Page 20 of Venus
But also… she bought a new dress. For me. For her. For us. Whatever‘us’means to her.
Not that she told me that outright, but when she texted ‘I’ll bring the dress’ in response to my invite, I saw the little preview of a photo at the bottom of the screen.
It opened into the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen: Venus, in red, in her bathroom mirror, biting her lip like she doesn’t know she’s the eighth wonder of the world–or at least the one I’m living in, and that’s all that matters to me.
I splash cold water on my face and dry off before tugging on a clean black tee and jeans. I grab a plasticsack filled with the black licorice and barbecue chips before heading for the door.
The whole way to her place, I’m trying not to overthink it.
This isn’t love. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if she’s serious about not wanting anything real. But it’s something. The way she looks at me makes me want to be her safe place, even if it’s temporary.
By the time I pull up outside her building, the sky’s turning purple, and there’s that edge of chill in the air that confirms fall is fully settling in.
I knock twice. She opens the door with wet hair and no makeup. Barefoot. No dress.
For a second, I wonder if I got the night wrong. I pull out my phone and check. I laugh nervously. “Sorry, I must’ve gotten excited and got my dates mixed up.”
“No, you didn’t.” Then she steps back, letting me in, and says, “Disappointed?”
“Never.”
We settle on her couch, some old horror movie playing on the TV for background noise. She’s in an oversized hoodie and curled up like a cat, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other digging through the snack bag like it’s a stocking on Christmas morning.
“You remembered the licorice!” she mumbles, chewing with a soft smile.
“I remember everything,” I say, watching her instead of the movie.
She gives me a sidelong glance. “That’s dangerous.”
“I’m a firefighter. I like danger.”
“Danger, or adrenaline?”
She tosses a piece of licorice at me, and I catch it with my mouth. She pretends not to be impressed, but I catch her smiling when she thinks I’m not looking.
About twenty minutes in, her feet drift into my lap, stretching her legs. I rest my hand on her ankle, brushing my thumb back and forth. It’s not sexual. Not entirely. Just comfort. A connection that doesn’t need words.
She doesn’t pull away.
Halfway through the movie, she breaks the silence. “You ever feel like something good is about to happen, so your brain starts making lists of all the ways it could go wrong?”
I pause. “Not really, I tend to be an optimist. Why?”
She raises a brow. “That’s where I live, emotionally. Glass half-empty.”
I shift to face her more. “Can I tell you something?”
She blinks at me. “Please don’t say something profound. I’m already emotionally constipated.”
I smile anyway. “I know you don’t want anything serious. And I’m not here to pressure you. But if this thing between us ever stops being casual, I won’t run. Just so you know.”
She sits up, searching my face like she’s trying to catch a lie before it escapes. She pulls her feet away from my lap, but the distance suddenly doesn’t just feel physical. It’s emotional, too. She’s closing off.
“What if I do?” she asks.
“Do what?”
“Run.”
