Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2) (4 page)

How is it only eleven?

This is single-handedly the longest day
ever
.

I open a browser and type Brock Coulter into the search bar. Dozens of results generate and I click an interview translated from a French newspaper. I quickly gather that this guy is a piece of work. He’s nearly forty but acts like he’s nineteen. A self-proclaimed playboy who never keeps the same man for more than one night. And he spent an evening in jail in Paris for urinating off of the Pont des Arts Bridge.

I haven’t even met the guy and already I’m sure that I’m a fan. I click back to the search results and scan through the links, hoping to get a better sense of his art. After all, that is arguably more important than the content of his character. I stumble onto what appears to be a fan website and what I find completely blows me away. There are pages upon pages of nonsensical sculptures made from PVC pipes, fast food wrappers, and one even made from human hair. It’s intriguing, at best. But the shadows on the wall behind them is where the true art lies. Upon turning on the spotlight, the PVC pipes cast the shadow of a boat on the ocean. Fast food wrappers reveal someone hovering over a toilet. And the human hair creates a tornado with debris kicked up all around it.

Nothing is what it seems at first glance. And every sculpture harbors a secret until the lights go down and the spotlight shines on it. It’s truly stunning, and kind of like people— what you see isn’t necessarily what you get. Sometimes you see something completely different and beautiful when the light hits you just right. Hopefully, this theory applies to Brock as well because I’m not sure I have it in me to tolerate a thirty-something party boy.

My phone chimes, pulling my focus away from the computer.

Phoenix:
How’s your day going?

Ivy:
Eh, kinda boring. Just doing some research on the next artist in residence.

Phoenix:
Want to grab lunch?

Ivy:
I can’t head out since Farrah is coming by at some point. Want to bring lunch in?

Phoenix:
Sounds great! I’ll be over in 20.

Ivy:
Perfect. See you soon! xoxo

Phoenix really lucked out finding an architecture firm needing a landscape architect when we moved to New York. Landscape architects aren’t exactly in high demand these days, but Smyth & McCabe were in the process of expanding their offering to skyline oases in the city, which Phoenix claims is just another fancy way to say rooftop garden. Even better, he’s a ten-minute cab ride away in light traffic. His boss, Carl McCabe, has been a wonderful mentor for Phoenix, and the pair have been hard at work pulling together a pitch for a new rooftop design at a luxury hotel off of Times Square. If they can secure it, it would be an incredible addition to his portfolio.

I’m filing some paperwork in the back office when the smell of cheeseburgers pulls me out into the gallery. My mouth waters and my stomach growls.

“Oh my god, I could kiss you right now!” I squeal when I spy Phoenix holding a greasy bag from Petey’s Burger in his hand.

“Good. Get your ass over here and kiss me before we both starve.”

I sprint toward Phoenix and jump into his arms, planting a passionate kiss on his lips. He tightly wraps his arms around me and deepens the kiss, his tongue skirting mine. I’m starving, but not so much for food right now. He laughs deeply when he pulls his lips away from mine. “I love that you’re not a salad girl.”

“Life is too short to not eat cheeseburgers.” With my feet finally back on the floor, I pry the bag from his hands and pull out the cheeseburgers. We take a seat on the floor and lean our backs against one of the walls. I eagerly peel back the wrapper and take a huge bite, smiling as the beef practically melts on my tongue.

“Petey’s is so damn good,” I moan.

Phoenix laughs. “You better watch out or I’m gonna get jealous over here,” he says with a wink. “I want to be the only guy who makes you moan like that.”

Oh
…
I want that too, Phoenix.

We’re devouring our cheeseburgers, enjoying one another’s presence, when his phone plays the Imperial March from
Star Wars
. Phoenix blushes and sends the incoming call to voicemail, silencing his phone. “Who was that?”

Phoenix breaks eye contact and looks apprehensively at the floor. “Hailey,” he deadpans.

“Oh.”

That was one name I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear.
A fitting ringtone
—
the perfect mixture of death and evil.
My stomach flops as I remember the horrible feeling that washed over me when I saw Phoenix with his arm around her at the welcome party at the Signature Room before Gen’s wedding. It’s just as nauseating now as it was then.

“I didn’t realize that you guys still talked.” I hate that my voice sounds so feeble and pathetic.

“We don’t, actually.” He stops eating and fidgets with his cheeseburger wrapper nervously. “But she won’t stop calling. This has to be the tenth time this week.”

Tenth time?

While I appreciate his honesty, part of me would rather not know she has been calling him, let alone calling him obsessively. I don’t like the thought of any girl calling him, period. I don’t want to be
that
girlfriend, but nothing good can come from this. However, I do know from personal experience that there are only two ways to get someone to stop calling you.

One, you block the number.

Or two, you deal with it head-on, answer the damn phone and find out what the hell it is they want.

“Don’t you think you should at least answer? If she’s been trying to get a hold of you, it must be something important. What harm is there in asking what she wants?” I take another bite of my cheeseburger, but it no longer sits well in my stomach.

“I wouldn’t say there isn’t any harm. Hailey has a history of starting unnecessary drama. Forcing her way into situations and stirring shit up. And I don’t want to invite that into
our
life.”

The way he says
our
makes my insides melt, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more than what he’s telling me. I thought for sure we’d be leaving all of the past bullshit in Chicago where it belongs. But that’s the thing about bullshit. It will hunt you down and slowly erode your sense of security.

“All right. Well, she
is
your friend.”

“Was,” he clips sharply. “She’s certainly no friend of mine now.”

“What the heck happened with you two?”

Phoenix diverts his eyes toward the floor, grinds his jaw and simply shakes his head, either unable or unwilling to tell me about their history.

“Whatever she is—or
was
—I know you’ll make the right decision.”

Phoenix leans over with a small smile and kisses my cheek. “Thank you for understanding, Ivy.”

I’m not quite sure I do understand, but I’m trying to. Just as I’m about to ask him how he and Hailey fell into the same circle of friends, a petite blonde walks through the door, lifting her sunglasses on top of her head. She stops in her tracks and looks at us questionably through slitted eyes.

“James informed you there’s no food allowed in the gallery, did he not?”

Well, hello to you, too. Glad to see we
’
re off on the right foot.

“You must be Farrah,” I say, pushing myself to my feet and rushing over to introduce myself to her formally. “I’m Ivy.” I reach out my hand and she takes it cautiously. Her handshake isn’t nearly as firm as I’d expect it to be. “And no, he didn’t mention it to me. I just assumed it was fine since the shows here are catered. It won’t happen again.”

I look back to Phoenix and he wraps up what’s left of our food and stuff it back into the bag.

She looks at me and embarrassment flashes in her eyes. “Sorry, I’m usually not this rude. I’m just not having the best day. My boyfriend left the country this morning and I won’t see him for a few months. I just picked up the paperwork from Coulter’s studio,” Farrah explains, shoving a stack of papers into my hands. “I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He had a collection of antique doll heads nailed to the wall. No bodies. Just the heads. And on top of it all, he hoards junk. Literal piles of junk that should be thrown away. The guy really creeps me out.”

Farrah shudders and the hairs on my arm stand on end.

“Maybe it’s art?” Phoenix says, attempting to put her in place.

“
Or
… maybe it really is just trash?” Farrah retorts as she examines her nails in what I can only presume is boredom.

“Well, regardless, he sounds lovely.” I try to be optimistic, but these details paired with his alleged penchant for partying send all sorts of red flags flying in my mind. I’ve spent the last twenty some odd years dealing with the inexcusable antics of Genevieve and my mom. Certainly I can handle whatever theatrics this guy throws at me. But if he’s anything remotely like my experience with Dane Wright, this shouldn’t be bad at all.

“Yeah, good luck with that.” Farrah drops Brock’s signed contract on the desk and heads out the door.

Then again, maybe not.

I’M HAVING ONE OF
THOSE
days.

You know the kind—the world is out to get you, nothing is in its right place, and the only thing you want is to be left the hell alone.

For whatever reason, Phoenix’s secrecy is really just pissing me off today. And with the seed of Hailey now firmly planted deep inside, I feel like a grenade just waiting to detonate. But instead, I’m here on the couch with Phoenix, his head resting in my lap. I should be content in this moment, but I’m more irritated than anything else. He keeps laughing at the television, but I couldn’t even tell you what he’s watching. I’m mindlessly lost in my own thoughts, playing the tortuous game of
what if
.

I can’t shake this feeling that there’s something he’s not telling me.

What if
there’s someone else?

What if
we’re not going to work out?

What if
he feels obligated to stay with me, not out of love but out of some misplaced responsibility?

And why the hell is Hailey still calling?

Phoenix rolled out of bed last night around three or so. This is the fourth time this week he’s done that. I couldn't fall asleep after he left, and I couldn’t bring myself to go after him. Instead, I listened to the TV through the wall. Nineties sitcoms are a popular choice for him in the wee hours of the morning. I focus on the screen for a moment and notice that’s what he’s watching right now. It’s the
Friends
episode with the naked guy and the giant poking device. I’ve seen this one no less than twenty times to be exact. It must be nice to have all of your problems solved in thirty minutes or less with some heart-warming underlying message. It makes me wish Marta Kauffman or Lorne Michaels could direct my life.

It amazes me how Phoenix and I rarely butt heads on things. It’s kind of refreshing, especially having grown up in a home where more often than not you could hear my parents arguing through the walls about mundane bullshit. But with Phoenix, the only time we’re ever at odds is when he doesn’t want waffles for dinner. And even then it’s not a major point of contention. And it’s not like one of us is just being overly accommodating—we just genuinely share the same interests and views. But there’s one thing we can’t agree on, and he refuses to agree to disagree.

Sully.

Don’t get me wrong. We both vehemently agree that he is a self-righteous shitbag who deserves to have the ACME anvil dropped squarely on his head in a most painful death. But I would much rather not dwell on all the shit that happened. I know that I can’t keep moving forward if I continue to allow my past to have a grasp on me. So I elect to just let it go.

But Phoenix, on the other hand, wants me to personally crucify him. And as enticing as that sounds, I don’t think I have the emotional capacity to face it head on without absolutely imploding. So I do as I see fit. And continue to ignore the whole situation.

Or at least
try
to.

Phoenix looks up at me and knits his eyebrows together, detecting something is off. He sits up to see me at eye level. “What’s the matter, hon?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” I lie.

Why is it that once you start lying it’s easier to keep telling lies than to simply come clean? Then again, he would know. He’s been sitting on a secret for a while now.

“You look like you’ve got something on your mind, babe. Want to talk about it?”

It takes effort not to ask what is eating at
him
to the point of insomnia. But instead, I just shake my head, not wanting to probe him. I’ve done a good job convincing myself that he’ll open up when he’s good and ready.

“You’re thinking about what happened back in Chicago again, aren’t you?”

“No, but now I am.” I press my index fingers to my temples and rub.

Trying
to calm my racing mind.

Trying
to squeeze out the rising hurt.

Trying
to forget about everything that happened.