Love Nouveau (31 page)

But do you know the best part about airports? They have bars that open with the first flight and have bartenders who don’t judge.

It’s only ten thirty-six, but I already need a drink. My eyes flash to the clock behind the bar and I remind myself that it’s five o’clock somewhere.

Saddling up at the empty bar, I flick my driver’s license onto the wooden counter, requesting a draft I can barely pronounce. The bartender examines my ID then studies my face.

“I know. I look like I could be in high school.” I shrug, acknowledging his unspoken concern. He sighs as he pours my beer, not being mindful of the abundance of foam toppling over the rim.

The first draw I take is bitter but the ale warms my insides. The second long sip helps me forget all of the good that came into my life the past few weeks. And with the third I force myself to let go of the things I cannot control.

The dark mahogany décor reminds me of the interior of the Washburn Observatory during my only date with
him
. I refuse to even think his name; it hurts too much, so I quickly focus my attention on a toddler running wild in the terminal with his mom in hot pursuit, pushing his memory out of my mind.

The bartender wipes down the counter with a dingy, tattered rag and turns the volume up on the television. The station is showing highlights from last night’s Cubs game. Another mark in the loss column. My chest tightens at the mere mention of the Chicago Cubs. Before I would just roll my eyes and push thoughts of hot summer days at the ballpark with my dad from my mind. But now, the memory of being
his
Cubby Bear plagues me.

Everything I do and everything I see reminds me of him. It’s infuriating.

Among the crowds of people throughout the airport, I realize just how alone I am in this world. Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to being alone in every sense of the word, but this is the first time being alone has actually felt lonely. His presence, even at a distance, filled a void that I never knew existed.

I miss knowing he is just one quick phone call away.

I miss waking up to a text he sent during the night.

I miss his laugh.

His jokes.

His stories.

Hell, if I’m being entirely honest with myself, I just miss
him
even in spite of everything.

My God, how we’ve both fucked things up beyond recognition. It’s hard to not be angry with the pair of us.

Downing the rest of my beer, I slap a few singles on the bar and sling my bag over my shoulder. The bartender gives an appreciative grunt and I make my way back into the crowds of travelers.

I’ve waited my whole life to truly break free and venture out on my own. And now it’s finally here. It feels strange to find myself standing on the edge, ready to jump. Much like reading that final page of the never-ending novel—I’m excited for the resolution with the characters but so incredibly sad to see their journey end. I wish my story would have the resolution I thought I was once destined for, but sometimes it’s up to ourselves to write our own happy ending. I’m ready for the end of this novel; to turn to a blank page of a different book and simply write my own story.

An automated voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Ivy Cotter, please pick up the red courtesy phone for a message. Ivy Cotter, please pick up the red courtesy phone for a message.”

Rachel is the only one who has my flight information, so I can’t help but wonder what I’ve forgotten at her apartment, or what she forgot to tell me before leaving. Maybe I really do need to buy a replacement phone when I get to New York?

I make my way over to a gate agent and ask where the closest courtesy phone is. The young woman points down the main way and I find myself tucked in a quiet corner, overlooking the sea of travelers.

Lifting the receiver in confusion, I speak.

“This is Ivy Cotter.”

“Ms. Cotter, you have a call. One moment, please.” The line clicks over and I hear the familiar sound of my father’s heavy sigh.

“Dad?”

“Hey sweetie,” he says with a sadness in his voice. “You were asleep when I stopped by last night. Did Rachel give you everything?”

“Yeah, she did. I really appreciate you bringing me some of my dress clothes. And thank you so much for the picture.” I smile thinking about the photograph of us at Wrigley Field. He hid the frame in the middle of a stack of pants. It reminded me of how he would leave hand-written notes in the middle of my workbook when I was in second grade.

“Listen, kiddo. I’m headed to New York on business in a few weeks. If it’s okay, I would really like to come see you.”

“Yeah … that’d be nice,” I reply, actually meaning the words.

“Well … I wanted to track you down to say good-bye … and good luck. You’ll be great out there.”

“Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

In the background, I hear the incessant babbling of my mother and she grabs the phone before he has a chance to reply. “Ivy, where the hell do you think you are going?” My mother’s voice barks each syllable sharply on the other end. “You up and disappeared before your sister’s wedding, ruining everything for her as always. You haven’t returned any of my messages. And now you are just leaving without saying a word? This is unacceptable.”

Of course Genevieve married that asshole in spite of drugging and raping me. That girl will go to the ends of the Earth to keep up appearances. But I find delight in the fact that my dad didn’t share my plans with Mom. Her attitude is the exact reason I couldn’t bear to go back to my parents’ house to gather my things on my own. Rachel secretly called my dad late last night and had him bring me the clothes I would need in New York. She even coordinated temporary housing with her cousin who is attending NYU during the summer session until I can find a place of my own. I’m really going to miss her.

Mr. Horesji was quite understanding when I called him and asked if his offer was still on the table since I had missed the deadline to follow up with my decision on the position with him in New York. I explained that I was hospitalized without the ability to reach him and otherwise disposed. While he had started the process of interviewing more candidates, he felt confident enough in my abilities and ceased his search. There are no words to describe my utmost appreciation at his compassion. I’m sure the fact that I am Professor Whitman’s prized pupil played a large part in his flexibility. I was certain that I had fucked that opportunity, but good old Whit must have really done a number with his recommendation. He will receive my eternal gratitude.

“Ivy? Ivy, are you there?” my mother snaps.

Deep breaths.

I do not need my mother’s approval.

I do not need my mother’s approval.

I do not need my mother’s approval.

I exhale and steady my voice as best I can. I can do this. “Mom…” I begin and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Ivy Elaine?”

“Mom, I’m on my way to New York. I accepted the Associate Curator position at the gallery. My flight leaves in fifty minutes.” The words come out faster than the speed of sound.

“Excuse me? Stop rambling and speak clearly, Ivy.”

Of course she didn’t hear me. For twenty-two years, she has never listened to a word I said. Why would she start now?

I swallow any traces of fear, lift my chin, and summon confidence into my voice. “I said, I’m moving to New York,” I repeat slowly.

“No, you’re not, young lady.” Her voice is calm but stern. It’s the same one she used when I was a child being punished for crimes of curiosity, like painting the walls with bright red nail polish or shaving the dog’s legs. It’s downright frightening. “You’re coming home right now.”

I can’t help but guffaw at her audacity. How disconnected could she really be? A lot has happened since I left for Italy last year. I discovered myself and fell in love with art on a deeper level. When I came home a few weeks ago, I fell in love all over again, only this time with a man, and then had my heart clawed from my chest. In spite of it all, I know I will be stronger for it. There is no way this woman is going to try and keep her hold on me anymore.

“I am less than pleased with you right now.”

There’s a surprise. I exhale quickly through my nose, suppressing a laugh. I’m fairly certain the last time she was pleased with me was when I was voted homecoming queen my senior year. Anything to keep up appearances for the family name.

“I took the liberty of confirming that job at the Museum of Contemporary Art with Mr. Ramirez on your behalf. They are expecting you this Wednesday at nine.”

I hardly register what she says as my eyes are drawn across to a tall figure across the busy terminal. The man is tall, with dark, shaggy hair much like
him
. His shoulders are hunched over sadly as he looks around lost in a sea of people. The phone in my hand trembles and my heart seemingly stops all together as air escapes my lungs. My emotions betray logic as every fiber of my being wants it to be Phoenix.

Needs
it to be Phoenix.

Demands
it to be Phoenix.

And for a brief moment … I am certain it
is
him.

I can only imagine that this is just the beginning of moments like this—I will, no doubt, see his face in crowded rooms for a long while. I’m not sure I will ever be truly free from his ghost.

“Yeah…” I say slowly, shaking my head to bring myself back to earth and the crowd before me. “No. I, uh … I gotta go, Mom.”

I put the phone back on the receiver before I hear her say anything else, then I sling my bag over my shoulder and begin to follow the figure. My pulse finally returns to me and races as I weave through the throngs of travelers until I lose him in the crowds.

It’s not him.

Surrendering to my imagination, I embrace the heartache once more and head back toward gate B11.

As our plane pulls up to the jet bridge, I take a seat by the window, looking out over the tarmac. The day mirrors my mood: gloomy, air so thick it slows the world’s momentum down to the speed of molasses. The sky above is cloudy with a chance of a shit storm. How convenient. Like my life, a turbulent flight is inevitable.

As the passengers start to de-board the plane, I pull out Rachel’s well-loved copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. The cover is desperately clinging to its spine from all of the times she has read it countless page corners are creased from late nights of reading to flag the last page read.

It’s been ages since I read the classic, high school probably, but I vividly remember falling in love with Mr. Darcy. They don’t make guys like him in real life, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try to find my own modern day Darcy in New York. Flipping to the first page is like being reunited with old friends.

Just as Mr. Bingley and crew are about to attend the ball a foreign hand delicately touches my shoulder I spin around defensively, shutting the book firmly. My breath is taken away from me at the sight of him.

Phoenix
.

He looks horrible. Still breathtakingly boy next door beautiful, but horrible. Like he hasn’t showered in days, eaten in weeks, slept in years. His hair is completely disheveled, and the dark circles swallowing his beat red eyes heighten the sadness of his face.

I want to jump out of my skin. Wrap my arms around him so tightly that my body pushes through his to the other side. Show him in actions what I am incapable of putting into words. I want, no, I
need
to kiss him with all the fervor and passion and fire that has built up within over the past few weeks since his lips melted into mine on the terrace in Madison. That no matter how royally he fucked up … how royally
I
fucked up … he is the reason I’ve changed.

Slowly, he comes in front of me. As I stand to match him my body quakes. In excitement? In nervousness? Probably both. But I instantly know that this is one of those defining moments that will stay with me until my dying day.

I open my mouth to speak. To tell him thank you.

That I believe him.

That I hate him.

That I love him.

That no matter how angry I may be, I can’t shake him from my soul.

That I don’t think I can stand to live one more day without him physically next to me, capable of reaching out to take my hand.

That I want to fight for us. To try and see if we can try to overcome everything that has happened and work to build that trust back.

But before I can say anything, he presses his index finger to my lips, quieting my mind. His touch is delicate. His skin is rough. A perfect juxtaposition of man.

“Shh … before you say anything, before you push me away for good, I needed to see you again.”

Stunned at his words, all I can do is blink.

“First of all, I’m sorry … so incredibly sorry. Those pathetic little words do nothing in comparison to how I feel for what happened with Sully. I will never let myself live that night down. The minute I suspected something in that moment, I should have told you. I should have kept a closer eye on you, camped out against the door of the bedroom that night and kept closer tabs on his whereabouts. I should have done
something
more.

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness because I know I don’t deserve it. But know that if I could turn back time, I would have done things differently and done every last thing in my power to protect you.”

I open my mouth to speak again, to remind him that he wasn’t the one to take advantage of me that night. That he was not the one who drugged me. That he took a damaged soul who didn’t even realize how badly she was broken and helped make her whole again.

“Second of all, you were right.” His eyes search my face for answers. “Last night I called my dad. I needed to clear the air with him. I’ve spent the last decade with so much pent up anger and hurt, I never considered that he lost the love of his life and his son at the same time. I feel like such an asshole.”

My heart warms at his admission. Phoenix actually called his dad. My stunned look must take him by surprise. He extends his hand as if to take mine, but hesitates and draws it back into a fist and hooks his thumb into his front pocket sheepishly.