Love Nouveau

by Berry, B. L.

  A bewildered laugh escapes his throat.

  “Fine. Fine. Fine. You’re always just fine, Ivy!” I can’t tell if he’s angry or annoyed, but the sound crescendos from his soul as his voice raises. “But you know what? Sometimes it’s okay to not be fine. Sometimes it’s okay to bleed, and be shattered. Show the world you’re vulnerable and be really fucking pissed off. And it’s okay tell people how you really feel. Anyone who has suffered through what you have this past week, hell, through the past twenty-two years of existence with that family of yours, is certainly not what I’d call fine.”

  I flinch as his fist meets the doorjamb in a jolting thud.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell…” He trails off in thought. My eyes catch his and his chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath. His jaw is square as he grinds his teeth, calculating his next move.

  Minutes pass and Phoenix’s voice turns softer as he begins again. “From what I’ve gathered, you get involved in relationships—if you can even call them that—for all the wrong reasons. They’re empty. Meaningless. A distraction from how shitty you think your life really is.”

  How very true this is.

  “But this…” His voice cracks as he waves his finger in the space between us. “This wasn’t meaningless. Not to me, anyway. You completely turned my world upside. And I don’t know what to do. I know I’ve only just met you and it’s so damn hard not being around you. This distance is killing me.”

  Slowly, gently, he starts pounding his forehead against the doorframe.

  I didn’t think it was possible, but my heart just shattered a little more. I want to push the door shut and unlocked the chain so I can throw myself into his arms. Tell him that it will be all right. That I forgive him. That this—that us—can work.

  But I can’t.

  I don’t.

  He looks at me expectantly. Yet all I can do is stare at him as words fail me.

  My body fails me.

  I’m paralyzed.

  Phoenix’s soft tone escalates and he’s practically shouting at me now. “Open your eyes, Ivy! Your life isn’t terrible. Sure, your family is messed up, but whose isn’t? You have been dealt some shitty cards, especially as of late, but you’ve got a lot of really great things going for you, including me, which you’re rejecting because all of your past relationships didn’t work.”

  His fingers wrap around the side of the door and he presses his forehead against the trim, like he’s capable of liquefying and slipping inside. I notice the dust dancing in the hall amid the glow of the sunshine the pours in from the window. It’s mesmerizing and I try to numb myself so his words wash right over me. I want to tell him that he’s right—that I’m not fine. That I’m devastatingly hurt. That ever since he told me what Sully did to me I’ve been having nightmares so bad that I’m terrified to close my eyes, which is infuriating because all I want to do is sleep away the pain. I want to strip him down and expose him and make him defenseless like he’s made me. I want to rattle every ounce of his confidence and rip away his security.

  But I know I need him gone.

  If I don’t let him go now, I never will. The time has come to cut him loose.

  It has become painfully obvious that no matter how much you may be drawn to a person, sometimes two individuals were simply not meant to be together. Harold once told me that everyone we meet serves a purpose in our life for that particular place and time. And I realize that Phoenix walked into mine that fateful night to push me to the edge of living my own life.

  But there is no longer a place for him.

  “I … I think you should go. This … us … we were a mistake.”

  “Ivy! Wait…”

  I freeze momentarily and my eyes meet his through the crack in the door. I know exactly what I need to say to drive the dagger into his heart and him free, so I focus on the painful truth. The truth he deserves to know.

  “I slept with Matt last week,” I say, my voice void of emotion.

  I say it to come clean with myself and own my shit because the old Ivy would never confess her sins.

  I say it to push him as far away from me as possible because the old Ivy would have just strung him along.

  I say it to fulfill my preceding reputation because even on their deepest level some things will never change.

  My confession visibly guts him and I watch the man before me crumble and cave in on himself. When I can no longer bear to see the agony in his eyes, I quietly push the door shut and lock the deadbolt. I stand there for a moment, forehead pressed against the door, fingertips touching the knob, silently saying my goodbyes inside my head while he continues to knock and beg from the other side.

  “I don’t care about your mistakes, Ivy. I don’t care how you’ve fucked up. We all have fucked up—believe me, but it’s how you come back from the fall that counts. Just don’t self-destruct on me.”

  I try to stay strong, but my tears betray me.

  “This is what you do, Ivy—you run!” he shouts through the door as anger takes over. “You ran away to Italy when things with Matt and your family got too shitty to deal with. And you’re running away from me right now. You have this need to keep everyone, even Rachel, at a distance. Is that why you liked me so much, or rather the idea of me? Because you could finally have a relationship that you could keep at a safe distance? I know deep down you don’t want to hurt me. But you are so consumed with your own pain that you are blind to the fact that your actions are hurting others.”

  I close my eyes absorbing his painful words. It hurts so much because it’s true. Minutes of silence drift between us. I press my hand against the door and imagine his hand mirroring mine on the other side. So close, but so very far apart from physically touching.

  “You have a choice here,” he starts talking again. “You can run away or we can try harder.”

  The way he emphasizes we gives me a flicker of hope, but my mind does everything to extinguish the thought.

  “I’ll tell you what, Ivy. You can try to push me away. You can try to run and build up walls around you. But each and every wall you put up, I’m going to tear it down brick by fucking brick. I’ll give you some space, just know that this isn’t the last of me.”

  I pull back and look through the peephole in time to see him run his hands through his hair and take off down the hall.

  I can’t do this.

  He needs to just walk away and be done with me. I need to learn to stand on my own two feet. I will always love the man I made him out to be in my mind, but I don’t need him in my life.

  I turn around to find Rachel’s pitying eyes sizing me up, debating whether or not I’m going to cry again. She makes her way to me in three steps and wraps me up in the biggest bear hug she can muster.

  “I’m okay,” I whisper hoarsely to her, everything in my eyesight a smeared, wet blur. “I’m fine.”

  But this time the lie is for me. I need the lie because lies are truths that you convince yourself are real.

  THE FIRST BATCH OF PANCAKES burned. The scent of charred batter will surely linger for days.

  Rachel’s second batch of pancakes fed my broken heart.

  The third batch feeds my soul and offers a glimmer of hope that one day I will be whole again.

  We eat the pancakes off of paper towels because, as my best friend so candidly put it, “I’d offer you a plate, but you broke all of mine.” Leave it to Rachel to find humor on a day like this.

  We spend the rest of the afternoon wrapped in an oversized fleece blanket, shades pulled down, curtains drawn, shutting out the rest of the world. She is the glue holding me together. I fear the minute we come out from under this blanket I will unravel into an inconsolable heap.

  This is our farewell party.

  In my best friend’s solace, I know that one day I will be all right. Definitely not today. And probably not tomorrow. But one day I will recover from this and truly be fine.

  With the help of lots of therapy.

 
; And lots of pancakes and waffles.

  And probably lots of alcohol.

  Whoever said love hurts had it entirely wrong. The act of loving someone is never what hurts. That part of love is beautiful and amazing and liberating. It makes life electric and vibrant. It makes you the best possible version of yourself. It’s when the person you love falls short of your expectations that drive the stake relentlessly through your heart.

  That is the part that hurts the most.

  AIRPORTS ARE A MOSAIC OF emotions. There are people constantly coming and going. Saying goodbyes. Being reunited. Stoic businessmen crunching numbers to meet that bottom line. Vacationers in anticipation, or disappointment, of being home. And, of course, the dreaded assholes who are convinced that their oversized carry-on is the exception to the rule.

  And somewhere in between, there’s me.

  I’m completely and totally lost. But at least I’m lost heading in the right direction, which is anywhere but here. For me, there are no sayonaras, there will be no greetings on the other end, and there certainly are no expressions of affection.

  Airports: they are equal parts overwhelming loneliness and overflowing love.

  But do you know the best part about airports? They have bars that open with the first flight and have bartenders who don’t judge.

  It’s only ten thirty-six, but I already need a drink. My eyes flash to the clock behind the bar and I remind myself that it’s five o’clock somewhere.

  Saddling up at the empty bar, I flick my driver’s license onto the wooden counter, requesting a draft I can barely pronounce. The bartender examines my ID then studies my face.

  “I know. I look like I could be in high school.” I shrug, acknowledging his unspoken concern. He sighs as he pours my beer, not being mindful of the abundance of foam toppling over the rim.

  The first draw I take is bitter but the ale warms my insides. The second long sip helps me forget all of the good that came into my life the past few weeks. And with the third I force myself to let go of the things I cannot control.

  The dark mahogany décor reminds me of the interior of the Washburn Observatory during my only date with him. I refuse to even think his name; it hurts too much, so I quickly focus my attention on a toddler running wild in the terminal with his mom in hot pursuit, pushing his memory out of my mind.

  The bartender wipes down the counter with a dingy, tattered rag and turns the volume up on the television. The station is showing highlights from last night’s Cubs game. Another mark in the loss column. My chest tightens at the mere mention of the Chicago Cubs. Before I would just roll my eyes and push thoughts of hot summer days at the ballpark with my dad from my mind. But now, the memory of being his Cubby Bear plagues me.

  Everything I do and everything I see reminds me of him. It’s infuriating.

  Among the crowds of people throughout the airport, I realize just how alone I am in this world. Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to being alone in every sense of the word, but this is the first time being alone has actually felt lonely. His presence, even at a distance, filled a void that I never knew existed.

  I miss knowing he is just one quick phone call away.

  I miss waking up to a text he sent during the night.

  I miss his laugh.

  His jokes.

  His stories.

  Hell, if I’m being entirely honest with myself, I just miss him even in spite of everything.

  My God, how we’ve both fucked things up beyond recognition. It’s hard to not be angry with the pair of us.

  Downing the rest of my beer, I slap a few singles on the bar and sling my bag over my shoulder. The bartender gives an appreciative grunt and I make my way back into the crowds of travelers.

  I’ve waited my whole life to truly break free and venture out on my own. And now it’s finally here. It feels strange to find myself standing on the edge, ready to jump. Much like reading that final page of the never-ending novel—I’m excited for the resolution with the characters but so incredibly sad to see their journey end. I wish my story would have the resolution I thought I was once destined for, but sometimes it’s up to ourselves to write our own happy ending. I’m ready for the end of this novel; to turn to a blank page of a different book and simply write my own story.

  An automated voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Ivy Cotter, please pick up the red courtesy phone for a message. Ivy Cotter, please pick up the red courtesy phone for a message.”

  Rachel is the only one who has my flight information, so I can’t help but wonder what I’ve forgotten at her apartment, or what she forgot to tell me before leaving. Maybe I really do need to buy a replacement phone when I get to New York?

  I make my way over to a gate agent and ask where the closest courtesy phone is. The young woman points down the main way and I find myself tucked in a quiet corner, overlooking the sea of travelers.

  Lifting the receiver in confusion, I speak.

  “This is Ivy Cotter.”

  “Ms. Cotter, you have a call. One moment, please.” The line clicks over and I hear the familiar sound of my father’s heavy sigh.

  “Dad?”

  “Hey sweetie,” he says with a sadness in his voice. “You were asleep when I stopped by last night. Did Rachel give you everything?”

  “Yeah, she did. I really appreciate you bringing me some of my dress clothes. And thank you so much for the picture.” I smile thinking about the photograph of us at Wrigley Field. He hid the frame in the middle of a stack of pants. It reminded me of how he would leave hand-written notes in the middle of my workbook when I was in second grade.

  “Listen, kiddo. I’m headed to New York on business in a few weeks. If it’s okay, I would really like to come see you.”

  “Yeah … that’d be nice,” I reply, actually meaning the words.

  “Well … I wanted to track you down to say good-bye … and good luck. You’ll be great out there.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

  In the background, I hear the incessant babbling of my mother and she grabs the phone before he has a chance to reply. “Ivy, where the hell do you think you are going?” My mother’s voice barks each syllable sharply on the other end. “You up and disappeared before your sister’s wedding, ruining everything for her as always. You haven’t returned any of my messages. And now you are just leaving without saying a word? This is unacceptable.”

  Of course Genevieve married that asshole in spite of drugging and raping me. That girl will go to the ends of the Earth to keep up appearances. But I find delight in the fact that my dad didn’t share my plans with Mom. Her attitude is the exact reason I couldn’t bear to go back to my parents’ house to gather my things on my own. Rachel secretly called my dad late last night and had him bring me the clothes I would need in New York. She even coordinated temporary housing with her cousin who is attending NYU during the summer session until I can find a place of my own. I’m really going to miss her.

  Mr. Horesji was quite understanding when I called him and asked if his offer was still on the table since I had missed the deadline to follow up with my decision on the position with him in New York. I explained that I was hospitalized without the ability to reach him and otherwise disposed. While he had started the process of interviewing more candidates, he felt confident enough in my abilities and ceased his search. There are no words to describe my utmost appreciation at his compassion. I’m sure the fact that I am Professor Whitman’s prized pupil played a large part in his flexibility. I was certain that I had fucked that opportunity, but good old Whit must have really done a number with his recommendation. He will receive my eternal gratitude.

  “Ivy? Ivy, are you there?” my mother snaps.

  Deep breaths.

  I do not need my mother’s approval.

  I do not need my mother’s approval.

  I do not need my mother’s approval.

  I exhale and steady my voice as best I can. I can do this. “Mom…” I begin and tuck a loose str
and of hair behind my ear.

  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Ivy Elaine?”

  “Mom, I’m on my way to New York. I accepted the Associate Curator position at the gallery. My flight leaves in fifty minutes.” The words come out faster than the speed of sound.

  “Excuse me? Stop rambling and speak clearly, Ivy.”

  Of course she didn’t hear me. For twenty-two years, she has never listened to a word I said. Why would she start now?

  I swallow any traces of fear, lift my chin, and summon confidence into my voice. “I said, I’m moving to New York,” I repeat slowly.

  “No, you’re not, young lady.” Her voice is calm but stern. It’s the same one she used when I was a child being punished for crimes of curiosity, like painting the walls with bright red nail polish or shaving the dog’s legs. It’s downright frightening. “You’re coming home right now.”

  I can’t help but guffaw at her audacity. How disconnected could she really be? A lot has happened since I left for Italy last year. I discovered myself and fell in love with art on a deeper level. When I came home a few weeks ago, I fell in love all over again, only this time with a man, and then had my heart clawed from my chest. In spite of it all, I know I will be stronger for it. There is no way this woman is going to try and keep her hold on me anymore.

  “I am less than pleased with you right now.”

  There’s a surprise. I exhale quickly through my nose, suppressing a laugh. I’m fairly certain the last time she was pleased with me was when I was voted homecoming queen my senior year. Anything to keep up appearances for the family name.

  “I took the liberty of confirming that job at the Museum of Contemporary Art with Mr. Ramirez on your behalf. They are expecting you this Wednesday at nine.”

  I hardly register what she says as my eyes are drawn across to a tall figure across the busy terminal. The man is tall, with dark, shaggy hair much like him. His shoulders are hunched over sadly as he looks around lost in a sea of people. The phone in my hand trembles and my heart seemingly stops all together as air escapes my lungs. My emotions betray logic as every fiber of my being wants it to be Phoenix.