by B. L. Berry
“Ivy …” he grabs my shoulders firmly and looks at me deliberately. “He is not a good man. Nobody is deserving of his love. Except for maybe prison inmate number 82104.”
I appreciate his attempt to lighten the mood, so I feign a small smile and roll my eyes at his ill-timed joke.
His expression turns serious again. “But you cannot feel like you are to blame for any of this. No matter what you did or didn’t do, he would have hurt Genevieve one way or another. There’s no way for you to know that all of this could have happened.”
Maybe he’s right. And who knows, Sully could have hurt Genevieve in ways I don’t even know about before he ever met me. But it’s hard not to feel like I’m to blame on some level because I should have spoken up when he pushed the issue the thirty-thousand times before. I mean, as wretched as Genevieve can be, she is still my sister. I’ve spent the last few months so wrapped up in my own hate, doing what was selfish instead of doing what was right.
God, I’m such a bitch.
“I’m not going to say it because you already know how I feel.” He pulls back to look at me and takes my face in his hands. “But I meant what I said before. I don’t want to push this issue with you. However, I want you to know that whatever you decide to do, whether or not I agree with it, I swear that I will support you wholeheartedly.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Deep down, Phoenix knows I’m starting to have a change of heart. I can see it in his eyes and feel it in the way he touches me. It’s as if I’m delicate; like I’m one of his paper birds that could fly away at a moment’s notice.
But I can’t fly away. I am tethered to this man in so many ways that if I lost him, I’d lose myself, too.
“You’re an incredible and resilient woman, Ivy. You’ve been through more over the past few months than any individual should experience in a lifetime. And I’m proud of the fact that you’re so headstrong.”
Phoenix leans over and gently kisses my forehead. I wrap my arms around him and allow some of the guilt I feel to slip away.
“So we’re going to need to create another false wall here,” I say, pointing to an open space on the floor plan. “And over here.”
Brock looks up to inspect the area I’m referencing and nods. “And I’d like to build another one on the east side of the room by the entrance for a feature piece if possible.”
“We can make that happen,” I say, even though I’m not really sure it’s possible. James Horesji’s words we can and will accommodate every artist’s needs echo through my head. I figured he meant making sure we stocked their preferred bottled water or even opening early so they could gain access whenever they needed. I never imagined it would involve reconstructing and repainting the whole damn space in such a short period of time.
Brock’s alleged needs are aggressive, but hopefully doable.
The open floor plan of the gallery is quickly turning into a maze as Brock maps out where each structure will be placed, the space needed for the angle of each light, and how the shadow will be cast upon the wall behind it.
We’ve been at this for days and this has to be version thirty-seven of the plan. I knew artists were anal retentive, but Brock brings the obsessive tendencies to a whole new level. Actually, Brock brings perversion to a whole new level with his constant inappropriate gestures and jokes. But I digress.
He reaches over me and grabs an earlier version of the floor map that we nixed this morning, reconsidering it.
“Are you wearing Chanel No.5?” he asks, sitting back on his knees right beside me.
“How’d you know?”
“Oh, honey, it’s my favorite. I used to steal my mom’s bottle when I was little and walk around pretending I was Coco Chanel.”
I smile, imagining a miniature version of Brock dressed in black, running around acting all classy and fabulous.
“So on opening night, you be sure to wear that perfume along with your sexiest little black dress. You’ll be my good luck charm!” He squeals like a little girl and claps his hands twice.
I curl a loose hair behind my ear, not having the heart to tell him I no longer accept orders from people other than myself. I played that game a little too long and it left me too unhappy.
“Aww, chin up, buttercup.” He touches his index finger to my nose and I instinctively grin. This ridiculous man either irritates the shit out of me or makes me smile. It drives me crazy. He looks at me with a glint of mischief in his eye and then looks back at the floor plan.
A brown paper bag is tossed onto the floor beside me and snaps my attention from the task at hand.
“Oh! Hey, baby. I didn’t hear you come in.” I beam at my handsome boyfriend who looks cautiously down at the mess of notes we’ve created on the floor.
Brock and I aren’t exactly in a compromising position, but judging from Phoenix’s body language, it’s obvious that we’ve crossed some threshold of comfort for him. We’ve spent the last hour huddled together on the floor, mapping out the placement of his pieces and determining just how much space is needed for the light and the angle at which the shadow will be cast upon the wall.
I quickly push myself up and throw my arms around his neck in a tight hug. When I pull back to introduce him, I can see that Phoenix’s eyes never left Brock.
He’s possessive. And dare I say jealous?
I stifle a giggle.
“Phoenix, this is Brock, the artist behind our next installation.” I gesture to my black-haired friend on the floor. “Brock, this is Phoenix. My—”
“Her boyfriend,” he proudly interrupts.
“Hey, man.” Brock tilts his head up to greet him. “Your girl here is quite talented. She’s been working hard for me these past couple of weeks.”
I hate his tone more than I hate his insinuation, but I love watching him taunt my overprotective boyfriend.
“I know.” Phoenix clenches his fist at his side and shoots daggers from him eyes. “She’s been working late the past few nights.”
Brock nods and moves to his feet, coming over to shake Phoenix’s hand. Both men stand unfriendly and firm. It’s as if a high-noon showdown scene from an old western movie is unfolding before me—two men sizing each other up, on the verge of taking ten paces and drawing their weapons.
If Phoenix had come down to the gallery and met him a few weeks ago like I’d wanted, we would have avoided this whole situation. I wonder how long it’ll take for him to realize that Brock will inevitably be more interested in him than me.
Brock’s hand hangs vacant in the air before Phoenix musters the decency to reach out and grab it. “Shit, man. You don’t have to break my fingers.” Brock shakes out his hand.
“Sorry,” Phoenix lies.
Brock looks thoughtfully at him for a moment and then back at me. I bite the inside of my cheek and subtly roll my eyes.
“Look. If you think I’m interested in Ivy, you’ve got it all wrong,” Brock says, sensing my dilemma.
Phoenix narrows his eyes at Brock but says nothing.
Brock over-dramatically mouths the words I’m gay before putting his finger over his lips like it’s some big secret. If Phoenix had spent five minutes with this guy before passing judgment, he easily would have realized this without making an ass out of himself.
“I’m going to the restroom, Ivy. I’ll be back in a few.” Brock slaps Phoenix’s ass with an earsplitting squeal and throws a wink over his shoulder.
I double over in laughter and watch Phoenix’s face fall in horror.
“Fuck. Ivy! Why didn’t you tell me?” He looks down at me in disbelief.
“Why? It doesn’t matter.” Phoenix is utterly ridiculous. Gay or straight or martian or purple it shouldn’t matter. He has absolutely nothing to worry about. There’s no one else out there for me and he should know this by now.
“So what’s up?” I ask, taking his hand in mine and giving it a little squeeze. Sometimes even the most secure guy needs a little reassurance.
; “It’s been a while since I’ve made it down here and my afternoon meeting was canceled. So I thought I’d bring you lunch today.”
“You mean you thought you’d come check out your nonexistent competition,” I tease.
He smirks, flashing his dimple. “Yeah, sorry about that. I just feel like I haven’t seen you much lately. You’ve been working late a lot, and I’ve been really busy with the blueprints for the new rooftop garden at work. And well, I just miss you. Like hell.”
I mold perfectly into his body as he wraps his arms around my waist. “I know. I miss you, too.” I reach up and give him a soft peck on the lips. “Things here have been really busy. I’ve got less than a month to pull everything together for this show and construction on the new walls has to start this week if we’re going to open in time.”
Really busy is an understatement, but I leave out the part where Brock is making things especially difficult for me with his constant changes. He nods, understandingly.
“Okay. Well, why don’t I pick you up tonight and take you to dinner?”
“I’d like that.” For a split second, I wonder if he remembers it’s my birthday. I’m certainly not one to make a big deal about it, but at the very least it’s nice to have it recognized. However, it’s been months since I even mentioned it to him, so I have no expectations.
“Great. I’ll swing by at six thirty. Will that give you enough time?”
“It should. Thanks again for bringing me lunch. I appreciate it.”
“It’s a date!” It’s funny … a few months ago he said the exact same words to me with the exact same enthusiasm. Some moments are impossible to forget.
“I’ll see you tonight, babe.”
He leans down to kiss me goodbye and I grab his face, pulling him in closer. He tastes like heaven. I know that I will never grow tired of kissing this man.
When Brock makes a crude gagging sound that launches him into a coughing fit, I pull away from Phoenix. He takes my hand and kisses my palm before he winks and heads out the door.
I return my attention to Brock, who continues to look at me with a mix of boredom and disgust. “What?” I ask.
“It’s just such a shame …” He shakes his head and returns his attention to the floor plans we’ve spent the morning discussing.
“What is?”
“That you and I both share the same divine taste in men. God I wish I could bend him over and—”
“Hey, paws off, princess. He’s mine.”
Brock covers his face with his hands, protecting himself from my playful swatting. He is not allowed to have his choice of all the men in the world, especially when it comes to my boyfriend.
Now look who’s the jealous one.
“I’m serious, dude. Don’t even think about it.” I give him one final smack on the shoulder before he leans away from me.
“Did you really just call me dude?” Brock cackles.
I need to get him focused again before he spends the remainder of the afternoon plotting how to turn a straight man gay. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s had success on that front in the past. He senses my annoyance and changes the subject without me even prompting.
“So what’s next? Paint colors?”
“I thought you made your final color selects last week? I already ordered the paint.” I look at him in disbelief.
“Meh. I made that decision on a powder blue day. I’m feeling like dark beige or perhaps a sandy brown would be a much stronger choice for the show. I’d get a better contrast of shadows.”
I inwardly cringe at the thought of beige. Not because it’s yet another change on his never ending to do list, but because it’s so lifeless and brings me back to a time when my life lacked color. I take a calming breath and count to five before plastering on a phony smile.
“Sure, Brock. I’ll add that to my list of things to take care of.”
BROCK LEAVES LATE IN THE afternoon, and a bike messenger arrives shortly after, carrying a medium-sized box. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat as he looks down at his clipboard. I walk from the back of the room to greet him.
“Hi, I’m looking for a Miss Ivy Phillips?”
“That’s me.”
“Delivery.”
Obviously.
I sign my name on the confirmation clipboard as he pulls out a box from his messenger bag. It’s a standard white shirt box wrapped with a royal blue satin ribbon. When he leaves, I tug on the tail of the ribbon, unraveling the knot and slowly open the box. The meticulous wrapping and carefully plaited tissue paper tell me its contents are of value. When I peel back the wrappings, my breath is stolen.
It’s stunning.
I run my fingertips over the soft, gray chiffon before pulling it out of the box.
It’s a cocktail dress. And it’s exactly what I would have picked out for myself if I were to go shopping for something of this caliber. I look back through the packaging and there’s no note. I can only assume it’s from Phoenix.
And he wants me to wear it.
Tonight.
Which can only mean one thing: he remembered that it’s my birthday.
Of course he remembered, you idiot. He remembers everything.
Phoenix’s gestures are rarely over the top. If anything, they are perfectly understated. Making sure the freezer is stocked with my favorite waffles. How the toilet seat is always left down. His thoughtfulness perfection makes me feel so unworthy of his love. But this … this is almost too much.
As the clock nears six thirty, I quickly slip into my new dress and touch up my makeup, dabbing a bit of cherry red gloss on my lips and adding more mascara. It’s no surprise that it fits perfectly, but what is surprising is how it makes me feel radiant from the inside out. I hardly recognize the girl in the mirror from the undeniable glow of anticipation.
But when I watch the clock hit and pass Phoenix’s arrival time of six thirty, my insides begin to go haywire. Phoenix is never late. And when he is, he always gives me ample notice.
I grab my phone and fire off a quick message, trying to calm my nerves.
Ivy: Hey … are we still on for dinner?
Phoenix: Yep! Come outside in a moment. It should only be a few more minutes...
Tossing my phone back in my purse, I head outside, locking the main gallery door behind me and wait …
And wait …
And wait some more.
Seriously. What the fuck, Phoenix?
Just as I’m about to give him a call to make sure he’s all right, an old-fashioned bike bell draws my attention. A hipster on a rickshaw pulls up to the curb with a wide, gap-toothed smile.
“Are you Ivy?”
I nod in confusion.
“I’m sorry I’m late. I had some issues finding the building. Hop in. Your chariot awaits.” He gestures grandly to the bench behind him in the tiny cart and senses my hesitation.
“Um …” I eye him suspiciously.
“Phoenix sent me.” He nods to a small bouquet of sunflowers on the seat behind him. It isn’t the first time he’s sent me sunflowers and I can’t help but wonder if it has any significance to him. “I’m your ride. And you’re already late. Besides, you have no idea where you’re supposed to go, so you’re kind of stuck with me.”
He makes a valid point. And whatever Phoenix has planned, he’s gone to great lengths to make it happen. The dress … the rickshaw … and whatever he has planned for what he’s trying to make a memorable evening.
I hop off the curb and climb into the seat. I’m still anxious, but the sentiment is more akin to the time he picked me up for our first date back in Madison. The rickshaw driver stands up on the pedals and pushes us into traffic. As the sun begins to hide behind the mid-rise buildings, we cruise through Chelsea and into the streets of Washington Square Park. Fifteen minutes later, he turns onto MacDougal Street and pulls up in front of a small Italian restaurant.
“Here you go!” He beams back at me.
I reach for my purse, but he r
efuses to take any cash.
“That man of yours generously took care of everything,” he says with a wink. “Have fun tonight. And happy birthday.”
I smile at him then turn around to the building behind me. The green awning is weathered, but there’s an indescribable charm about this place that reminds me exactly of my boyfriend.
“Welcome to Dinner La Lanterna di Vittorio,” the hostess says warmly when I walk through the door. The dining room is loud with conversation and a bustling wait staff, but the aroma of the food is already making my mouth melt. The interior is a scene right out of a movie and immediately transports me to my time abroad in Italy. This place has all of the rustic Italian charms but without the language barrier and smelly Europeans who don’t believe in showering on a regular basis.
“Let me show you to your table.”
She turns and guides me through the dining room and to the back of the restaurant into a space reminiscent of a greenhouse. Lush plants crawl up a brick wall across from me, but the sidewalls and ceiling above us are glass, spilling ambient light into the room. Hanging from the ceiling are four colorful blue lanterns, casting a soft, romantic glow to the tables below.
Standing next to a small bistro table in the center of the room is Phoenix. He’s handsomely dressed in charcoal pants and a button up shirt with his sleeves rolled up casually. The smile he wears is infectious and makes me glow from the inside out.
Damn, I love this man.
It’s not a room. It’s an indoor garden, complete with a greenhouse ceiling covered in vines, minimizing the city lights above us. Tiny wrought iron bistro tables fill the room with small flickering votive candles scattered throughout. This place is otherworldly.
Phoenix walks to meet me at the bottom of the stairs. “You …” he says, breathlessly, choking on his words. “You look exquisite.”