Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

can. Being that different from everything else around it. The allure of its
secrets.
I don’t know—they just called to me.
I slip on my flats, take my school jacket and backpack, and leave the
room. Stepping into the hallway, I look right, seeing my parents’ door closed
at the end of the hall, but then I glance at the room right before it and make
my way over.
Henry’s name decorates the dark wood, spelled out in an arch in my little
brother’s favorite shade of blue. Sometimes I’ll open the door. His smell still
lingers. But I never go in. I like thinking he was the last to walk on the carpet
or open the drawers of his dresser, even though I know my mom is in there
frequently.
I’m just glad she’s kept everything the same.
I touch his name, inhale and push down whatever is bubbling up in my
chest, and head downstairs.
Detouring into the kitchen, I snatch a bottle of water from the fridge and
the container of chicken salad Bernie, our housekeeper, fixed for me, sticking
them both into my backpack.
Putting on my blazer and heading through the foyer, I take my keys off
the entryway table and move to the door, but I glance out the window panel
on the side and see my father’s car in the driveway. Morning dew glistens
over the hood of his slate gray Audi.
I stop. I thought he was in Miami.
I drop my bag and twist around, a smile pulling at my lips. He’s home so
little anymore, business taking him to D.C., San Francisco, and Houston, but
mostly, Miami. It seems like he’s there more than home the last few months.
One of the double doors to his office is cracked, and I squeeze the handle,
peering my head inside.
“Hey,” I say.
He sits behind his desk, light brown hair disheveled, tie loosened, and one
leg of his wrinkling gray pants and shiny black shoe propped up on his desk.
A stream of cigarette smoke snakes into the air above his head as he blows
out a puff.
He pulls his foot off his desk, smiling, “Morning.”
I saunter in, doing a playful little walk with my hands behind my back
like I’m up to something, and swing around his desk, sitting on the arm of his
chair and pull out a fresh cigarette from the marble box near his computer.