Love Nouveau (11 page)

“You have to go for it, Ivy. I mean, this could be the guy to turn your life upside down in all the best ways possible.”

“You seem to be overlooking the obvious problem,” I say.

“Screw the distance. You never turned your back on a challenge before. The risk could totally be worth the reward with him.”

I can’t help but think that for once, Rachel might be right.

After she helps me unload the last of my belongings, Rachel makes me promise to get together a few times over the next few weeks. She gives me an overenthusiastic hug before I begrudgingly turn and head into my parent’s house.

It’s strange being back in Chicago under this roof. I can’t remember the last time it actually felt like home. The houses on Astor Street are a symbol of old money in this city. Its residents include some of the most renowned surgeons in the Midwest, successful litigation lawyers, and Fortune 500 executive officers. My dad falls in that last category as Chief Operating Officer for the largest financial firm in the Loop.

I know I should feel fortunate enough to have grown up so privileged, but honestly, it was hell. My parents like to constantly remind me that they own everything within its walls, including myself. Being back here as an adult feels all wrong. In fact, I didn’t really miss this place at all.

That’s the thing about my parents. I only miss them when I’m
with
them. Their presence reminds me of the fact they never really were parents at all. A commanding hand, a means to a financial end, and a roof over my head—that’s about it.

Now that I’m a grown woman, I can’t help but think I am better off without them. It’s a wonder I was able to co-exist with them as long as I did. I’m eager to break free of them and be truly independent.

Standing in my childhood bedroom, I realize that I am looking at a ten-year-old Ivy frozen in time. Autographed photographs of professional ballerinas are still framed on the wall, and the faded pink paisley comforter is tucked neatly in place under a mountain of pillows. I haven’t liked the color pink since I was five years old, and I haven’t danced ballet in over a decade. Madame Alexander dolls line the shelves of a glass curio cabinet, never to be played with, just admired from afar. This room is a reminder of the “me” my parents wanted me to be.

The me
they tried to mold but never succeeded.

The me
I worked so hard to avoid.

Small acts of defiance throughout my teenage years were the tiny victories I relished in. The fake ID I secured. Successfully sneaking out of the house to go skinny-dipping in Lake Michigan with some hot upperclassmen at my prep school. But sleeping with Glen behind my sister’s back was the final dagger that sealed my fate with my family.

That was the moment they seemed to give up hope. I like to think that I never did care, but the truth is that hurt.

A brusque knock at the door pulls me from my mental revelry.

“Ivy. You’re home.” My mother observes as steps into my room, arms folded. She doesn’t come near. She doesn’t hug me or tell me how much I was missed while abroad. She just stands there, coldness emanating from her expression. She is quite the welcome wagon.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that this is only temporary. Her eyes do a once over and I can read disapproval in her pursed lips.

“Yeah, Rachel dropped me off a little while ago,” I say, matching her stare.

She responds with a silent nod. “Dinner will be at six. Please shower and make yourself presentable before then.”

It’s comforting to see that some things will never change. The ice queen that is my mother remains frozen in spite of the looming summer heat. It’s amazing just how lonely I feel when I’m around my family. Surely Genevieve has never felt this way. After all, she is the golden child.

DINNER CAME AND WENT WITHOUT fanfare. As expected, Genevieve gushed over mundane wedding details with my mother. Does anybody really give a shit if the napkins are folded in a French Pleat instead of an Opera Fan? As the pair drone on, my father flashes a tight, sad smile as we both eat in silence.

In another place and time I think my dad would not be all that bad. If you could just peel back the designer suits and mutual funds and my mother latched to his hip, I really think he’d be a decent, humble man. He seems to understand my pariah status in this family, even if he doesn’t actively do anything about it.

Sometimes just understanding isn’t enough. I might actually like him if he weren’t under my mother’s influence.

I didn’t bother making plans tonight as things have been so exhausting the past week. I’m still not entirely over the jetlag and I want nothing more than to retreat to my bedroom and watch reruns of sitcoms I missed while abroad. I pass through the library to grab a glass of water before retiring to my room for the night.

“You look different, Ivy,” my dad observes with a lightness in his voice. “Italy must have treated you rather well.”

I smile and my heart swells ever so slightly. “Thanks, Dad. The experience was more than I ever dreamed it could be. I’m really glad I made the decision to go abroad.”

“Did you meet a boy there? I haven’t seen you look this way since you brought Matt home the first time.”

Ugh.
I cringe at the sound of his name. It will take a miracle to erase him from my family’s grasp. I settle on a half-truth. “No, I didn’t meet anyone in Italy, Dad.” My lips form a tight smile. I really don’t want to be talking about this with him.

“Oh, okay then.”

I walk toward the kitchen, but he calls back to me. “Don’t think you’re off the hook with me just yet, young lady. When you’re ready I want to hear about all Italy and whatever is taking up space in that pretty little head of yours,” he teases.

My cheeks turn scarlet as I think back to the past few days. Even after all the time away from my dad, I still can’t fool him.

AS I LIE IN BED, I find myself wanting to turn back the clocks and unkiss Phoenix just so I can experience the magic of that first kiss all over again. His tender lips, assertive grasp, his amazingly delicious scent, his sweet taste. It was an assault of all my senses.

I drift off to sleep, dreaming of hazel eyes and telescopes and wrought iron benches along the lake.

THE NEXT DAY I WAKE in the early afternoon. After nearly a week of trying to adjust, the hours of jetlag have finally caught up to me. I stare wide-eyed at the textures in the ceiling, finding shapes and scenes like I used to as a child. I have no idea how I am going to get through staying here. Only another week or so and I’ll be in New York City, hopefully securing my future.

“Why aren’t you ready to go?”

Startled, I sit up and give Genevieve the side eye I perfected after decades of being under this roof.

“I told you last night at dinner that I needed you to come with me today. The florist? We’re meeting CJ there, remember?”

“I … I’m sorry. I must’ve been so exhausted that I didn’t hear you.”

At least I’ll finally get to meet the infamous Cortland James. There is a special place in heaven for anyone willingly enlisting themselves for a lifetime of my sister’s bullshit, even if they’re enlisting for all the wrong reasons.

“Well, we’re leaving in ten minutes. I’ll see you downstairs.” She turns, leaving my bedroom door wide open. I can hear her heavy footsteps as she makes her way to the main foyer in a huff.

I shower in record time and twist my dark hair into a loose, wet bun at the nape of my neck before tearing my favorite vintage sapphire sundress from my closet. Dabbing on some gloss and mascara, I pin my grandmother’s pearl studs in my ears and slip on my strappy sandals.

Racing down the stairs, I find Genevieve waiting for me with a bored expression. “Ready?” she asks with a hint of annoyance.

I grab my purse from the console table and open the door, escaping from her nonsense. “Let’s go,” I call out over my shoulder.

When we get to the town car, I can’t hide my elation when I see Harold standing there, waiting to open the door. Officially, Harold is our driver and has been a permanent fixture in our family as long as I can remember, but to me, he’s the grandfather I never knew. He is incredibly kind to my family, especially since my parents don’t deserve his respect the vast majority of the time.

Harold greets me with his megawatt smile and I can’t fight the overwhelming urge to run and hug him. “It’s good to have you home, Miss Ivy.” He pulls back and gives me a once over proudly. “Italy looks good on you.”

“Thanks, Harold.” I reach up on my tiptoes and give him a soft kiss on his cheek, smiling as he blushes. “I’ve missed you too.”

Behind me, Genevieve haughtily clears her throat and waits for Harold to open the door. I step out of her way and give Harold an overdramatic eye roll as I climb in after her. Now, more than ever, I am thankful for his years of service to our family and to the old friend he has been to me.

As we pull onto Lake Shore Drive, Genevieve’s phone shrills to the tune of church bells. “Hi, baby,” she coos into the receiver.

I turn to look out the window and give her as much privacy as the backseat of a town car can afford. Outside, the path along Lake Michigan is filled with runners and cyclists soaking in the beautiful weather. What I would give to escape the insanity of my family and join them in their free afternoon.

“What do you mean you can’t make it?” Genevieve exasperates. “Damn it, CJ! You have to be here today. We’re finalizing the centerpieces. I can’t do this without you.”

I want to tell her that she is fully capable of making these kinds of decisions without him, that he likely doesn’t give a shit about these kind of things, but I hold my tongue. It’s not my problem.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Tell him that there are plenty of other fish in the sea. Tell him … tell him that life is tough and to wear a helmet.” She shuts up momentarily, finally listening to what he has to say. “Fine,” she growls. “You owe me.”

Genevieve dramatically throws her phone into her clutch. No good-bye, no I love you, no nothing. For the first time ever, I look at my sister and feel an overwhelming sense of pity. If she is going to handle her marriage like that, like our parents did, she is in for a lifetime of disappointment. Assuming they even make it that long.

She releases a weighted sigh and turns to face me. “I’m so sorry, Ivy,” she croons sweetly at me. “Apparently, CJ is unable to join us this afternoon. It appears that one of his groomsmen is having girlfriend troubles and started drinking with breakfast. My darling feels it’s necessary to interfere and do damage control before things with him get worse. Rain check on meeting the love of my life?” The plastic smile on her pretty little face is a perfect match for her plastic life.

It’s revolting.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I reply.

“It’ll probably be a few weeks before you get to meet him now. He is heading out of town on business,” she tells me, swearing under her breath.

I can’t help but think she has a thing or two to learn about love. My thoughts are interrupted by her detailing a recent rift she had with the florist about her tropical flowers. It seems as if this florist reassured her that tropical flowers flown in from Hawaii would be more sustainable than the tropical flowers she demanded from Tahiti.

First world problems.

If she put half as much effort into her relationships as she did with this wedding, she would be set for life.

As we drive through the city, I can’t help but wonder what Phoenix is doing today. I grab my phone and fire off a quick message his way.

Ivy:
Thanks again for Saturday night. I hope you’re having a good day! Catch up soon?

I toss my phone back into my purse and brace myself for what will inevitably be the world’s longest afternoon.

By the time we finally get home I’m exhausted. Not only did we spend three hours at the florist, but we also dropped off the name cards at the calligrapher’s studio, stopped by the seamstress to make sure that my monstrosity of a dress fit, then ran to a local bakery to design a groom’s cake as a surprise. To top off our day, we had dinner at my favorite pizza joint in the entire city where Genevieve proceeded to order a salad—a criminal offense in the presence of deep-dish lovers, but I really shouldn’t be surprised. She probably hasn’t touched a carb in eight years.

I checked my phone obsessively throughout the day, but there was still no response from Phoenix. I feel slightly wounded, though I try to brush it off. Maybe he’s not into me nearly as much as I am with him. I mean, it’s not like I’m dating the guy or anything. Instead of dwelling in disappointment, I power up my laptop to check my email.

At the very top of my inbox, there is a message from James Horesji’s personal assistant with a few flight options for my upcoming interview. It’s surreal how fast everything is happening. I email her back and ask her to book my flight for Tuesday, the first available option next week. Anything to get me out of Chicago sooner rather than later. I go through and start deleting junk mail and nearly trash a message from P. Wolfe. It’s the subject line that grabs my attention.

“The stars shine brighter when I’m with you.”

My insides swell ever so slightly and I open the email, hoping that it’s from who I think it’s from.

At risk of sounding resoundingly pathetic, I miss you. I miss you so much that I want to write “I miss you” on a rock and throw it at your face so you know just how much it hurts to miss you. But then, if I were that close I would have every reason in the world to kiss you and make you feel better.

If missing you this much is wrong, I don’t want to be right. Please tell me you want to throw rocks at my face too?

Phoenix

He misses me!

I breathe a sigh of relief and thank the maker I’m not the only sap still dreaming of two nights ago. I read his email over and over, my smile growing bigger each time. Laughing under my breath, I open up a blank email and craft an equally smart-ass response.