Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2) (32 page)

And just like that the nerves take over.

Again.

I ADJUST THE VOLUME FOR the music and walk around the gallery, taking in the fruits of our labor. We’re a few hours away from opening the doors and I can hardly contain my excitement. Yesterday, Brock and I had a minor disagreement about the musical selection for tonight's opening. And by minor disagreement, I mean World War III. He was insisting on a German band named Morgoth and I was leaning a little more toward something classy … you know, music that would actually fit the vibe of an art gallery. But I humored Brock and gave it a listen and the noise that invaded my ears was exactly what you’d expect from a band that calls themselves Morgoth. Somehow I convinced him that death metal was not an appropriate selection for the evening. After playing my veto card, I got him to agree to some ambient music by the French band, Air. Their amazing ambient sound on the Moon Safari album is much more fitting for an art gallery and, more importantly, a show titled Sleeping Shadows.

This morning I chose my trusty little black sheath dress with delicate lace detail and styled my hair in long waves with the sides pinned back out of my eyes. For the time being, I’m walking around barefoot as I'm not quite ready to punish myself for hours on end in four-inch heels. I don’t think I’ll ever be convinced that the wicked blisters I’ll inevitably get are worth the price of beauty. If only my Converse were appropriate formal wear.

I look around the room ... nearly everything is ready. The didactic panels explaining each piece are secured next to the respective sculptures, the caterer is nearly set and the lighting has created the perfect mood. I know Brock was still working in the room earlier this morning, and I have no clue if he’s still in there, but it’s nearly six o’clock and we’re a few hours away from showtime.

In the back office, Brock left the final didactic panel for his three-sixty art experience on the seat of my chair. Normally it’s my responsibility to write the backstory to the piece for guests to read, but since I was forbidden from the room, I made Brock agree to take care of it.

I lift the thick cardboard up off the cushion of my seat. The panel reads “VOL” in thick, black, bold letters. Underneath it he simply typed “Love can mend our broken wings and teach us how to fly.” My heart drops to my feet and I find myself trying to catch my breath. These are the exact same words he’d spoken to me moments before I went dumpster diving.

Oh my God. What did you do?

I quickly make my way to his secret room and knock on the outside of the hollow door.

“Brock?”

Silence prevails, but I know that the absence of his words does not necessarily mean the absence of him. I put my hand on the knob, turning it slowly to crack the door. I’ve respected his request for privacy back here for the past week, but we are hours away from opening to the press and I don’t have time for his nonsense anymore. I
have
to know what’s on the other side of this door.

When I walk through the doorway, the sight on the other side steals my breath away. Brock has painted the entire back room in iridescent charcoal. The walls practically shimmer with the house lights. Strung from the ceiling are hundreds … no, thousands of birds in countless sizes and varying shades of gray. Each bird dangles from a clear piece of twine at alternating lengths, creating a stunning pattern of waves and monochromatic tones.

Slowly I step underneath the installation to examine Brock’s work more closely and my heart sinks. These aren’t just birds.

They’re paper cranes.

Tears begin to flood my eyes and I find myself unable to breathe. I reach out to touch one of the birds cautiously when suddenly the lights go off and I’m standing in darkness.

I turn my head toward the cracked door and see a stream of light coming through from the main part of the gallery. “Brock? Is that you? I’m back here!”

My pulse rushes in hot pursuit of answers and I need an explanation for all this. Fast.

Suddenly, the spotlight on each of the walls flick on simultaneously and the piece comes to life. The way Brock has angled the lights casts shadows of larger birds in flight on each of the four walls. The intangible shadow art he’s created throughout the room, and the dramatic display of tiny creations wired from the above, is truly is a full three-sixty experience.

The door clicks shut behind me and I’m pulled from my awestruck reverie. I spin around to find him standing there in all his beautiful, broken glory.

Phoenix.

“Hey,” he whispers. Shyly, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at the wall to his right. “The guy is talented, right?”

I open my mouth only to find myself rendered speechless. “How?” I ask for lack of a better word. I'm stunned that he's standing here before me. He's not supposed to be here.

“I think that
why
is probably the question you’re looking for.” His eyes light up and his dimple quietly winks at me. He simply mouths the word, “You.”

Slowly, Phoenix approaches me and takes both of my hands in his. We stand underneath the cloud of floating paper cranes and
La Femme D'argent
by Air fills the empty space between us.

It's the first time I've seen him in weeks and my heart is bursting and breaking all at once. I want to kiss him and scream at him and grab him and slap him and everything in between. My mind tells me to run far and fast, but my heart forces me to stay planted exactly where I am. I can already tell my mind is going to lose the battle of what I know and what I feel.

Love will win.

When love is real, when it's true and unflappable and honest, it will
always
win.

Even though he's clearly broken, there's a quiet confidence about him. Resolve in his eyes. And I realize that he is a direct reflection of me. In this moment, we know. We both simply
know
.

“Phoenix, I'm sorry.” My voice quivers, but I need to explain myself.

“No, Ivy. I—”

“Stop. Just listen to me.”

I pull my hand out from his and put my palm flat against his chest. His heart is thrumming manically and he closes his eyes and nods. When he opens them again, his gaze is so full of love it melts my core. He shakes his head no, taking my hand off of his chest and holds it loosely in between us.

No?

My stomach churns and Phoenix must see the sheer panic that flashes in my eyes. He drops his forehead and presses it against mine.

“Me first,” he whispers with hesitation in his voice. He’s so close I can taste the mint from his sweet breath on my lips and I fight the desire to press my mouth against him and allow our bodies to make amends.

Lightly, I feel him trace circles with the pad of his thumb inside my palms. I close my eyes, focusing on his touch, and prepare myself for whatever it is he needs to tell me.

When I will myself to open my eyes and look at him, he swallows hard then nervously stares at the cranes above us. Deep down I know he is responsible for each and every last one of them.

“My mom had it all wrong,” Phoenix says softly before tilting his head up, examining the birds intently for a few moments. He exhales abruptly when he looks back down at me. He’s not exactly looking in my eyes but rather the base of my neck. He smiles as he touches the necklace he gave me on my birthday. His body relaxes and there’s a quiet confidence in his face as he meets my gaze once again.

“Above us hangs three thousand cranes, and three thousand cranes means three wishes granted.”

He speaks slowly.

Softly.

Reflectively.

Reverently.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think lately. About me … you …
us
. I’ve thought about what I want out of life and what I need. And so, Ivy … I have three wishes in life. And these are my three wishes, from me … to you.”

My heart smiles and warmth radiates from my chest. He’s still nervously running his thumbs over my palms, except I realize they aren’t circles. They are infinities, over and over and over again.

“My first wish … I want you to know me. The
real
me. The one with no secrets. And it’s okay if you decide you don’t like that guy because sometimes I’m not sure I like him very much either. He’s exactly like the me you already know, but with a landslide of problems that I don’t like to acknowledge.”

“Stop being so self-deprecating,” I exhale softly.

“Shhh …” He places a single finger to my lips. “Just listen.”

I swallow hard, try to still my racing heart and look him in the eye. It's hard to process everything that's happening right now. I need to apologize to him, but I get the feeling that he needs to say his peace more.

“As I was saying. I want you to know everything about me, including the things that no one else knows and the things you wouldn't even care to know.” Phoenix reaches up and touches one of the birds that hangs down on fishing twine. It sways a little, bumping into the bird next to it.

“For so long, I’ve wished I could turn back time and make different choices and make things right. And part of me still wishes I could do that. But those choices, for better or worse, are what led me to you. So instead of changing history, I wish I had told you about my past sooner and that I was honest from the get go, even if that meant risking losing you. And for that, I am truly sorry, Ivy.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he quickly places his index finger back over my lips.

“Inside each and every one of these three thousand cranes I've written something about me that nobody else knows. Pieces of me from the past twenty-five years. Everything from my favorite fourth grade teacher to acceptable condiments on a hot dog to how it makes me feel when I hear you talk in your sleep to even what I felt the day I saw my dad cheating on my mom. Anything you can dream up, I'm confident I've captured here. And it’s my wish that you’ll take the time to read every last one of them and see me for who I really am.”

“Three thousand?” I say under my breath in awe before shaking my head. “Do I really talk in my sleep?” My cheeks flush with heat. Out of embarrassment or being touched by this intimate gesture, I'm not quite sure.

“Shhh … I’m not done yet.”

I watch as he reaches up. Three ivory cranes fly among the sea of gray birds in the center of the installation. He pulls the first one down off the twine and places it in the palm of my hand. “Go on … open it.” He gestures toward the crane in my hand.

As I start to unfold the iridescent colored paper, I begin to realize the magnitude of what he’s done. I pull the square piece of paper taut.

On August 11th at 3:01 a.m., I knew that you were the woman I would spend the rest of my life with.

My lower lip quivers and I lift my gaze slowly to meet his eyes. I have no idea if August eleventh was a day of consequence, but it is now. Conflicted emotions flood through me in waves.
I
should be apologizing to
him.
Not being on the receiving end of this grand gesture.

I look back down to the slip of paper and read his handwriting over and over until my hands turn shaky and I wipe away a tear with the back of my hand.

“My next wish is for your happiness. I
never
want to see you cry again over something stupid that I’ve done. Happy tears? Totally fine. But knowing that I’ve hurt you …” his voice trails off and he shakes his head, silently scolding himself. “I can’t handle being the root of your sadness.”

Phoenix pulls down the second ivory crane and cautiously hands it to me. I purse my lips, release a breath and trace my fingers over the outside of the paper before carefully unfolding the bird.

I will never forgive myself for being the source of your tears. Ever. But as long as you'll let me, I want to be the man who dries those tears. Your happiness, no matter the cost, is what I want for you in life. You deserve nothing less than infinite happiness.

I want that, too. I really, really do.

“And my last wish ...” Phoenix takes a deep, shaky breath. “Well, this one is a bit selfish. But my last wish is that
one day
you will agree to be wife.”