emotion welling inside me, especially when his hand falls to my bicep for a gentle squeeze.My difficulty in expressing myself properly has led people to believe I don’t have feelings or don’t need the same support as others do.For a long time, I believed that, too.I still do, sometimes.But his support and encouragement help shift my thought process.Iwantto move forward.
“Let’s meet for lunch tomorrow,” he says.“We can discuss your class, and I have an idea I’d like your opinion on.”
I’m about to agree when Olly rushes over with Buster panting beside him.“Is it time to go to the roof yet?”
Buster barks his typical,“What?”
“Lead the way,” Henry answers, motioning for the stairs.
Olly and Buster rush ahead, but Henry lingers, taking my side as we move across the museum, and I feel dangerously optimistic.
CHAPTER31
Henry
Lettingher back into your life will only lead to heartache and disappointment.Why do that to yourself?Or to Olly?Mom’s words from Sunday night’s dinner echo in my head as I watch Venus, Olly, and Buster on the rooftop.
This is why.
Venus delivers the garden’s instructions, carefully describing the plants and how they function, but in a way that makes sense to a six-year-old, even when she uses scientific terminology.She says that the Venus flytraps’ leaves look like faces, waiting for food, but that we shouldn’t touch them.“It confuses them, like when something wakes you in the middle of the night, and you’re tired the next day,” she says.“When they’ve done their job for the plant, they turn black.That tells us it’s time to prune or pick off the dead ones.It’s like getting a haircut.”
My son hangs on every word, and relates, bringing up times when he’s been startled awake or gotten a haircut—he dislikes both, especially when hair stylists gush over his long locks and chubby cheeks.She reports that she also experiences difficulty with unwanted touching.And their bond thickens, like a tree that’s gained yet another ring of age in its trunk.
The other night over dinner, he asked me what language Venus speaks.When I said Latin, he decided he’d learn it, “That way, I can talk funny with her.”At the library, he checked out every age-appropriate botany book to “see what Venus does.”
I’ve turned my son into a fanboy.I get it—I was the original Venus Blake fanboy.She drew me in with adventure and the unknown and kept me close by encouraging me, making me feel clever, and delighting me with her rarely seen smiles.
She’s smiling now, naturally and easily.
It’s almost comical that she asked me for teaching advice—sheknowshow to teach.It’s her nerves and predispositions that prevent her.I’m honored that she sought my advice—she rarely used to.
But this enigmatic, beautiful woman isn’t the Venus I knew, but a more refined, intentional version.She bravely prioritized her care, leaving home and the people she loved most to do it.Words I never thought I’d believe flash through my thoughts—she was right to leave.Leaving gave her what I couldn’t—the freedom she needed.
It’s like I told Marnie—sometimes, being alone is better.For a time, anyway.
I only wish I’d known.It breaks my heart more that she never felt safe enough to tell me—me, the one person she was supposed to feel safe with.
“What’s spelunking?”Olly’s voice catches my attention.
“It’s exploring caves,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“Where bats and bears live?”
She shrugs.“Yes, but I haven’t encountered bears, only bats.Well, bats, beetles, spiders, cave crickets, and salamanders.Caves are an oasis for insects and other troglobites.”
“Are they called that because they bite?”
She smiles.“No, but that’s a funny joke.”
Buster yaps at their feet as if in agreement.
I sigh—of course, she’s been spelunking.
The tutorial soon ends.Olly relinquishes Buster’s leash, and Venus affixes it around her waist again.Our typical Sunday to-do list beckons, and we’re due at Mom’s for our weekly dinner soon.
Even so, I hunt for reasons for her to stay.All weekend, I’ve forced myself to keep busy, hoping this unbearable longing for her might subside.
It hasn’t.Her gentle patience with Olly.Her delicate smiles.The way the breeze flutters the scarf in her hair and catches her dress, pressing it to her curves.The teasing lines of her leg tattoos, vanishing under the hem of her dress.The others that I know are there and want to see again.Her belly button ring sticks out behind the thin fabric of her dress just enough to make me desperate to twiddle it with my tongue again.
