Love Nouveau

by Berry, B. L.

“Why do you have to go and be like that?” He crosses his arms defensively.

  “Like what?”

  Matt looks to the ground in thought and sighs. “Never mind.”

  I cannot even believe that we are having this conversation. Just yesterday I was saying goodbye to Italy, and after only a few hours in Wisconsin I already have pieces of my old life trying to suck me back up in its drama. I should have never come home.

  “Let me take you out.”

  “We are out, Matt,” I state obviously.

  “That’s not what I meant. Come on, Ivy. You know we’re great together. Our parents loved us together.”

  My gaze is vacant at his statement and I want to hole up into myself, disappearing completely. “Right. Because we should be doing everything our parents expect us to do?”

  Matt opens his mouth to say something and snaps it shut quickly, looking away.

  “We broke up for a reason,” I remind him curtly.

  “And I’ve spent the last nine months trying to figure that reason out. I was willing to overlook you sneaking around behind my back just so I could be with you.”

  My stern exterior cracks a little at his admission. But mostly, I just feel really sorry for him knowing that he only stayed with me because of my last name. It’s impossible to respect someone who knew they were being cheated on and never did a damn thing about it like a little bitch. Grow some balls, man.

  But it’s true. I never did tell him how unhappy I was and that I never really gave a damn about our “relationship.” His very existence grated on my every nerve. It got to the point where watching him chew his food made me want to strike him with the back of my hand. How the mere sound of his voice would make my insides coil with nausea.

  In spite of this, Matt was always reliable for one thing, allowing me to close my eyes and lose myself at the touch of his skilled hands. I could spend days between the sheets of his bed, forgetting about the expectations of my parents, the expectations of myself … hell, even forgetting my own name. You could say I used him and I would be the first to openly admit that.

  Ultimately though, I didn’t end things because of him. I ended things because I hated who I had become when I was with him. Our relationship, if you can even call it that, was all for appearances. I had become unapologetically slutty, and frankly, I didn’t care.

  At the end of the day, I played along for so long because my parents adored Matt, which meant they stayed out of my hair as a result. The less involved they were in my life, the better. Matt adored having an elusive Cotter girl on his arm, and I simply adored the cover he provided for my outrageous collegiate shenanigans.

  Matt’s remorseful eyes capture mine and I’m reminded of the unspoken words that passed between us when we first met. We started dating spring semester of my freshman year at UW. I bumped into Matt at the student union, literally. I stopped by the cafeteria in between classes to grab a soda, rounded a corner too quickly, and turned his white henley into a piece of Orange Crush modern art. As I stood there horrified, he gave me the comforting look as if to say, “Everything will be all right but you are so going to make this up to me.” Matt never technically asked me out, but we were pretty much inseparable from that day forward, and things progressed to the physical realm rather quickly.

  I used to think we had instant chemistry. But I now know that if you think something often enough, it becomes reality.

  “Please?”

  I’m not sure exactly what he’s asking, but he is obviously hurting. Frankly, I don’t have time for his charade. Matt is part of my past and that’s exactly where I need to leave him.

  “Come with me.” He pulls on my hand. “Let’s go grab a drink together, catch up.” Quickly, I draw my arm back to my body, grinding my teeth.

  “Matt … just go. Okay?” He needs to leave me alone before my open fist meets his face. I really don’t want our exchange to cause a scene, but I’m not above it.

  “One drink. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “No.”

  His face contorts as if he’s swallowed something bitter and we stand there in a Mexican standoff, each waiting for the other to make a move. He can’t seem to get it through his thick skull that we are never happening again. Ever.

  I turn to move back to the party and Matt panics, knowing that I’m on the verge of slipping through his fingers. He’s desperate and gives me that piercing look that made my insides tingle once upon a time.

  “Pleeeeeease?” he pleads.

  Jesus, stop begging. This boy is pathetically relentless.

  A heavy sigh escapes my lips as I calculate my next move. “Fine.”

  “Really?” Matt’s eyes light up with surprise. I purse my lips together and nod, pausing to make sure no one is watching.

  I think to myself, bottoms up, asshole, and throw the remaining contents of my beer in Matt’s face. Shock registers and he mutters a string of indecipherable obscenities under his breath. I turn on my heel and make my way back into the party to find Rachel.

  I catch a glimpse of Matt storming toward the front yard in haste. If only he had stormed away that day in the cafeteria, I wouldn’t be in this position right now. Hopefully, he’s gone. Indefinitely.

  Empowered and invincible. That’s how I feel in this moment. Adrenaline pulsates through my veins and the natural high makes me untouchable.

  Rejoining Rachel, I’m pleased to see that Cassie and a few other folks I recognize have finally made it. Cassie squeals and pulls me into a tight hug, spilling her beer on the ground. It feels good to be among my closest friends again.

  “Now,” I breathe, “where were we?” I shake off my exchange with Matt and twirl a few loose hairs around my finger, tucking the locks behind my ear.

  “Oh no … what’d you do, Ivy?” Rachel deadpans. Out of everyone on this Earth, Rachel can read me like an open book. I really need to work on my poker face.

  “It’s nothing, really.”

  “No,” she says pointedly, “you’re doing that thing. With your hair.” Damn it. My tell. “What’d he do this time?” she asks with a sigh.

  “He insisted on getting a drink with me. I insisted he leave me alone. And so he left me with no other choice than to give him my drink,” I spat quickly. “If you’d like to catch up with him, just look for the pissed off soaked shirt in the front yard.”

  “You didn’t,” Cassie gasps.

  “I did.” I can barely contain the smirk on my lips.

  “You think he’d take a hint by now,” Rachel comments.

  Unfortunately for me, he has never been that smart. To him, I was the answer to all of his problems. To me, he was a mindless escape from all of the drama and troubles I left behind in Chicago. Eventually, he found himself twisted into my life and went so far as to make a home for himself with my family. It’s completely my fault for ever allowing it to get that far.

  When I elected to take my senior year abroad to get away from him and everyone else in my life, Matt was less than thrilled. I broke his heart, and from what mutual friends had told me, he’d found solace in the bed of a few dozen girls. Even through his haste, Matt continued to claim that I was the one for him and constantly pleaded his case to be together. He wrote me nearly every week while I was in Italy, even though it fell on deaf ears. Then, he went as far as finding a job at a major ad agency in downtown Chicago with the intent of winning me back together after I graduated. While most girls would be thrilled at the thought of an old flame pining away and turning their life upside down waiting for their return, I was turned off.

  “Well, let’s go get you another drink. You know, in case Matt decides to come back,” Cassie chimes, pulling us back inside the house. Her blonde ringlets fit her personality—bouncy and out of control.

  It isn’t until this very moment I realize just how much I’d missed my friends while I was away. My heart aches a little for the time lost.

  ON OUR WAY BACK INTO the house, Cassie gets lost in the crowd and I can only
assume she has made her way onto the makeshift dance floor in the backyard. The attractive guy in Greek letters is lingering by the keg and gives Rachel a sly smile. She wraps one arm around his waist and he leans over, kissing her hair.

  Clearly I’ve missed something as they obviously already know each other. He tucks his hand in Rachel’s back pocket and runs his finger tenderly down the edge of her nose, and I can’t help but feel like a Peeping Tom as the pair flirt shamelessly. Get a room, already. It’s clear she wants to spend some time with this guy but her eyes read guilty for leaving me to fend for myself.

  I kiss Rachel on the cheek and shoo her and the hottie away with a flick of my wrist. I’m a big girl and perfectly capable of entertaining myself at a party.

  The crowd inside the house has finally thinned out, and almost everyone is in the backyard grinding on each other to the beat of the music. Alone in my thoughts, I fight the annoyance of Matt’s surprise visit. Why the hell did he bother showing up? He lives in Chicago and needs to stay there. I haven’t even been home for twenty-four hours and I’m already itching to put space between me and the drama of my former life.

  I snatch the tap from the keg, furiously pouring myself another beer, not caring about the two inches of foam on top. On the counter is a colorful rainbow of Jell-O shots, so I quickly grab one and throw my head back, swallowing the citrusy libation whole. Then another.

  And another.

  I wasn’t planning on going on a bender tonight, but after my run-in with Matt it seems as though the universe has other plans for me.

  I spy Rachel and her ‘beau du jour’ in the crowd of people below the porch, their lips locked tightly together as they move to the music. I mentally calm myself with each passing sip of beer and fresh air. The crowd in the backyard is thickening, booming speakers beckoning everyone to dance as a sea of limbs pulsates with the music below me.

  “Well, that was an entertaining performance,” a deep voice says next to me.

  I look to my right and the lickable, green-eyed man from earlier is standing there smiling in all of his golden-haired glory. It should seriously be illegal for anyone to be this good looking. “You know, you should be more careful. I’d hate for a girl like you to get a bad rap,” he says, eyeing me slowly before nudging my shoulder.

  “Girl like me?”

  “Yeah.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Beautiful. Mysterious. Confident. And pissed off.”

  Ah, he must have seen me with Matt. I give him a sly, flirtatious smile. “Don’t worry. He deserved it,” I reply sweetly, my voice void of tension. He seems a little older than the typical college crowd. A grad student, perhaps? Too old to be in classes, but too young to be staying in on a weeknight.

  “Are you graduating?”

  “Nah, I’m just in town from Chicago for a long weekend. This is my younger brother’s place. He’s only twenty and lost his fake ID when he got pulled over with a DUI last month. Since he has no way to hit up the bars without it, he went the old fashioned route with a house party.” He gestures grandly with his hand. “Hence, the soiree, and you existing in my very presence. You’re welcome.” He playfully smirks as his eyes zero in on an athletic, olive-skinned, black-haired sorority girl grinding on one of her girlfriends. His gaze is so intense he’s practically devouring her in his mind. Cocky much?

  An athletic, dark-haired guy walks up and stands on the other side of the blond, interrupting our conversation and my chances of hooking up. His white polo shirt is just tight enough to showcase his muscles, and the faded navy Bermuda shorts look soft, and accentuate his perfect ass. His dark locks hit the ideal length, just before it needs a haircut—long enough to grab in the throes of passion, but not so long it hangs in his eyes. He’s effortlessly attractive in a not so obvious way.

  “Hey, Sully,” the newcomer says, gesturing my neighbor. I take note of his name. It’s unique and I can’t help but assume that it’s a nickname.

  “Nix,” he responds with a tight mouth and subtle nod.

  Our conversation comes to a screeching halt, and the three of us continue to look out over the party. A dirty rap song fills the awkward silence between us.

  “Welp, my work here is done. I’m out.” Sully lazily toasts his glass my direction, his tone instantly bored. “Have fun, kids.”

  The friend glances over his shoulder and slides over to me, filling the space Sully just vacated. A small laugh escapes my breath and I shake my head in disbelief.

  “What?” He eyes me curiously.

  “Wingman?” I question, glancing over my shoulder to look back at Sully, trying to mask my disappointment.

  He gives me a toothy grin worthy of a dozen Boy Scout merit badges. “Something like that.” He reluctantly extends his hand to shake mine. “I’m Phoenix. But everyone calls me Nix.”

  Phoenix. I like that.

  “Ivy,” I respond, shaking his hand firmly. Phoenix’s hand lingers just a beat too long on mine. His fingers are calloused, but his palms are soft.

  “Ivy? Like the plant?”

  “Something like that,” I repeat his words, mirroring his intonation. Silence lingers in the space between us and I can’t fight the urge to fill it. More information than necessary spills from my mouth. “My dad named me. He’s a huge Chicago Cubs fan and apparently wanted a year-round reminder of Wrigley Field.”

  Phoenix’s eyes grow wide. “Well, that’s strike one. I’m a Cardinals fan,” he ribs proudly, a smile lighting his eyes. “When was the last time your team won the World Series?”

  “Hey! It was 1908 and any team can have a bad century,” I tease defensively. Growing up a Cubs fan gave me thick skin and an affinity for disappointment, perfect for moments like these. I look out over the crowd and see Sully dancing quite inappropriately with the black-haired girl, then look at plan B standing next to me.

  Phoenix is certainly attractive. Not necessarily the kind of guy I would typically go for, but I’m more than willing to make an exception.

  “At any rate, my mom only agreed to the name because she felt it gave me the aspirational essence of being out of everyone’s league.” I flit my hand in the air at the thought.

  He laughs through his nose and takes another sip from his red cup.

  “And are you, Miss Ivy League?”

  “Only to assholes,” I affirm, repressing a smile, thinking of Matt storming away earlier. I certainly don’t want to go into my thoroughbred upbringing with this guy. It always comes with unnecessary judgment.

  “Well then…” he pauses, leaning over the railing. “I’m in luck.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m not an asshole.”

  The sincerity in his eyes tells me he truly believes that of himself, and at this moment, I am given no reason to think otherwise. His boyish charm shines right through and it starts to bubble my insides.

  With an inviting tilt of my head, I lead him to the old-fashioned porch swing on the side of the wrap around deck. It reminds me of something you’d see in the south—little old biddies sitting together, sipping their mint juleps and gossiping about the latest town scandal. It’s a little quieter over here away from the main speakers and we can at least attempt to have a decent conversation without screaming over some top forty dance remix.

  Phoenix and I talk until the red moon crosses the night sky. He tells me about life as a freelance landscape architect in St. Louis and I’m surprised to learn that even though he’s lived there most of his life, he’s never been down to the Gateway Arch. It’s one of my favorite places in his city. When you stand underneath the arch, it’s impossible not to feel like you’ve shrunk in size. It’s a little like magic.

  I gather that Phoenix loves his field of work, but he doesn’t love the uncertainty of freelancing. He’s hoping to find a permanent gig by the time summer comes to a close and is open to relocating. The market hasn’t been strong since he graduated two years ago, so I mentally place him at twenty-four, maybe twenty-five years old. Phoenix seems e
specially interested in my European travels this past year, eagerly asking questions about visiting world-renowned museums and exploring ancient ruins in Rome and Greece.

  I learn that he and a bunch of his guy friends are spending the weekend in Madison for a bachelor party. Wisconsin is a far cry from the stereotypical Vegas bachelor extravaganza, but who am I to judge? Had they gone to Las Vegas, I wouldn’t be sitting here in this moment, so I’m certainly not complaining.

  Never before has a conversation with the opposite sex come this naturally. It could be the three rounds of beer we’ve thrown back together, but Phoenix makes it easy to be honest, to be myself. I can forget about who I was before I ever left for Italy because, let’s be truthful, I kind of became a horrible person. Instead, he makes me feel good about who I truly am, who I want to be. Suddenly, life doesn’t seem so bad after all. His hazel eyes are inviting and I find myself wanting to reach out and grab hold of his hand. At one point, I nearly do but get nervous and lean over to scratch my leg instead. Bold Ivy is long gone, replaced by a timid girl bubbling over with giddiness inside, trying to keep her cool over this boy.

  Talking with him has a calming effect on me. I don’t find my mind wandering to my family or graduation, or even what I’m doing next week. It’s refreshing. I’m right here in this moment with Phoenix, and everything is seemingly in its right place. At times, it’s as if his shyness matches my own which explains the need for a wingman … something has rattled his confidence.

  As we gently swing together, I take a long draw from my beer and discern that Phoenix is right. He definitely isn’t an asshole. He’s the kind of guy you’d want to bring home to Mom and Dad. Well, not my mom and dad, but rather nice, normal parents. But the best part is that he can hold my attention, a welcomed change from the roster of guys I’ve hooked up with and tossed away with the light of day.

  “Hey … nice phone case,” he says as I fish my phone from my back pocket. “I had a poster of Edvard Munch’s The Scream in my dorm room freshman year.”

  I smile at his admission and find myself impressed that he recognized not only the painting, but the artist as well. But I don’t tell him that I hung the same poster in my flat in Italy.