by Nia Arthurs
Only one Venus.
Damn.
I rake my fingers through my hair. Scrape my nails against my scalp. Squeeze my eyes shut.
Please. Please. Just get out of my head.
Evan stares at me. A stunned chuckle skitters past his lips. “Oh.”
“Oh?” I stop. Arch an eyebrow.
“You’re still not over her.”
“Her?”
“Brook.”
Venus.
My lips purse.
I can’t exactly tell him that. I can’t swagger over to Evan and admit, ‘I saw your sister today. She still makes my blood boil the way she did eight years ago. Remember then? When she was eighteen? Barely legal?’
Evan grabs the edge of the bench. “You know, women can be tricky…”
“I don’t need a lecture.”
“You should go after what you want.”
“Damn, Evan. Shut up.” I stalk over and snatch the water bottle from him. The water’s cool. I can feel it going down my throat and pooling in my chest.
“And she’s gorgeous.”
She is.
My mind trails back to that tiny skirt Venus was wearing when she stormed in today.
“A woman like that, you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off.”
“Sounds like you want her.”
He slants me a glare. “Don’t be stupid. I’m trying to see things from your perspective. Showing you why you shouldn’t give up.” He sulks as if deeply offended. “Even if I was single, I’d never take my best friend’s girl. It’s against bro-code.”
“Ev, we’re over-thirty.”
“Bro-code doesn’t have an expiration date.”
I kind of wish it did. Lusting after my best friend’s little sister is against bro-code too. If he and Brook get together, maybe I can guilt-trip him into letting me and Venus…
The hell is wrong with me?
“Just throw her over your shoulder and remind her why she fell in love with you. What’s so hard about that?”
He wouldn’t be this encouraging if he knew who I wanted to throw over my shoulder.
Damn. I can’t imagine the fall-out if Evan even suspects that I’m into Venus.
“You were engaged for a while,” he says.
I groan.
When will the conversation end?
Evan’s gotten chattier with old age.
“A hundred bucks says she’s not over you. Just find the problem and fix it. Moping doesn’t go well with your complexion.”
In spite of my inner turmoil, warmth hits my chest. That’s a running joke in the family.
Over twenty years ago, I showed up at Mrs. G’s house with bruises no one else could see. Evan’s mother fed me, took care of me and insisted that I smile. ‘Smiling goes better with your complexion,’ she’d say.
It used to make me feel so important. Loved. Seen.
Then I grew up and realized almost everyone looks better when they smile. It still brings back good memories though.
"And if that doesn’t work out?”
“I’ll ask Venus to set you up with someone nice.”
I stiffen. “Did you two plan that?”
“Huh?”
“Venus stopped by the house today.”
“I know. I gave her the address.”
I easily ignore the fact that Evan gave Venus my address without asking. We’re family in his eyes. There’s nothing we need to hide. No reason Venus can’t walk into my house while I’m in nothing but a towel.
“So what did she want when you saw her?” he asks.
Me. My arms around her. My body pressing her into the bed.
Wishful thinking.
Stupid thinking.
I stare at my black shoes instead. “She offered to”—I cough because it’s so ridiculous—“find me a wife.”
“Figured.”
“You figured?”
Evan bobs his head. “Setting people up is all she thinks about.” He frowns darkly. “Well, when she’s not messing with jerks.”
“Messing with?”
“Screwing.”
We both scowl at the same time.
“Anyway, she’s good at what she does and she’s gunning for a promotion at work. Said she needed to match ‘high-profile’ clients to get it. The kid practically squealed when she heard your wedding was off.”
“Wow.”
Evan squirms at my expression. “Don’t get me wrong. She’s not happy you’re miserable. She’s just… she’s Venus.”
She’s Venus.
Some things never change.
I leave Evan and head back home with that phrase running through my head.
Some things never change.
Like the park where we played ball every Sunday.
Like the quiet in this tiny neighborhood.
Like the love that ties this family to me—Mrs. G as my stand-in mother; Evan as my blood brother, the man I’d follow to my death, and Venus…
She’s my…
Damn.
I can’t say sister.
I freaking won’t.
The house is still.
I don’t bother turning on the lights. If I do, the moment I do, I’ll see Venus standing there, smirk on her lips, sweet voice crooning, “Welcome home, Troy.”
I block the thought.
I take firm steps to my room.
Push the door into the frame.
Grab my headphones, blast my best tortured rock music, pull the easel out of the corner and try to lose myself in the blank canvas before me.
Art is more than my career.
It’s my release.
I find my identity, my peace, when my fingers are speckled with paint and the chaos moves from my head to a canvas.
There’s just me and the paint and the music.
With this brush in my hand, I know what I’m doing. I’m in control. There’s nothing in my mind but the next stroke. No doubts, no fears, not my mom’s windy voice or my own self-loathing.
It’s all about the art itself. The mark I’m leaving on the world. Something that will stay behind long after I’m gone.
It’s a trance. It holds me in its lock for hours or minutes. I’m not sure. Time doesn’t matter here.
There’s a chirp.
My phone.
Probably Evan offering more unwanted advice.
I set the brush down.
Step back.
Study what I’ve done.
Something heavy hits my chest. My pulse picks up at an alarming rate.
There’s the outline of a woman on my canvas.
Not just any woman.
It’s Venus.
Six
Venus
My phone is blowing up with texts from Evan.
EVAN: Find another project.
EVAN: It’s too complicated. Even for you.
EVAN: He’s still hung up on his fiancée.
EVAN: It’s a waste of time.
ME: I’m still going to help him.
EVAN: You just want a promotion.
ME: It’s a win-win.
EVAN: No, it’s not. He’s into Brook. You’ll lose.
ME: That a challenge?
EVAN: I’m worried about both of you.
ME: I’m your sister. You should only care about me.
EVAN: Don’t do it, V.
ME: I haven’t yet.
EVAN: But you will.
ME: How do you know?
EVAN: Because you convinced me to sign up and I wasn’t even looking for a relationship.
ME: You and Corrine are perfect together.
EVAN: Not the point.
Ah… sweet, sweet Corrine.
If not for me, she never would have found my dork of a brother and fallen in love with him.
And it almost didn’t happen.
My brother fought me tooth and nail, refusing to admit he needed or wanted expert help with his love life, but I wore him down—I’m starting to think of persistence as my superp
ower—and fed his name into the Make It Marriage database.
Three months later, Kayla introduced him to Corrine. They hit it off and have been together ever since.
He still hasn’t thanked me for that.
EVAN: There are surgeons at the hospital. I’ll hook you up.
ME: Did Troy tell you he was hung up on Brook?
EVAN: Lots of options. Women love doctors, right?
ME: Enough about the surgeons. Tell me about Troy.
EVAN: It was all over his face.
EVAN: The guy’s got it bad.
ME: I don’t care.
EVAN: You’re making a big mistake.
ME: My favorite kind.
EVAN: Promise you won’t come crying to me when things don’t work out the way you want.
ME: I won’t.
EVAN: You will.
ME: It’s what big brothers are for.
EVAN: You’re annoying.
ME: That’s what little sisters are for.
EVAN: I’m serious. Promise you won’t get hurt.
My breath hitches in my throat.
I can picture my brother now—dark hands gripping his phone, thick wrinkle between his bushy eyebrows, teeth snagging on his bottom lip.
Does he know about my old crush?
I rub my forehead and cringe.
Why else would he say that?
But he never mentioned it before, not even to tease me.
I thought…
ME: Don’t worry. I’m over it. Troy’s just a client.
EVAN: Promise me, V.
I suck in a deep breath.
My brother’s concern is a tad over-done.
But sweet.
I purse my lips. Lift my phone. Mouth the words as I type. “Promise.”
There’s a knock on my front door.
Muting the television, I push off the couch. “Who is it?”
No answer.
I frown and tiptoe to the door. Pressing close, I peer through the peephole.
Nothing.
Weird.
I start to turn away, but a niggling feeling in my chest tells me to check properly.
The door creaks as it opens further.
I poke my head out. Look to the left and right.
The light in the hallway is dim.
Shadows sneer at me, but there’s no one outside.
Goosebumps climb my skin.
I push the sensation back with sheer will and allow my rational side to take the driver’s seat. Maybe I misheard. Maybe it’s a prank. Either way, I’m safer inside than out here.
I pull back and start to close the door when something small and yellow catches my eye. It’s stuck to the surface of the door, right under the peephole.
My brows furrow.
I lean out further and grab the end of it.
It’s a sticky note.
I pry it off with trembling fingers. Hold it up to the light. Study the surface.
It’s crumpled. Like someone held it tightly in their fist before smoothing it out on the door. Black words crawl over the paper. Small, cramped and nearly unreadable.
Tell the truth and shame the devil.
You have one week.
The hell?
I turn the paper to the back.
Nothing.
Study the front again.
Huh?
I tap my foot on the floor and puzzle through the message. Tell the truth?
To whom?
About what?
Tell the truth and shame the devil.
You have one week.
Was this meant for me? Maybe the sender got his or her apartment numbers mixed up.
And what if they didn’t?
Then…
I don’t know.
Is this some kind of threat? I run through a mental checklist of people who’d try to scare me.
No one jumps out.
I’m selective about who I invite into my life, and especially who I invite into my bed. It can’t be anyone in my circle or in my little black book.
So could it be a client? I roll through the list. No one I matched or failed to match would level threats and even if they did, they’d never resort to something as rudimentary as a sticky note.
Tell the truth and shame the devil.
You have one week.
My head starts to ache.
No way was this meant for me.
It’s utter nonsense.
I crumple the note and stick it in the trash.
Closing my door, I lock it securely and return to my room.
The silence is extra loud.
Anxiety skitters up my back.
I glance over my shoulder, suddenly uncomfortable in my own house.
Tell the truth.
I grab my headphones and drown myself in dancehall music to chase away the fear. Shaggy’s voice croons in my ear, calling me his darling angel. I close my eyes and I’m on a beach somewhere, coconut trees blowing in the breeze and the Caribbean Sea lapping at the sand.
I fall on top of the bed and pretend nothing else matters.
Tell the truth and shame the devil.
My eyes pop open.
You have one week.
What’ll happen when that deadline is up?
I wrench the headphones off. Glance around the apartment. “I’m not scared.” I tell the shadows outside my room. “You don’t scare—”
Something rings.
I scream like a banshee, my tongue curling and my voice yodeling like a Swiss monk.
Then I stop.
Realize it’s my phone.
My heart’s beating a mile a minute.
So much for playing it cool.
Smashing my lips together, I grab the cell.
Glance at the screen.
It’s Troy.
Shooting straight up, I clear my throat. There’s no way I’ll let him hear how freaked out I am.
Troy was even worse than Evan when it came to Over-protective Older Brother duty. I don’t need to give him any more reasons to see me as a kid who’s frightened of her own shadow.
I pause my music and answer his call. “Hello.”
“Hey.” His voice is like candy to my ears. The tension in my shoulders and back release almost immediately.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
My lips purse. “I think we’ve greeted each other sufficiently. You mind getting to the point?”
He chuckles.
My fingers tighten into fists on top of my thigh. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Something.”
He pauses. I can hear him breathing on the other end of the line.
I grip the phone tighter. My pulse slows until I’m breathing in time with him.
In. Out.
It’s ten times more calming than Shaggy. And I freaking love Shaggy’s music.
“Troy,” I pull the phone closer, “tell me.”
“You’re still…”
“What?”
“Venus.”
My breath hitches. “Is that your version of a compliment?”
“It is.”
“Tell me more.”
“Well,” his voice takes on a warm, toasty timber, “I would, but I didn’t call to stroke your ego.”
I melt in my blankets. Just hearing his voice is stroking me in other, more glorious ways. “Wuss.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“You thought I got nicer with age?”
“One can hope.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“You’re not a disappointment, Venus,” he says in that quiet, thoughtful way. “Never.”
My eyes squeeze shut.
You’re not a disappointment.
That simple affirmation warms me everywhere. It’s like liquid comfort pouring over my body, seeping through my pores. Down to my soul.
He always knows what to say.
It’s why I can’t get over him. He makes it so damn hard.
&nbs
p; Does he know?
Does he know what he does to me?
Get yourself together, Venus.
It’s been eight years. I’m the only one he didn’t bother calling when he moved to town, yet here I am, melting all over again.
Why am I so pathetic?
Troy coughs and, when he speaks again, it’s with a distant tone. “I wanted to discuss what you said earlier at the house.”
My body goes rigid. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Troy…”
“I appreciate the thought, Venus. I do, but I’m not looking for—”
A scratching sound grabs my attention.
Fear strikes my heart.
Tell the truth and shame the devil.
Is someone trying to get in?
I rise from bed.
My knees are shaking.
The darkness outside my bedroom looks thick and evil.
“Venus?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you hear me?”
“Uh…?” My throat goes dry.
The scratching gets louder.
I ease out into the hallway and move toward the kitchen.
I’m empty-handed.
Maybe I should grab a baseball bat or something.
“Hey.” Troy’s voice in my ear gives me courage. If I get knocked out, he’ll probably notice the sudden silence and rush over. Right? “V, what’s going on?”
I lean over the sink and catch a glimpse of a shadow outside my window.
“Troy…” My voice wobbles.
“What?”
A face flashes. It’s dark brown with green eyes and whiskers.
I jump back and cover my mouth.
The animal meows.
It’s a cat.
I almost peed my pants over a feline.
“I’m here.” I rub my forehead.
The threat’s gone, but I still feel like I’m about to get pounced on.
Tell the truth and shame the devil.
“Sorry, I just… something scared me.”
Silence again.
Troy’s voice deepens. “You don’t scare easy.”
“I’m fine.” My voice cracks.
“Are you?”
I cringe. Guess I wasn’t very believable.
“Talk to me,” he says in a firm, I’m about to knock somebody out if I don’t get answers tone.
“I’m just tired,” I lie.
“Venus—”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.” I hang up before he can reply.
My stomach churns.
I flip on all the lights in the house before returning to my bedroom.
You should have told him about the note.
But then… what? Troy would have swooped in and done the big brother routine while I sat back and bit my nails, once again reinforcing his opinion of me and my immaturity.