Love Nouveau (5 page)

An athletic, dark-haired guy walks up and stands on the other side of the blond, interrupting our conversation and my chances of hooking up. His white polo shirt is just tight enough to showcase his muscles, and the faded navy Bermuda shorts look soft, and accentuate his perfect ass. His dark locks hit the ideal length, just before it needs a haircut—long enough to grab in the throes of passion, but not so long it hangs in his eyes. He’s effortlessly attractive in a not so obvious way.

“Hey, Sully,” the newcomer says, gesturing my neighbor. I take note of his name. It’s unique and I can’t help but assume that it’s a nickname.

“Nix,” he responds with a tight mouth and subtle nod.

Our conversation comes to a screeching halt, and the three of us continue to look out over the party. A dirty rap song fills the awkward silence between us.

“Welp, my work here is done. I’m out.” Sully lazily toasts his glass my direction, his tone instantly bored. “Have fun, kids.”

The friend glances over his shoulder and slides over to me, filling the space Sully just vacated. A small laugh escapes my breath and I shake my head in disbelief.

“What?” He eyes me curiously.

“Wingman?” I question, glancing over my shoulder to look back at Sully, trying to mask my disappointment.

He gives me a toothy grin worthy of a dozen Boy Scout merit badges. “Something like that.” He reluctantly extends his hand to shake mine. “I’m Phoenix. But everyone calls me Nix.”

Phoenix. I like that.

“Ivy,” I respond, shaking his hand firmly. Phoenix’s hand lingers just a beat too long on mine. His fingers are calloused, but his palms are soft.

“Ivy? Like the plant?”

“Something like that,” I repeat his words, mirroring his intonation. Silence lingers in the space between us and I can’t fight the urge to fill it. More information than necessary spills from my mouth. “My dad named me. He’s a huge Chicago Cubs fan and apparently wanted a year-round reminder of Wrigley Field.”

Phoenix’s eyes grow wide. “Well, that’s strike one. I’m a Cardinals fan,” he ribs proudly, a smile lighting his eyes. “When was the last time your team won the World Series?”

“Hey! It was 1908 and any team can have a bad century,” I tease defensively. Growing up a Cubs fan gave me thick skin and an affinity for disappointment, perfect for moments like these. I look out over the crowd and see Sully dancing quite inappropriately with the black-haired girl, then look at plan B standing next to me.

Phoenix is certainly attractive. Not necessarily the kind of guy I would typically go for, but I’m more than willing to make an exception.

“At any rate, my mom only agreed to the name because she felt it gave me the aspirational essence of being out of everyone’s league.” I flit my hand in the air at the thought.

He laughs through his nose and takes another sip from his red cup.

“And are you, Miss Ivy League?”

“Only to assholes,” I affirm, repressing a smile, thinking of Matt storming away earlier. I certainly don’t want to go into my thoroughbred upbringing with this guy. It always comes with unnecessary judgment.

“Well then…” he pauses, leaning over the railing. “I’m in luck.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m not an asshole.”

The sincerity in his eyes tells me he truly believes that of himself, and at this moment, I am given no reason to think otherwise. His boyish charm shines right through and it starts to bubble my insides.

With an inviting tilt of my head, I lead him to the old-fashioned porch swing on the side of the wrap around deck. It reminds me of something you’d see in the south—little old biddies sitting together, sipping their mint juleps and gossiping about the latest town scandal. It’s a little quieter over here away from the main speakers and we can at least attempt to have a decent conversation without screaming over some top forty dance remix.

Phoenix and I talk until the red moon crosses the night sky. He tells me about life as a freelance landscape architect in St. Louis and I’m surprised to learn that even though he’s lived there most of his life, he’s never been down to the Gateway Arch. It’s one of my favorite places in his city. When you stand underneath the arch, it’s impossible not to feel like you’ve shrunk in size. It’s a little like magic.

I gather that Phoenix loves his field of work, but he doesn’t love the uncertainty of freelancing. He’s hoping to find a permanent gig by the time summer comes to a close and is open to relocating. The market hasn’t been strong since he graduated two years ago, so I mentally place him at twenty-four, maybe twenty-five years old. Phoenix seems especially interested in my European travels this past year, eagerly asking questions about visiting world-renowned museums and exploring ancient ruins in Rome and Greece.

I learn that he and a bunch of his guy friends are spending the weekend in Madison for a bachelor party. Wisconsin is a far cry from the stereotypical Vegas bachelor extravaganza, but who am I to judge? Had they gone to Las Vegas, I wouldn’t be sitting here in this moment, so I’m certainly not complaining.

Never before has a conversation with the opposite sex come this naturally. It could be the three rounds of beer we’ve thrown back together, but Phoenix makes it easy to be honest, to be myself. I can forget about who I was before I ever left for Italy because, let’s be truthful, I kind of became a horrible person. Instead, he makes me feel good about who I truly am, who I want to be. Suddenly, life doesn’t seem so bad after all. His hazel eyes are inviting and I find myself wanting to reach out and grab hold of his hand. At one point, I nearly do but get nervous and lean over to scratch my leg instead. Bold Ivy is long gone, replaced by a timid girl bubbling over with giddiness inside, trying to keep her cool over this boy.

Talking with him has a calming effect on me. I don’t find my mind wandering to my family or graduation, or even what I’m doing next week. It’s refreshing. I’m right here in this moment with Phoenix, and everything is seemingly in its right place. At times, it’s as if his shyness matches my own which explains the need for a wingman … something has rattled his confidence.

As we gently swing together, I take a long draw from my beer and discern that Phoenix is right. He definitely isn’t an asshole. He’s the kind of guy you’d want to bring home to Mom and Dad. Well, not
my
mom and dad, but rather nice, normal parents. But the best part is that he can hold my attention, a welcomed change from the roster of guys I’ve hooked up with and tossed away with the light of day.

“Hey … nice phone case,” he says as I fish my phone from my back pocket. “I had a poster of Edvard Munch’s
The Scream
in my dorm room freshman year.”

I smile at his admission and find myself impressed that he recognized not only the painting, but the artist as well. But I don’t tell him that I hung the same poster in my flat in Italy.

I check the time on my phone and notice it’s nearly two thirty in the morning, much to my surprise. This party is still going strong and Phoenix and I have been talking with the greatest of ease for hours. It’s impossible not to notice the subtle frown on his face when I glance up from my phone. I want to reach out and caress his face, letting him know that I’m not looking for an escape route, but for some reason, I can’t muster the courage to make a pass at him. Under normal circumstances, the alcohol would have pushed me to make my move hours ago.

But these aren’t normal circumstances.

Phoenix intently looks at the bottom of his empty cup. “Can I get you anything?”

“I kind of want to eat some waffles,” I say, playfully nudging him with my shoulder. While he may take that as a request to have breakfast with him in a few hours, I really do legitimately want some kind of breakfast food.

Phoenix throws his head back in laughter. “I’m fresh out of waffles. And I think you’re a little tipsy,” he says, reaching out to gently touch my cheek with his fingers. His hand is warm and my face instantly melts at his touch. The look in his eyes is so endearing … God, I want to kiss the shit out of him right now.

Yep, I’m tipsy. Maybe even more than tipsy. There’s no sense in trying to deny it.

“And you’re cute,” I slur. “But seriously, eating breakfast food could solve all of the world’s problems right now.” It could help me sober up, for starters. I may need to call for a cab sometime soon if my nerves keep getting in the way of this thing with Phoenix. It appears that Rachel left hours ago, and Cassie is probably lost in a sea of drunkenness, and who knows where things with Phoenix will end up.

“All right. Let’s go get me a refill and see if there’s anything to snack on for you.” He extends his elbow my direction as we stand and escorts me into the kitchen. By some divine force, I’m able to walk upright without tripping over my own feet.

Entering the kitchen, I spot Sully sitting on the countertop with the tan, black-haired girl now perched between his legs like a poodle begging for a treat. His treat.
Good grief, desperate much
? For one fleeting moment, I realize that is likely how I’ve looked time and time again. God, how pathetic. I will
never
be that girl again.

We scan the kitchen and there is no food in sight. The hell with it … I grab another Jell-O shot, chasing it with the last of my beer. Jell-O is technically a food, right? And more liquid courage is just what I need to get my nerves in check and make this night a little more interesting, moving from conversation to some action. At this point, I’d just settle for a good old-fashioned make out session. His lips look absolutely delicious and I want them plastered to mine.

Making my way closer to the keg, I catch Sully giving Phoenix a questionable glare, eyes serious. Nix subtly shakes his head no as Sully’s eyes hide a sinister laugh. The silent exchange brings unease, but rather than focus on it, I let my head drift into the fizziness of the last shot. I feel it in my bones that Phoenix is a good guy and there is a shortage of good guys in my world these days.

I turn to look at him and he’s already staring. The feeling that takes over is indescribable. Suppressing a flirtatious smile, he simply says, “Let’s dance.”

“Put on your red shoes and dance the blues,” I sing back, quoting my all-time favorite David Bowie song.

His face lights up with childlike delight as he takes my hand and places it over my heart. “Did you really just say that? I think I may have just fallen in love,” he muses with a twinkle in his eye. “I grew up listening to Bowie.”

It’s as if the powers that be have plucked this guy out from the sky and put him in my presence.

Anxiously, I let him lead me out under the night sky. Oak trees in the backyard are strung with Christmas lights, like twinkling stars winking fatefully down upon us. In my intoxicated haze, they cast an ethereal glow. Phoenix and I move in sync with the bass line of some ridiculous nineties R&B song, our hands exploring each other’s bodies. He smells sexy, like damp earth and musk, and it’s easily the manliest scent I’ve encountered.

The contours of his arms are magnetizing; I couldn’t pry my fingers away if I tried. Beads of sweat snake their way from my hairline, between my shoulders, and pool in the small of my back. It’s difficult to tell if the salt I taste is from the alcohol or my skin melting into itself. I grip my hands around his neck and gently twist his hair between my fingertips. Phoenix rests his forehead against mine, eyes cutting right through to my soul, and I hear a soft groan escape the back of his throat.

I trace my tongue over my lips in anticipation and take slow, deep breaths, committing myself not to screw this up. More than anything I want to know what he tastes like.

Everything about his presence feels right. We fit together is like two pieces of a puzzle. We read each other’s body like we’ve done this before. Phoenix licks his lips and I can taste a sweet blend of alcohol and sweat in the space between us. Heat rises from deep within me and I close my eyes, willing him to make a move.

Kiss me already, damn it!

We get lost like this for a few songs—me, a siren, working to bring him into my possession. I sense him leisurely eyeing my body, inhaling my hair, soaking me in as much as he can. And when his soft lips delicately press against my temple, relief washes through me. He wants this too.

Our gravitational pull is undeniable.

Phoenix traces his tongue teasingly to my jawline before nibbling on my earlobe. I can’t help but moan as the sensation resonates deep inside my body. My pulse quickens and I’m breathless. I need his kiss to fill my lungs with air. I need his touch to make me believe that good guys like him
do
exist. I need him to …

I need him to get out of here.

My head snaps back involuntarily and my eyes shoot open in surprise. I’m drunk.

So very, very drunk.

And I’m overwhelmingly desperate to get away from this party. The earth shifts on its axis and my sense of security goes askew. I scan my eyes through the crowd, desperately searching for Rachel … Cassie … any familiar face. I have to get out of here. Go home. Sleep the alcohol off.

Now.

“Ivy?”

I hear him call out to me. But his voice is muffled. I’m underwater. Phoenix’s nails dig into the flesh of my arms … my head fills with stars … my legs are lead, but I find myself floating weightlessly, dancing in slow motion.

Try as I might, words fail me. I attempt to respond to him, but each thought is trapped inside my mouth, clinging to the back of my teeth like an insect struggling to free itself from tar.

My body shakes in Phoenix’s arms.

Darkness begins in the corners of my eyes and seeps through, taking over my line of sight. A blank page bleeding ink. The crisp music turns murky.

My brain … slurs.

My knees … buckle.

Give …

Out …

Heaviness …

Darkness.