Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2) Read online

  But I love it because it’s ours.

  Normally our silences are welcomed. Comfortable, even. But as we walk down Fifth Avenue, the quiet between us is unnerving. I tuck a loose strand behind my ear and slow my pace.

  “You’d tell me if something were wrong, right?”

  He stops walking and turns toward me. “Yeah, of course I would.” He forces a tight smile and I instantly know that he’s lying to me. It’s infuriating how we can have hundreds of miles between us and be so intimately close, but then there are moments when he’s standing right next to me and we may as well have the expanse of the sea between us.

  “Really?” I ask, searching for any kind of reassurance from him. He knows he can open up to me about anything. I just wish he would.

  “Yes, really.” He sighs and closes his eyes. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now. It’s nothing you need to worry about.” He reaches out and takes my face in his hands, tracing his thumb along my jawline. Phoenix leans down to kiss me, but pauses just before our lips meet. He looks me in the eye and I feel the sadness or frustration or whatever the hell it is he’s harboring. And when his lips touch mine, I feel that same sadness in the depth of my belly.

  I pull away hesitantly, my heart breaking. “Okay,” I say softly, effectively dropping the subject. I love him enough to let it go … for now.

  But deep down we both know this conversation is far from over.

  “WATCH THE WALL!” I SCREAM as a wooden crate comes crashing down on the gallery floor. The boom is deafening and the protective packing material spills out onto the ground.

  “That’s going to leave a mark,” Dane says, raking his hand through his hair as he watches helplessly.

  “Relax, babe. It was empty. And everything is insured.” His girlfriend, Alex, rubs her hand delicately over his back in an attempt to reassure him.

  “I know. It’s just that so many of these pieces are headed to private collections. I don’t want anything to happen to them.” He covers his mouth with his hands and turns around, afraid to watch the rest of his pieces get packed.

  When I first arrived in New York, a residency had just started with local sculptor, Dane Wright. His work is truly remarkable and I have a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that this twenty-something man is capable of creating something so unique. Furthermore, Dane recently made a name for himself when a national hotel chain commissioned him for lobby art. It has been an incredible opportunity to learn the ropes because I only needed to execute the existing plans for the show. But the best part of it all? He is genuinely a nice guy.

  But now that his show is wrapping up, I know I’ll need to step up my game for whatever comes next at the gallery. I’ve spent most of my time recently networking and researching potential new artists to feature. I have a few on my radar that will surely impress my boss James.

  We follow Dane to the sleek white desk in the main part of the gallery. Alex watches Dane with love and concern. Judging from the way they move in sync, I can’t help but think they’ve been through a lot together but have nothing but the utmost respect for the other. I wonder if strangers can pick up on that with Phoenix and me.

  “Sorry, but it’s fucking nerve-racking to see my shit get manhandled like that. I wish they would be more careful.”

  “I understand. But I assure you that everything will be delivered on time and in one piece.”

  At least it better be. It’ll be my ass if anything happens.

  Alex leans over and gives Dane a kiss on the cheek, and I excuse myself to give them a moment and talk with the head of the moving crew.

  Life at the gallery is even better than I’d imagined. Sure, the pay isn’t spectacular, but I get to live in New York, work under one of the bigger names in the industry and I got here on my own merit. I couldn’t ask for much more.

  After providing the moving team with the last of the delivery addresses for the sold pieces, I run into the back office to gather up the last of the paperwork for Dane then walk back across the gallery.

  My heels click on the dark wood floor, each step echoing through the now empty space, giving me confidence. Each click, authority. We’re scheduled to do the final walk through today, but there are still a dozen sculptures that need to get packaged up, so it may not happen until late in the evening.

  “I think you’re just about set,” I say, handing the final statements to Dane. He doesn’t necessarily need to be here for the rest of the evening as I wrap everything up. Dane reaches out his hand and I give it a firm shake.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Ivy. You’ve been so incredibly helpful the past few weeks.”

  “It was my pleasure. If you’ll excuse me one moment.” I rush across the gallery floor and grab the cordless phone at the desk. “Gallery 545. This is Ivy.”

  “Ivy, it’s James,” a low voice clips in my ear.

  “Oh hi, Mr. Horesji.” I turn my back and walk toward the blank wall so I can hear him better.

  “I trust things are going well? I hate that I’ve left you unsupervised for so long.”

  It’s true. I never received any formal training as James has been traveling in search of new artists to feature, but I feel like I’ve done well for myself.

  “Things here are indeed going well. Dane Wright was in house today overseeing the tear down of his show.” I smile at Dane and Alex from across the room. They have a magnetic pull to one another. It’s endearing to witness and makes me wonder if bystanders think the same thing about Phoenix and me.

  “Good, good. I heard he sold nearly all of his pieces to private collectors.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right.” I stand a little taller, proud of what I was able to help accomplish on Dane’s behalf. The gallery will receive a healthy cut as a result.

  “Well, keep up the good work. We typically only have two to three weeks of down time in between artists, but it looks like we’ll be running closer to four or five for our next showcase.”

  “Any particular reason why?”

  “Well, I was hoping to bring in several oil on canvas collections from a few contemporary artists across the pond. However, fortunately for all of us, fate had their way and brought the visionary Brock Coulter into my life. This kid is the next big thing, Ivy. I can feel it.”

  The excitement in his voice is palpable. I rush to the backside of the desk, grabbing a pen to note his name so I can start researching right away.

  “I can’t wait to learn more about him. What’s his take?”

  “He’s a sculptor, like Dane, but Brock specializes in shadow art.” I smile, excited by the promise of something so unique. I’ve seen shadow art exhibits but only in pictures, and when done well they are truly incredible. The artist takes everyday items and arranges them in such a way that they cast silhouettes of things or even people onto an adjacent wall. But my favorite part is how it doesn’t make sense until you turn on a spotlight to reveal the shadow. That’s when the real magic happens.

  “Brock uses a variety of textiles in his sculptures. I saw a portfolio of photos from an exhibit he did last year in Paris and reached out to him right away. I was surprised to learn he has a studio in New York City and has been working on a new series over the past ten months. And to make a long story short, he’s agreed to a two-week residency at 545. I trust you’ll take care of everything from the press preview to the public showings.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll follow everything to the letter.”

  “Good,” he clips. “My assistant, Farrah, will be dropping off the signed contract next week. I’ll be in touch.”

  James hangs up the phone without so much as a goodbye. I appreciate him being straight and to the point, but a little kindness could do him some good.

  A shadow artist. I’m not sure if it gets more wonderfully mysterious than that.

  WHEN EIGHT IN THE EVENING rolls around, nearly all of the sculptures have found their way into wooden crates, most of them ready for delivery into prestigious addresses in Tri
beca, Lenox Hill, and the Upper East Side. I can’t imagine having that much discretionary income where I could go out and buy a pricey sculpture without a second thought. Actually, that’s a lie. I can. I witnessed my parents do it time and time again. I just hope that these boxes find their way into homes happier than the one I left behind in Chicago.

  And on the flip side, I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to know that a piece of art you created is being prominently displayed in someone’s home. It’s like having a piece of your soul immortalized … a part of Dane that will exist long after he dies. Hopefully it continues to be appreciated because that man has talent.

  Just as the last of the crates are being loaded into the truck, a dark-skinned woman stands just inside the front door, holding a beautiful arrangement of sunflowers and alstroemeria.

  “Hi.” I walk over to greet her. “Can I help you?”

  She looks down at her clipboard. “I have a delivery for Ivy.”

  “I’m Ivy.”

  The girl takes a step toward me and hands me the vase of flowers. They smell like heaven and it reminds me of the fields of wildflowers I’d see when I traveled between Madison and Chicago during the summer back in college.

  “Sorry, these were supposed to arrive hours ago, but I couldn’t find the place.”

  “No worries.” I sign the delivery receipt and eagerly pluck the tiny envelope off of the plastic stem and open up the card.

  Just because.

  My breath hitches as I smile. I set the flowers on the desk and look around the room, noting that the bright buttery yellow of the petals is the only splash of color in the whole space.

  Oh, Phoenix. He brings so much life and color into my otherwise black and white world. I keep waiting for him to realize how he could do so much better than me and leave.

  Ivy: Would you quit being so damn perfect?!

  Phoenix: ?

  I sigh, shaking my head. This boy spoils me rotten.

  Ivy: Thank you. The flowers are beautiful.

  I grin as I move to the back office to wrap things up for the night.

  IT’S PUSHING EIGHT THIRTY WHEN I finish filing the last of the paperwork from Dane’s show. My cell phone chimes just as I’m shutting down my laptop.

  Phoenix: Get out here before we both die of hunger.

  Huh? I quickly spin on my heel and find Phoenix leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest with his dimple playfully tugging at my heartstrings. He’s mouthwatering with his sleeves rolled up and cobalt tie loosely hanging from his neck, evidence from a long, hard day at the office. He needs a haircut, but I find myself wanting to grab fistfuls of his hair. I swallow hard, taking in his beauty. Some days it’s hard to believe that this man is mine.

  “Hi,” I whisper shyly, pulling my hair back behind my ear. He looks from me to the vase and back to me again.

  “They’re not as beautiful as you.”

  “What?”

  “The flowers. You said they were beautiful. But they’re not nearly as beautiful as you.” Phoenix slips his hands into his pockets and slowly walks toward me, his eyes devouring my body with every step. My heart flickers in my chest and I want nothing more than his lips on mine and his hands all over every inch of my body. And if I’m not careful, I’m going to lose it at work and jump him right here and now.

  Control yourself, woman!

  “Just because, eh?” I wink.

  Phoenix silently nods once, before stopping directly in front of me. He drapes his arms over my shoulders and plays with my hair, twirling a few strands between his fingers.

  “Yes, just because,” he whispers thoughtfully. “Just because you’re the only one for me.”

  His lips come crashing into mine. The kiss is frenzied and wistful and heady and I’m completely lost in the moment. We’re both starving for the other like we haven’t eaten in years. When he pulls back, I’m left breathless and panting.

  “Just because you’re the most amazing creature I’ve ever known.” He takes my lower lip between his teeth and gently pulls. It hurts a little, but it’s the good kind of pain. Welcome, even. I feel heat in every cell of my body and I whimper for more.

  “And just because you’re mine.”

  The slow timbre in Phoenix’s voice makes me so weak in the knees that I just want to die right here in his arms. Instead, he presses his lips softly to mine and breathes me back to life. When he pulls away, he stares straight through me. His eyes say more than words ever could.

  “Come on,” he says tilting his head toward the door. “Let’s get you home. I want to make you breakfast for dinner.”

  I grab my clutch from behind the desk and slip my hand into his.

  It fits perfectly.

  Just like everything else with him in my life.

  I LOOK AROUND THE GALLERY. It’s so empty now that Dane has cleared out. The scent of fresh paint burns my nose each time I inhale, but it’s admittedly therapeutic. There’s something to be said about starting over. Each wall is a blank canvas, just waiting for the next story to be told.

  As much as I love the emptiness of the gallery between exhibits, I hate being in the back office when no one else is around. My mind plays tricks on me. I keep thinking I hear people in the gallery, but when I come out of the back office, there’s no one there. As a result, I much prefer to be at the open desk in the main part of the gallery

  How is it only eleven?

  This is single-handedly the longest day ever.

  I open a browser and type Brock Coulter into the search bar. Dozens of results generate and I click an interview translated from a French newspaper. I quickly gather that this guy is a piece of work. He’s nearly forty but acts like he’s nineteen. A self-proclaimed playboy who never keeps the same man for more than one night. And he spent an evening in jail in Paris for urinating off of the Pont des Arts Bridge.

  I haven’t even met the guy and already I’m sure that I’m a fan. I click back to the search results and scan through the links, hoping to get a better sense of his art. After all, that is arguably more important than the content of his character. I stumble onto what appears to be a fan website and what I find completely blows me away. There are pages upon pages of nonsensical sculptures made from PVC pipes, fast food wrappers, and one even made from human hair. It’s intriguing, at best. But the shadows on the wall behind them is where the true art lies. Upon turning on the spotlight, the PVC pipes cast the shadow of a boat on the ocean. Fast food wrappers reveal someone hovering over a toilet. And the human hair creates a tornado with debris kicked up all around it.

  Nothing is what it seems at first glance. And every sculpture harbors a secret until the lights go down and the spotlight shines on it. It’s truly stunning, and kind of like people— what you see isn’t necessarily what you get. Sometimes you see something completely different and beautiful when the light hits you just right. Hopefully, this theory applies to Brock as well because I’m not sure I have it in me to tolerate a thirty-something party boy.

  My phone chimes, pulling my focus away from the computer.

  Phoenix: How’s your day going?

  Ivy: Eh, kinda boring. Just doing some research on the next artist in residence.

  Phoenix: Want to grab lunch?

  Ivy: I can’t head out since Farrah is coming by at some point. Want to bring lunch in?

  Phoenix: Sounds great! I’ll be over in 20.

  Ivy: Perfect. See you soon! xoxo

  Phoenix really lucked out finding an architecture firm needing a landscape architect when we moved to New York. Landscape architects aren’t exactly in high demand these days, but Smyth & McCabe were in the process of expanding their offering to skyline oases in the city, which Phoenix claims is just another fancy way to say rooftop garden. Even better, he’s a ten-minute cab ride away in light traffic. His boss, Carl McCabe, has been a wonderful mentor for Phoenix, and the pair have been hard at work pulling together a pitch for a new rooftop design at a luxury hotel o
ff of Times Square. If they can secure it, it would be an incredible addition to his portfolio.

  I’m filing some paperwork in the back office when the smell of cheeseburgers pulls me out into the gallery. My mouth waters and my stomach growls.

  “Oh my god, I could kiss you right now!” I squeal when I spy Phoenix holding a greasy bag from Petey’s Burger in his hand.

  “Good. Get your ass over here and kiss me before we both starve.”

  I sprint toward Phoenix and jump into his arms, planting a passionate kiss on his lips. He tightly wraps his arms around me and deepens the kiss, his tongue skirting mine. I’m starving, but not so much for food right now. He laughs deeply when he pulls his lips away from mine. “I love that you’re not a salad girl.”

  “Life is too short to not eat cheeseburgers.” With my feet finally back on the floor, I pry the bag from his hands and pull out the cheeseburgers. We take a seat on the floor and lean our backs against one of the walls. I eagerly peel back the wrapper and take a huge bite, smiling as the beef practically melts on my tongue.

  “Petey’s is so damn good,” I moan.

  Phoenix laughs. “You better watch out or I’m gonna get jealous over here,” he says with a wink. “I want to be the only guy who makes you moan like that.”

  Oh … I want that too, Phoenix.

  We’re devouring our cheeseburgers, enjoying one another’s presence, when his phone plays the Imperial March from Star Wars. Phoenix blushes and sends the incoming call to voicemail, silencing his phone. “Who was that?”