Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2)

by B. L. Berry

  God, I miss him.

  I need more than his voice right now. I know it’s late and he has work in the morning, but I don’t care. I dial his number from memory and it connects me to him through FaceTime after three rings.

  “Hey, baby...” he mumbles sleepily into the phone. His head is resting on the pillow and I can tell he’s sleeping without his shirt on. Clearly, I’ve woken him up. Phoenix stifles a yawn. “I was worried about you. You never returned my calls.” He shifts in our bed. I wish I were lying there next to him in our little oasis of colorful, overstuffed pillows and not here in Chicago with Rachel.

  “I’m so sorry. I turned my phone off when Gen started calling me and I guess I forgot to turn it back on.”

  “Genevieve?” He chokes on her name and slowly sits up. It’s hard to read his face since it’s a bit dark on his end, but he more awake at the sound of my sister’s name.

  “Yeah. I don’t know how, but she knew I was in town. I never even mentioned it to my dad.”

  “That’s really weird,” he says softly as I nod. “So everything went okay when you made your statement?”

  “I guess.” It’s impossible not to notice how quickly and eager he is to get off of the subject of my sister. “I’m not sure when I’ll hear anything from them next, but they really appreciated me coming forward, even after all this time. They said they’ll keep me posted on what details they can share with me about the case.”

  “Good.” He shares a tight-lipped smile and I can see it in his eyes just how much he misses me. I’m on the cusp about bringing up what Genevieve had said earlier, but Phoenix needs me to trust him. I need me to trust him. The only way our relationship is going to work is if we can work through our own insecurities and trust each other. A large part of my string of failed relationships and the never-ending parade of men was because of my lack of trust.

  “I miss you,” he says sweetly. His words melt my core.

  “I miss you, too.” More than you could ever imagine.

  As Phoenix tells me about his day, I settle in on Rachel’s couch, pulling a heavy quilt up over my legs.

  “Don’t hang up on me tonight, Ivy,” he asks, tilting his phone up against the pillow next to him.

  “I won’t,” I promise him.

  Then we fall asleep together next to each other, with thousands of miles between us. Just like we used to.

  WHEN I ARRIVE BACK IN Manhattan, I head straight to the gallery rather than home. As much as I want to be back in Phoenix’s arms, I’m still silently stewing over everything Genevieve told me. I need a little more space and time to process. And he needs me to trust him. And if I walk in with Genevieve’s story of the night she met Phoenix weighing heavily on my mind, I may as well be holding a ticking time bomb. I fucking hate that I am being such a girl these days. I vowed I would never be one of those super confusing and conflicting bitches whose emotions get the best of her. But alas, here I am. One super confused and conflicted bitch. Sigh.

  I just need a few hours to help clear my mind. Convince myself that they were drunk and he simply doesn’t remember because they were stupid and in college and partying. Because if he remembered, he’d tell me. Right? He knows where I stand with lying—at least now he does—and I don’t think he’d be game for castration. And if we’re being entirely honest, that would be a waste of a God-given gift. And womankind should not be deprived of that kind of glory. And by womankind I mean me.

  Besides, not only do I want to forget about it all for a little while, but I legitimately need to make sure everything is moving forward as it should so we can start thinking about the final preparations for Brock’s show. I don’t care that it’s almost the end of the workday.

  “Hey! My little chocolate truffle muffin filled with tequila-flavored sunshine is back!”

  Truffle muffin? Tequila-flavored sunshine? Where the hell does he come up with this shit? I fake a smile, pushing all of my emotional turmoil to the back of my mind.

  “That I am.”

  I leave my suitcase in the back office and quickly get brought up to speed on things. With just a week left before the show, we’re still behind on the vendor details for opening night. I’m just about to dial the caterer’s phone number when Brock pops into the office, knocking like a madman as he walks through the door.

  “So how was your whirlwind trip to the Windy City?”

  “Eh, it was fine.” I’m deliberately vague.

  “Really?” He gives me a pointed look that travels right down his nose. “I don’t buy that for one minute. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

  “Really. It was fine. I’m fine. How was everything here?”

  “Oh, you know,” he flicks his wrist, “the usual. The fairest of them all made an appearance and was none too happy with your absence.”

  Huh?

  “Who?”

  “Farrah ...” he rolls his eyes dramatically. “She came by to get the updated press preview invite list. Seemed really inconvenienced by your travel plans.”

  “Whatever. I cleared everything with James.”

  Brock shrugs and I shrug off the thought of her attitude. Outside of work, Farrah and I could actually be good friends. Beneath her tough exterior, I know there is a sweet girl who enjoys sarcasm as strong as her drinks. And hopefully she thinks the same of me.

  A FEW HOURS LATER, I am bombarded with the most amazing smell of Italian when I step into our apartment. My mouth waters at the rich aroma of zesty sauces and melted cheese. I follow my nose into our dimly lit kitchen and see Phoenix's back hunched over the sink, scrubbing a pan.

  I know he can hear me drop my bag to the floor, but he doesn't turn around to greet me. The gesture speaks volumes.

  “Hi,” I say softly.

  “Hey … You’re finally home.” I hate the sadness in his voice. I hate that I’m somehow responsible for it. I hate everything about this moment in time.

  I take a single step through the doorframe into the kitchen.

  “I’ve been worried about you. I thought you would have gotten home hours ago. I took the afternoon off to spend with you. I know we've both been so busy and distracted lately, so I wanted to surprise you with a nice dinner. Hopefully, it still tastes good.”

  I hate that he’s so annoyed with me. Though I know I did this to myself. So really, I hate that I’m displacing my own self-loathing on him.

  I watch as he scrapes the rest of the unfinished food on his plate into the garbage can. My heart sinks. “Phoenix … I'm so sorry. I should have called.”

  “Or, at the very least, texted me back.”

  I jump as a fork clanks in the sink.

  “You texted?” I quickly grab my phone from my purse and cringe when I see a missed call and three texts from Phoenix.

  I want to tell him how, when I looked up from my desk, I was shocked to see it was dark outside and nearly nine o’clock. How I've been so involved with coordinating the details of the press preview I completely lost track of time. How I instantly grabbed my bag and ran out the door to hail a cab.

  But I don’t say anything.

  Because none of that matters right now.

  In spite of what he is or isn’t telling me, the only thing that matters is that I’ve hurt him. Phoenix went out of his way to do something nice for me, and I’ve managed to ruin it without even trying.

  “It's not a big deal, Ivy.”

  He sighs and turns to pops a plate of leftover lasagna in the microwave. Judging by the mess left all over counters and the burned out votive candles on our tiny kitchen table, it is a big deal. He clearly spent a good deal of time making me what was once a romantic dinner. From scratch. All he wanted to do was show me just how much he loves me. How much he missed me while I was in Chicago. And I didn’t even give him the courtesy of calling to let him know I was headed to work when I landed.

  With each beat of my heart, guilt penetrates my body.

  “Phoenix …” I close the gap between us and grab his
shoulder, spinning him around to face me. “I feel horrible. I lost track of time and raced home when I saw it was dark outside.”

  I am such a bitch for not coming straight home and into his arms. Why do we instinctively feel that way when we've wronged the ones who love us most?

  “I know, Ivy. I just feel so disconnected with you lately. I want nothing more than to be there for you and you push me away. I don’t want to do anything but help the woman I love the most, and I can’t even be there with her when she has to do one of the most difficult things she’ll ever face. Then, when the only thing I want is to spend a nice night in with my girl, she prefers the company of work than actually facing her problems and spending time with her boyfriend.”

  Whoa.

  The sadness turns to annoyance and dare I say anger? It leaves me speechless. I don’t know how to react to him being upset with me. If anything, I thought I would be the one with a point of contention tonight.

  I jump when the microwave lets out an obnoxious beep. Phoenix pulls the lasagna out, placing it on our small table.

  I’m not hungry, but telling him that would only pour salt in the wound. So I take a seat in the empty chair and force myself to take a bite. Surprisingly, the flavors dance on my tongue. He has really outdone himself with this meal. I eat about half of the plate before I come up for air. Apparently I was hungrier than I thought.

  “This is really good.”

  “It was my grandmother's recipe. One of the few things I have of my mom's mom.”

  I spear another piece with my fork and pop it in my mouth, appreciating the flavors. I don't recall him ever talking about his grandmother.

  He sits with me as I eat, mostly in silence. Occasionally he takes a swig of his beer, and I can't help but wonder what number he's on, knowing that I’m to blame.

  “Do you want to watch a movie tonight?”

  I could really use some one on one time cuddling with him on the couch; try to forget about all of Gen’s bullshit that I'm reading too much into. Forget about upsetting him by not coming home once I landed. Forget all of our grievances and just exist together as a couple. Get back to what makes us great. It would be so much fun to resurrect the lost art of making out. I miss his touch, his nearness on every level. It doesn't matter that I crawl into bed with him each night; he still feels guarded, distant. And it's killing me slowly.

  “Nah, not tonight, Ivy.” He slides his chair back and finishes his beer in one gulp. “I'm actually exhausted. I think I'm just going to go to bed.”

  “Is everything okay, Phoenix?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “I meant with us. Are things okay with us?” I fold the napkin and place it on the table next to my plate.

  Phoenix slumps his shoulders and nods subtly. But I know things aren’t okay. I’m just desperate for his reassurance. He puts his hand on the back of my chair and gives me a soft, closed-mouth kiss. It doesn't feel right.

  “I’m sorry about tonight, Phoenix,” I say to his back as he moves to walk out of the kitchen.

  “I know you are.” His voice is weak and laced with disappointment. “I am, too.” Then he disappears into our bedroom.

  My heart sinks and I push the half eaten plate of lasagna away from my body. I hate that I can hurt him so easily without intention. A moment later, Phoenix quietly closes our bedroom door. Through wet, blurry eyes I see the light from underneath the door turn off. I fold my arms on the table and cry softly into my arms. I feel so distant to everyone these days.

  After I finish cleaning up in the kitchen, I lose myself in a steamy shower and slip into my favorite Led Zeppelin T-shirt. I quietly tiptoe into our room, careful not to wake Phoenix. Gently, I ease myself under the covers and rest my head on the cool side of the pillow. It feels so good against my cheek.

  Looking at Phoenix's broad shoulders, I resist reaching out to wake him.

  “Goodnight, Phoenix. I love you,” I say in a faint whisper. I roll over, my back to him and settle in for sleep.

  A minute or so later, I hear a faint sniffle. “I love you too, Ivy.” And just like that, he's at my back, arms wrapping around me, his body molding perfectly around mine.

  His grip is tight. Needy.

  He whispers, “So fucking much” hotly into the back of my neck before pressing his lips on my shoulder. I close my eyes shut and surrender to his words. “But please ... please stop shutting me out. I’m not a doormat. I’m your boyfriend.”

  You’re more than that, actually.

  I know it seems stupid, and perhaps I’m blind, but I never saw my actions as shutting him out until now. I’ve always been in control with past relationships, but this ... What we have is an equal balance of power, and every last little thing I do affects him in some way. And lately, everything I’ve done has crushed him in some capacity.

  I turn around in his arms to face him, the weight of my actions visible in his glossy eyes.

  “I’m so, so sorry Phoenix.” I press my lips to his chest and kiss him gently.

  “I know. But I need more than just words, Ivy. I need you to show me.” His words are soft but honest. And I feel absolutely horrible for the way things have played out between us lately.

  Tears spill down my cheeks as he takes my face in his hand, gently thumbing the drops away. “I promise,” I whisper with a sniffle. And I really do mean that. I intend to show him.

  We don’t make love in the traditional sense. We simply create it at an exponential rate with words and apologies and nothing more than soft kisses.

  And it's the closest I've felt to him since my birthday.

  IT’S BEEN A LONG DAY.

  Most of it has been spent catering to Brock’s every whim, and while it’s really interrupting my productivity, it’s at least keeping my mind off of the fact that things don’t feel entirely normal between us.

  It’s too cold.

  It’s not cold enough.

  There’s a fly in here and it’s pissing me off.

  The stain on the floor isn’t dark enough to complement the stands that some of my pieces sit on.

  I can’t concentrate over the sound of your gum chewing. Never mind the fact I wasn’t chewing gum at all.

  I’m in the back office working on some vendor invoices for a few special events during the course of the show when Brock walks in and seats himself on the corner of the desk, perched upon the stack of papers I was sorting through. Of course. He crosses his legs at the knee, folds his hands and his lap theatrically and purses his lips.

  “You’ve been off since you got back from Chicago. I know you insisted that everything was fine yesterday, but I’m sensing that things aren’t as kosher as you claim. Is everything okay, Sugar Lips?”

  “Ugh. Don’t call me that.” That name reminds me of a one night stand I had with Dalton my sophomore year of college the weekend before spring semester began. He brought me back to his apartment after a long night of drinking at Great Dane. He tried a little too hard at being kinky and pulled out a strawberry frosting flavored lube that was supposed to heighten my senses. He applied so much that I went numb and he wouldn’t stop referring to my nether regions as “Sugar Lips” since they apparently tasted so good. The only reason this particular one night stand is burned into my brain for all of eternity is because the following week I walked into my anthropology class to find Dalton as my T.A. He proceeded to call me Sugar for the entire semester. My skin still crawls at the memory.

  I spin my chair around and pull the catering purchase order off of the printer, mentally noting that I need to get these out before the end of the week.

  He snaps his fingers twice at me and raises an eyebrow. “Hellooooo. Over here, Ivy! Don’t avoid the question.”

  This guy is seriously relentless. I am not going to spill my guts to Brock. I need to keep this relationship as professional as possible. So I dig into my old bag of tricks and pull out one of my personal favorites: denial.

  “Everything’s fine, Brock. Really.”
I plaster the fake plastic smile I perfected through all of those fake plastic years I spent in my parent’s house, trying my best to convince him to drop the subject. “You’ll have all of your pieces moved in by the fifteenth, right?”

  “Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head with a little more attitude than is necessary.

  “Brock! We open the sixteenth!”

  “I mean yes. Yes, everything will be moved in, but no changing the subject on me.”

  I sigh and Brock hops down off of the desk and sits down on my lap, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. He brings his cheek next to mine and hugs me tenderly. “So what did lover boy do wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I snap, a little too quickly.

  He grinds his teeth and leans back to look me square in the eyes. “You don’t have to lie to me, Baby Cakes.” He takes a loose piece of hair that fell from my ponytail and sweeps it from my face. “Boys are stupid. And that snickerdoodle of yours is no exception, Dirty Girl Scout.”

  I wouldn’t call Phoenix stupid. Sure, he made a dumbass choice when he elected not to tell me about Hailey. And then there’s the million-dollar question about whether or not he actually remembers hanging out with my sister that fateful drunken night. But he’s been nothing but sweet and supportive through all of my crazy, fucked up antics.

  I didn’t know how to breathe until Phoenix walked into my life. He keeps me grounded and sane. And in spite of our current disconnect, he is the glue to my everything.

  “Really, Brock, it’s nothing. We’re just … a little out of sync right now.” I keep my voice light, trying to downplay everything, but it’s not far from the truth.

  “I’m sorry.” He reaches out and touches my cheek.

  The gesture makes me uncomfortable. I hate that our professional relationship is morphing into one where he deems it necessary to impart his sage wisdom upon me whenever he sees fit. If I wanted, or hell, even needed his two cents, I certainly would ask.

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.” I hate empty apologies out of sympathy. Or empathy. Or apathy.