Love Nouveau (24 page)

I don’t want to go home. I’ll go anywhere but home. But apparently, I’m not staying here tonight. Then again, I’m certain my presence would merely cock block him from whichever conquest he would be bringing home after last call.

“Don’t bother. Just give me a few moments and I’ll call myself a cab.” Matt closes the door and I hear him mutter obscenities through the walls. Slowly, I compose myself. I’m nauseated and crampy and my head is pounding to the beat of a thousand staccato drums.

With a shaky hand, I raise the glass to my lips and the cool water helps bring me to my senses as I wash my face and rinse out my mouth. Leaning against the sides of the sink, I stare at the reflection of a woman who is broken and lost. It’s the same reflection I’ve seen staring back at me the past few years, but this time I’m actually cognizant of how empty I am, and how hollow my life has become. Hours ago, I was so sure of what I wanted, and now? Now I have no idea
who
I even am.

Matt is nowhere to be seen when I emerge from the bathroom so I let myself out. I walk aimlessly through the Old Town neighborhood before folding myself over on a bench when the pain of my broken heart becomes too much.

THE CABBIE PULLS ONTO ASTOR and stops in front of my parent’s estate. “This it?” he asks, eyeing me from his rearview mirror. I don’t recall getting into the cab, but I throw a wad of bills into the front seat and slam the taxi door shut.

The house is dark and I find comfort knowing that no one is home. As I expected, and wanted, their night continued on without me. Undoubtedly, excuses were made for my theatrical exit and I’ll probably never hear the end of it, but for now, I’ve found solitude.

Peace.

Climbing the stairs, I stop and look at the walls. In a happier home, you would find photos from family vacations and school portraits, freezing that moment in time. But not here. Here the walls are covered in oil paintings hung in gold leaf frames; meaningless and void of any emotion. I ache for that sense of family before I make my way to my childhood bedroom. My shoes are kicked to the corner and I leave the stained dress in a pile of ruins on the bathroom floor. In a drawer I find one of my old high school T-shirts, so soft and threadbare it’s like a second skin.

I take one final glance at my phone before I crawl into bed. Seventeen missed calls—three from Rachel, the rest from Phoenix. Some text messages from the pair, but I don’t dare read any of Phoenix’s bullshit. I’m not in the mood for his excuses or truths tonight, so I turn my phone off and chase a few sleeping pills with a sip of vodka, willing myself to sleep before the rest of my family returns home from their perfect, happy Norman Rockwell dinner.

MORNING COMES ENTIRELY TOO SOON. And the void where my heart once was is overwhelming.

I open my eyes and get lost in the patterns of the textured ceiling. Last night was an absolute nightmare and my body is still reaping its assault. I'm sore, undoubtedly bruised from Matt’s angry hands, crampy, emotionally wrung out and seemingly hungover in spite of not even drinking last night.

The pieces are finally fitting together. CJ … Sully … Cortland James Sullivan III is marrying my sister. Phoenix is in the wedding. The very same wedding I’m standing up in as the maid of honor in a few short days. And on top of it all, Phoenix is with some other girl. The thought of seeing him with that girl this weekend is torturous. I’ve spent the last however many weeks playing right into his lies. I am arguably the stupidest, most naïve person in the history of time.

I can’t believe I’ve allowed myself to start to feel something for him. He is no better than my parents. All that deceit … I wonder if there was any truth to the things he told me over the past few weeks.

Surely there was. The connection we had was so real.

But how could that connection possibly be real if he could blatantly lie to me like that? Phoenix is no better than anyone else in my family.

Seriously, I cannot get over that this is my life. That last night actually happened to me. Rachel is right, I’m an absolute mess. I should have just waited downstairs for her in the lobby or called her when shit first threw down between me and Genevieve on the way to the dinner.

Oh, crap.

Matt.

The indiscretions of the night are slowly returning to the forefront of my mind.
I slept with Matt. Kind of. Who knows how many people have heard his version of last night by now.

Fuck.

Just kill me. He is never going to let me live this down. I have undoubtedly opened the door for him to try and weasel his way back into my life. Why can’t I just lock him in my past where he belongs and throw away the key?

Between stumbling upon who Phoenix really is, throwing myself at Matt, and then falling ill on top of it all, I’ve had enough drama to last me until I turn thirty. I haven’t physically felt this terrible since I woke up at that house party in Madison when I met Phoenix. My heart breaks a little more at the thought of him.

My insides give me another lowly gurgle. Just as I’m about to pull the sheets back to start my day, my door cracks open. Genevieve pops her head through the frame.

“Hey, are you okay? I didn’t see you at all last night after we arrived. You’re not pissed off at me about what I said, are you?” There is a hint of sincerity in her voice, and for a fraction of a moment I’m reminded of how things used to be between us when we were little, when we were actually friends. But the moment is overshadowed by her obliviousness to the drama that threw down at her own party. Her level of self-absorption is truly astounding.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just…” I trail off. “Something came up and I needed to get out of there. Sorry I bailed. I hope I didn’t put you in a bad spot,” I lie, not really caring about her dinner last night.

Genevieve plops down on the side of my bed. Her warm eyes contradict the sour look on her face. “Oh, Ivy. If you’re jealous about me getting married, it’s okay. Your day will come eventually.”

And there it is!
Her tone is mocking and I bite my tongue, fighting the urge to reach out and bitch slap her. Only another week or so and this will all be behind me.

“But until then, we have to go to the seamstress this morning. You need to learn how to bustle the back of my dress!” She bounces ever so slightly and claps her hands. The squeal that escapes her body grates against my skin like nails dragging along a chalkboard.

I sigh, realizing that there is no use in fighting her this morning. We’re so close to the wedding day that I just need to get through the next few days.

“All right, I’m getting up. Just let me hop in the shower and I’ll be ready to go in thirty minutes.” Genevieve stands up to leave as I toss the sheets aside to start my day.

My heart stops.

Red.

I see red everywhere. It’s covering my sheets, my clothes. Everything.

“Oh my god,” Genevieve says with a genuinely concerned gasp. “Is that blood?”

“I … I … I don’t understand.”

My mind goes straight to Matt. What the fuck did he do to me last night?

Genevieve stands, frozen in shock. “Are you hemorrhaging? That’s too much blood to be your period. We need to get you to the hospital,” she says, rushing to my side.

This is the first caring gesture I’ve experienced from my sister since we were little and she gave me her teddy bear after I left mine at Nana and Pop Pop’s house. “Mom and Dad are both out running errands with Harold right now. I’ll get us a taxi. It’ll be faster than calling an ambulance.” She grabs my purse from the armoire as she races out of the room.

My soul bottoms out from my insides and I can feel my pulse behind my eyes and in my fingertips. Confusion is not an emotion I’m familiar with, but my mind fogs over as the dizziness sets in. I quickly change into fresh clothes, ignoring my need to shower, and allow Genevieve to lead me outside to the taxicab.

“Northwestern Memorial Hospital. And step on it,” she commands, and the next few hours happen in flashes of vignettes, moments stringing together.

Genevieve gnawing on her thumbnail to the brink of bleeding.

The overwhelming lightheadedness upon my shoulders.

A needle piercing my forearm flesh with a bitter sting.

The cool liquid pumping into my body from the IV drip.

Hushed whispers questioning surgery.

The concerned faces of nurses, doctors, and orderlies.

I’m lying on a thin, uncomfortable bed in the emergency room, focusing on the melodic beeps of a machine monitoring my health.

“Ms. Cotter?” a phantom voice calls out. A man in a white coat at the end of the bed comes into focus. “Ms. Cotter … do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“I … I’m sorry?” My face contorts in confusion.

“Ivy,” Genevieve says gently, placing her hand delicately upon my arm. “This is Dr. Porter. He’s been the one ordering tests for you.” She looks from me to the doctor, then back nervously, again playing into the illusion of the doting sweet sister.

“Ms. Cotter,” the doctor begins again, “it appears that you’ve had a spontaneous abortion, more commonly known as a miscarriage.”

His words take me by surprise.
Abortion?
I didn’t have an abortion? There’s no way I could be pregnant from last night.

“I … I don’t understand. I’m not … I … I wasn’t pregnant. I haven’t had sex since last year, and I’ve had my period since then.”

With the exception of Matt last night, my subconscious scolds, but I push that thought down.

“Your blood tests show traces of human chorionic gonadotropin, the hormone indicating pregnancy.” He tries to place a comforting hand on my ankle, but his face is vacant before looking back at my chart. “Without baseline blood work, we cannot confirm for certain, but given the clotting and amount of blood expelled, we believe this to be the case. There will be no need for a dilation and curettage as your body is expelling the fetus on its own. Can you remember the start date of your last period?”

I rake my brain, trying to remember. “Um, it was back in Italy so … eight or nine weeks ago? But I’ve always been irregular, so there was never a reason for me to be alarmed,” I explain softly.

Dr. Porter nods and makes a few notes on my chart. “Well, your blood test also indicated that you have an infection. It’s difficult to say if the infection is what caused the spontaneous abortion. It would be a rare occurrence, but certainly possible.”

I cringe, wishing he would stop saying those two words. I know they can’t be true. The doctor keeps talking, but his words wash over me in waves. The word ‘pregnant’ echoes through my mind, like a pinball, incapable to coming to a standstill. Unless I’m the Virgin Mary, his prognosis is incorrect.

“We’ll need to have you on intravenous antibiotics for the next forty-eight hours so we can monitor your progress. We’ll move you up to recovery shortly so you can get more comfortable, but you’ll need to let the bleeding run its course.” He gives me a single nod and a sad, tight-lipped smile. Without a second glance, Dr. Porter turns around, leaving Genevieve and me alone with the sound of the beeping monitor.

“You little slut,” Genevieve says, trying to come off as teasing and playful. “Who have you been sleeping with? Spill it! It’s Matt, isn’t it?”

No, this is impossible.
There is an irrefutable look of shock on my face as Genevieve glares at my suspiciously.

“I’m serious, Gen. I haven’t slept with anyone.”
Except for Matt last night, which you are never finding out about. But that is completely irrelevant and has nothing to do with what’s going on right here, right now.

She rolls her eyes at me. “Well, then who have you been obsessively texting and secretly calling at night? I know you’re hiding something. Or should I say, someone?”

It takes all of my energy to not reach out and smack that condescending smirk right off of her face. But her comment makes me think about
him
and instantly I feel sick to my stomach. He looked so happy in that moment last night, until panic and dread overcame him when he realized that he’d been caught red-handed.