Love Nouveau (21 page)

“You okay?” she asks, genuinely concerned.

I nod my head, not even caring that it’s a lie.

“Good. And don’t worry so much about Phoenix. It’ll work out like it’s supposed to. Boys are dumb and your mind is probably just playing tricks on you. I’ll see you out there.” Mimi blows me a kiss and snakes out the door back into the din.

Digging into my back pocket, I grab my phone to see just how much longer of this hell I have to endure. My heart seizes when I see a missed call from Phoenix nearly two hours ago.

Shit. While he was thinking about me, trying to get a hold of me, I was parading around the club with the tongue of some guy whose name I don’t even know trying to give me a tonsillectomy. My insides sink rapidly, guilt weighing me down.

I hit the return call button, not caring that it’s so late right now. I just need to hear his voice. I need his comfort.

I wince when it goes straight to voicemail and hang up quickly.

There is so much I want to say to him. I want to wrap myself in his velvet voice. I want to apologize for shamelessly flirting with the mystery man. I want to yell at him for hurting me. But does he even know that he hurt me?

This boy has got me so tied up and twisted emotionally. We’re not even a couple and yet I’m terrified of losing him. Everything about him makes me feel too vulnerable.

I choke down tears and hit redial one more time. It doesn’t even ring and I immediately hear his voice in the speaker, “Hey, it’s Phoenix. You know what to do.”

“Hey… it’s me. I … I’m sorry. It’s just … I just miss you.” I linger on the line longer than I should, unsure of what I’m apologizing for. For my insecurity-induced drinking binge earlier? For my shameless flirting and grope session with the salt and pepper man? For being the most ridiculous mess of a young woman who should never be given the opportunity to be with a nice guy because I will inevitably self-destruct and ruin everything? Perhaps all of the above?

Eventually, I hang up, pull myself together, and return to the bachelorette party to fulfill my maid of honor duties with a sinking feeling resting deep inside. When I emerge, the douche bag is long gone. I can only assume he has returned home to his unsuspecting wife to shower her with horrible kisses. What a pathetic waste of a man.

After grabbing another shot and an energy drink mixed with vodka, I approach Genevieve to check up on her and make sure she is having a good ole’ drunken—and high—time. Because if she doesn’t, I will never hear the end of it. What I find is Genevieve sloshing a martini around in one hand and attempting to apply a coat of electric crimson lipstick to her lips with the other while she dances. The mess she leaves in her wake is mine to clean up.

She makes eye contact with some attractive thirty-something a few feet away on the dance floor. Her intoxicated attempt at sex appeal is nothing short of hilarious, and I know I have to intervene before she makes more of an ass of herself. Horrifying images like this are what the socialite section in the newspaper thrives on.

“Whoa, relax on the lipstick, Genevieve. Less is more,” I gently reason with her like she’s a child. I pull the tube away from her lips since she can hardly keep it in the lines of her mouth.

“Whatever, Ivy. Whoever said less is more
obviously
never had more in the first place.”

Gah!
I cringe at her comment. She knows I hate it when she makes remarks like that. Genevieve lives to give the impression that our family is so rich we buy a new boat whenever our old boat gets wet. And while that may not be far from the truth, it’s sickening how she parades it around. In reality, my sister and I aren’t the ones with money—our parents are.

Genevieve tends to get caught up with the competitiveness of life. She wants to be more successful than her colleagues, own more things than her friends, and carry the illusion of a happy relationship when in truth none of these things actually make her happy at the end of the day. In reality, the only person any of us should be in competition with is ourselves. And even then, the only competition should be trying to be better than the person you were the day before.

I know we’re getting close to the end of our evening since Genevieve, the mean drunk, has come out to play. I throw back the rest of my drink and grab a glass of water from the bar.

“It’s vodka, straight up.” I shove the new glass in her palm and watch her tilt her head back, allowing the clear liquid to slide right down the back of her throat without even swallowing. She is so wasted she doesn’t even realize that she just tossed back water.

Yep, it’s time to go!

Mimi helps me rally the girls and we head back to the hotel on foot, hoping the fresh air will help sober us up a bit.

“You know, Gen always tried to make us all believe that you were busier than a two-dollar whore on nickel night,” Mimi says, her accent thicker now that she’s had a few too many drinks. I love learning all about myself from the rumors that get passed around. Though, in fairness, that was probably true once upon a time, but I don’t dare confirm that for her. Instead, I offer her a tight smile of understanding.

“Yeah. Well, Gen here manages to bring out the best in me,” I say, sarcasm riding thick. In between us, Genevieve stumbles over her own feet and we simultaneously lunge to keep the bride upright. I instantly regret my reaction and wish I would have let her fall flat on her face. She is so far gone she has no idea we’re even talking about her.

Back in the hotel suite, I put our unconscious bride in the oversized California king bed and rejoin the rest of the girls to polish off what’s left of the champagne. I zone in and out of listening to their mundane chatter as I twirl my cell phone in my hand. I fight the urge to call Phoenix, knowing that he has to be passed out since it’s past two in the morning. My mind drifts, imagining all of the horrifying and provocative situations he could be in at this very moment with Hailey’s sugary voice singing in the background.

After a while, anxiety takes over. And when the room begins to spin and stars fizzle in my brain, I drag my drunk ass to the bedroom to sleep away the heartache.

THERE IS NOTHING WORSE THAN being completely incapable of shutting your brain off so you can sleep. Given the volume of alcohol I’ve consumed, I should be dead to the world for a good ten hours. But no. The combination of hard liquor and champagne appears to have had an adverse effect on me and sleep simply will not come to this exhausted body.

I roll over angrily, and suffocate my thoughts by pulling a pillow tightly over my head. It doesn’t work. The synapses in my brain are dancing in rapid-fire succession and all efforts of subduing my soul are useless. And to top it all off, Genevieve is snoring to the tune of a marching band. At least everyone should start waking up sometime relatively soon so we can clear out of the hotel and I can go back home to sulk in solitude.

My mind continues to replay last night’s events at Nuit Noir, and I can’t help but feel guilty about my rendezvous with the handsome man with no name. I catch a whiff of his cologne on my skin and my stomach curdles in disgust, although I’m not sure if the guilt is rooted in the fact he was a married man or if my heart still completely belongs to Phoenix even after he was trying to keep that girl a secret from me.

I am
so
not cut out for this long distance thing. My mind plays too many games with me and I don’t know if I can ever trust anyone completely. And to play devil’s advocate, I haven’t always been the most trustworthy person either. In hindsight, allowing the man at the club to kiss me was something the old Ivy would have done. I really should have stopped him.

Today, there is a come to Jesus talk in store for Phoenix and me. If we’re not on the same page, if he’s canoodling with someone else down in St. Louis, then we need to get this all out now and decide where to go from here. Because if we’re not aligned, I don’t think we can successfully have this relationship … if that’s what this is. If that’s what he even wants still.

My subconscious is shouting at me to stop reading into things. Just because I never knew about Hailey doesn’t mean there was anything worth hiding. Factor in his estranged father’s illness and the amount of stress he’s under with work, it is no wonder Phoenix hasn’t been his usual, happy self. In fact, I think I’d be more worried if he were carrying on as if nothing was the matter.

I roll over and grab my cell phone off of the nightstand. As I flip through past text messages, I’m torn on whether or not our interactions have been genuine all along. My instinct says yes but my mind continues to inject doubt. I guess I shouldn't be surprised if last night he’d called to tell me that Hailey is his girlfriend and cut ties with me. I flip over to my recent call list, willing it to light up with a call from Phoenix at this very moment to put my mind to rest. I know I won’t be able to function until I get to the bottom of this. There is nothing I need more than to put my heart at ease one way or the other.

Exhaling slowly, I remind myself that the old Ivy would have dropped him faster than a popsicle melting in hell. My track record for screwing things up and running away is quite impressive. For better or worse, he makes me feel emotions that I thought only existed in books. But the hurt and confusion I feel is far worse now that I’m sober. But that could just be this wicked hangover talking.

We
will
get to the bottom of this.

I
will
not run.

We
will
talk through this.

We
will
be better for it.

I steel myself and fire off a text to him.

Ivy:
We need to talk.

As much as I hate those words, it’s simple and to the point. I put my cell phone down on the nightstand and crawl out of bed, leaving Genevieve to continue sawing logs. I run to the bathroom to brush my teeth before calling the concierge to make arrangements for breakfast to be brought up to our suite. I’m desperate for coffee and breakfast carbs. Some greasy sausage and biscuits to soak up the leftover alcohol in my stomach sounds especially appetizing this morning. Although I’m certain most of the food will go uneaten by this particular crowd. Most of Genevieve’s sorority sisters look like they’ll have a slice of grapefruit with a side of laxatives to start their day.

When I hear Dave Grohl singing “Everlong” from the other room, I practically sprint to pick it up before it wakes anyone up. Phoenix’s bright and smiling face lights up the screen of my phone. I didn’t expect him to actually call me right now. It’s barely after sunrise.

“Hey,” I whisper softly into the phone and quietly creep toward the glass door, stepping out onto the balcony for some privacy. I’m taken aback by the beautiful view of Michigan Avenue. It’s vacant with the exception of a few random cabs searching for an early morning fare. The late spring sunshine pours through the buildings, and in the distance I can see blinding reflections jumping off of Lake Michigan.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Phoenix asks as he stifles a yawn. “Everything okay?”

“Um, yeah. I just thought we could talk later.” I swallow my racing heart back into my chest where it belongs.

“Well, I can talk now. What’s up? How did the bachelorette party go? I figured you’d be asleep until noon.” I hear him rustling in his bed. It’s difficult not to imagine him sitting up with a sleepy smile, perfect bed head and pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips. I’d happily give up all of the breakfast food in the world for a chance to see him lying next to me in pajama bottoms one morning.

I don’t even know where to begin this conversation. I want to confront him. I want him to comfort me. I want to lift this cloud of guilt that is pushing me into the ground. Inside I am a melee of emotions and I really don’t want it to become evident in my voice.

I hesitate and decide to rip the proverbial Band-Aid off as quickly as possible.

“Who exactly is Hailey? And please don’t lie to me.”

Even when the truth is a cold-hearted bitch, I would rather be hurt with honesty than soothed with a lie.

“Shit, Ivy. That’s what this is about? I saw your text message and completely panicked. I thought something bad happened last night.” The relief in his voice is evident and it warms my heart. Though the tone combined with his assumption of me doing something bad is disheartening. He doesn’t trust me. But in fairness, he probably shouldn’t. My subconscious screams obscenities, reminding me that something bad did happen last night. I know I should tell him about the kiss and the wayward thoughts that followed, but I don’t dare ruin this moment.

He takes a deep breath. “I’ve known Hailey since we were teenagers. There’s nothing romantic going on between us. She’s practically a sister to me.”

I exhale all the air in my lungs and thank the sweet baby Jesus. I
was
reading into things. I seriously need to get a grip and simply tread carefully.

“It’s just … I don’t know. I have trust issues. I’m messed up.” And it’s true. I have never let a guy in like I have with Phoenix. And with him seemingly light years away, my mind automatically goes to a dark place with each and every doubt. It is as if I’ve been unwrapped, bitten, and left to bleed out. Allowing myself to be vulnerable and actually feel something is scary as shit. It makes me feel weak and out of control. And I don’t do that emotion particularly well.