Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2) (6 page)

My eyes shift from Phoenix to the pile of colorful squares littered across our tiny kitchen table.

“What are you doing?” I ask, changing the subject. Picking up a piece of delicate paper and examining it between my fingertips. This piece, in particular, is a textured parchment, in slate with woven specks of silver intertwined.

“It’s something my mom spent hours doing in a haze after we left my dad. I think she took comfort in keeping herself busy with something so mundane. She would spend hours mindlessly folding the paper, barely slowing down to look at her fingers, making dozens of paper cranes in one sitting. I didn’t realize just how therapeutic it was until after she was gone,” he says as he pinches the paper to make the head of the bird and sets the yellow crane upright on the table. “When she died, I started to make these almost daily. It made me feel closer to her. It’s been a while since I made one and I’m surprised I remember how to do it. My fingers must have committed the motions to memory. Here, you try.”

Phoenix passes me a square piece of navy paper and I look at it, completely clueless.

“I don’t know how. I’ve never done origami before.”

“It’s easy,” he says with a hint of a smile that just touches his eyes.

He kicks out the chair next to him and I take a seat. He guides me through the process of folding, unfolding, creasing and tucking the corners of the paper, whispering each step like a lullaby as we go.

Each fold creating an imperfection on a flat piece of paper, but those flaws skillfully creating a beautifully perfect bird. Phoenix is an artist in his own right and doesn’t even realize it.

“There,” he says proudly, placing his red crane next to the yellow one from earlier. Six of them stand wing to wing on our table.

I look at my blue blob of a bird and laugh.

“Mine looks like a deformed swan,” I say, comparing it to his. “That’s a lot harder than it looks.”

“It’s perfect.” He closes his eyes and gives me a soft kiss on my forehead. “Did you know that the crane is a holy creature fabled to live for a thousand years? It’s Japanese folklore. Whenever my mom would finish folding a crane, she’d hand it to me and tell me to make a wish. She believed that each crane you created granted you one wish. I wished for so many things. For my mom to get back to her old self. For her to find love again and get remarried. As I got older, I wished for more trivial, selfish shit like a car or to get laid.” He laughs at the memory.

I brush the hair out of my eyes and look at Phoenix, lost in thought at the memory of his mother. It’s obvious that losing her still pains him after all this time. He grabs another piece of square paper and begins to fold in the first corner.

“She had it all wrong, though. The legend actually says that in order for you to receive a wish, you have to fold one thousand paper cranes—one crane for each year of its life.”

I watch him in silence as he runs his fingers over a mint green square, creasing the paper, making it perfectly crisp. I reach out and rest my hand on his shoulder, running my thumb along the soft cotton of his shirt.

“That’s not all, though. She didn’t realize that the wish only comes true for the person who made the cranes. She spent all her time wasting those wishes on me when she needed to keep them for herself. Maybe then …” He trails off with a sigh.

I know he’s thinking that she could still be here on earth if she just kept the wishes for herself. But we both know there’s nothing anyone could have done to save her.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out just louder than a whisper. And he knows I’m not just apologizing for his mother.

Phoenix nods and reaches for my hand. We sit in silence for what feels like hours.

“Ivy.” He closes his eyes and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “This relationship … this is the one that I want to fight for, but I can’t be the only one fighting. And I certainly don’t want to be fighting
with
you.”

My vision turns everything into watercolor and I lose it. I am so not deserving of this incredible, forgiving man in front of me.

Phoenix pulls me into his lap and holds me tight as his shirt welcomes my tears.

“Shhh …” he whispers.

“I love you.”

“And I love you more than all the birds in the history of time, paper or otherwise.”

And just like that, everything is as it should be.

Almost.

THE ACRID STENCH OF TOBACCO smoke burns my nostrils, pulling me from the back office where I was busy rocking out to
One Way or Another
. A strange man is lying down in the middle of the gallery floor, arms splayed out to his sides, cigarette loosely hanging from his lips. His feet flip back and forth lazily, like a metronome keeping rhythm as he mumbles some indecipherable tune that is most definitely
not
Blondie.

“Excuse me … you can’t smoke in here.” I nudge his foot with mine and cross the gallery floor to turn down the music.

I walk up beside him again, but he is lost in his own thoughts. He brings his hand up to his face and takes the cigarette from his mouth, flicking the ash to the floor as he exhales several smoke rings into the space between us. He’s like the hookah-smoking caterpillar, and I’m Alice, and together we’re lost in this magical place called Wonderland. Except Wonderland is this whitewashed gallery just waiting for the colorful mess of the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Though in fairness, he’s probably taking both the red and blue pills.

When he brings the cigarette back to his lips, I nudge his leg with my food. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave.” I grit my teeth, politeness faintly seething through.

“I’m really struggling with the zen of this place.” He waves his empty hand in the air. “It doesn’t feel right.”

And I
’
m really struggling with you interrupting my Debbie Harry zen with your nonsense.

He sits up abruptly, folding his legs underneath his body. And I eye the phone on the desk, tempted to make a dash and call the cops.

“Sir,” I bite back, trying to be firm, but polite and professional. “You need to leave. Now.”

He stands himself upright and drops the cigarette to the floor, crushing it under the bottom of his soft leather shoe.

“Simmer down, peaches. I’m just checking the place out.” He has the audacity to wink at me, and I’m surprised by his striking blue eyes electrified by his sapphire gingham shirt. I feel like I
should
know him, but nothing rings a bell.

Now that he’s at eye level, I can see just how handsome he is. I quickly snap myself from my reverie and follow him as he explores the space.

He uses his hands to frame invisible things throughout the gallery as he mutters nonsense to himself.

Cautiously, I walk over to the desk and grab the cordless phone, debating if I need to call the cops.

“This’ll do. But it’s bigger than what I envisioned. So I’ll need to push everything back. By at least three weeks.”

Push back? What the hell is he talking about? “I’m sorry. What was your name again?”

He turns his back to me, as he circles the room. “Brock. I’m Brock Coulter.” His voice is low and rough from what I can only assume is decades of smoking.

He stops and turns, looking directly at me. The man before me shares little resemblance to the photographs I saw online.

“Oh … my apologies. I had no idea you were coming in today.”

Damn moody artists, so unpredictable. I dismiss the cigarette butt on the floor, knowing full well that Mr. Horesji would be fine with him breaking the rules of the gallery.

“And you are?”

“Ivy Phillips. Associate Curator. I’ll be your main point of contact here. Anything you need, I’m your girl.”

“
Anything?
” He paws at my arm, and I blush at the insinuation in his voice.

“Don’t push it, buddy.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about a thing. I’m a practicing asexual.”

I stare at him blankly.

“I practice loving myself. A lot.”

Oh geez.
“Um, I hate to break it to you, but that’s not what it means to be asexual.”

“Sure it does! I just love myself until I find some other man who can love me hard enough on my behalf.” He flits his fingers in the air as though his comments are fact.

“If you say so.” I chuckle and give him a brief tour of the gallery, explaining the capabilities of the space and my vision for his upcoming show.

“I meant what I said though. About the zen. It’s all wrong for my artistry.”

God, this man is full of himself.

“Well, whatever you need me to do to make it right, just let me know.”

“Oh, I’ll let you know.” He tries to undress me with his smile, but I just shake my head in disbelief.

We spend the next few hours discussing exactly the kind of zen he needs to ensure satisfaction at Gallery 545, and I learn three very important things about Brock.

One, while he may be certifiably insane, the man is pure genius. He doesn’t listen and he’s moody, but he has a vision and knows precisely what he wants. I like to imagine that all of the artistic greats throughout history shared a similar manic approach to life. I’m sure I’m one of the few out there who appreciates this kind of mentality.

Two, the man is in love with himself. Ridiculously so. It’s as if he’s the forbidden love child of Andy Warhol and Steve Stifler from
American Pie
. When I ask him what inspires him, he replies, “Anything phallic.” When I ask him what he likes to do when he’s not holed up in his studio all day, he simply says, “Myself.” Brock is a giant man-child in so many ways. He needs both his cock and his ego stroked to stay happy.

And three, despite the fact we clearly have nothing in common beyond an appreciation for art, we are getting along swimmingly. He makes it clear that, in general, he hates people, but for some reason he didn’t hate me. When I ask why he simply responds, “Have you actually
met
people? People inherently suck.”

And with that, he seals his fate in my good graces. I kind of want to put him in my pocket and take him home, though I’m sure there is some kind of professional rule against it.

But something tells me Brock wouldn't mind one bit.

TRUE TO HIS WORD, MY dad has come to visit me in New York. And true to my nature, I’m running behind schedule to meet him. Again.

The first time he was here we grabbed a quick lunch since he was in and out of the city the same day. It was rushed, but not nearly as awkward as I thought it was going to be. Things have finally started to feel easier in his presence. It only took twenty-some odd years.

About damn time.

This time he’s back in town for an overnight business trip and wanted to take Phoenix and me out for a nice dinner.

“Can’t you go any faster?” I beg the cab driver.

“And where exactly would you like me to go?” His European accent is thick and his cab reeks of homeless people and bleach. I reach for my phone in disgust and Phoenix answers after the third ring.

“Ivy?”

“Sorry, I’m on my way there now. I'm stuck in a cab on Fifth Avenue, but I’m almost to Broadway.”

“I told you the train would be faster.”