Love Nouveau (13 page)

“You’re really not feeling this, are you?”

I shake my head no and nurse my second drink. My heart just isn’t in it.

“I’m sorry. I really thought getting you out of the house would help.” Her lips form a straight line as I shake my head. “Come on, then. Let’s go back to my place and order a pizza.” Rachel grabs her clutch and pulls me out of the bar.

We take off into the night for a little girl time. No boys. No booze. No bars. Just us girls and Rachel’s phone as she sends and receives texts and Facebook messages throughout our entire conversation. As we gossip into the wee hours of the morning I realize for the first time that maybe Phoenix is right. We spend far too much effort digitally connecting with other people when the person we should be communicating with is right in front of us.

THE BELLHOP OPENS THE DOOR and places my luggage underneath the window. I casually slip a few singles into his palm before he retreats back to his post in the lobby.

Deep in the belly of my purse, my cellphone trills the chorus of “Everlong.” Last week when Phoenix told me that it was his favorite love song, I’d sat down and really listened to the lyrics for the first time, then quickly made it my ringtone for him. It makes me smile each time he calls.

My insides tingle in effervescence at the thought of Phoenix and I can hardly contain the perma-grin on my face. It takes me a few moments to dig my phone out from the loose change, receipts and lip gloss swimming in the bottom of my bag.

“Hey, Phoenix,” I greet him in a lazy, cool voice, though I’m certain he can feel my smile beaming through.

“Hey, Ivy. Have a good flight?”

“I did. I never realized just how big New York City was until we were landing. It’s insane.” I pull the curtain back to admire the view and find myself looking at concrete wall. I should have expected that.

“I only have a moment to chat, but I wanted to make sure you made it in safely.” Muffled voices and laughter fill the line between us, but he shushes them quickly.

“Thanks, that’s so sweet of you.”

“Hey, listen, are you going to be around later tonight? Around nine or so? I’d love to call back and talk longer.”

“Sure. Seeing as I don’t really know anyone in New York, I don’t have any plans other than walking around the neighborhood.”

“Perfect. Be safe when you go exploring. Chat soon.”

“All right. Bye, Phoenix.”

I end the call and toss my phone onto the bed. For the first time, I notice just how small the room is. It takes me all of five steps to cross from one end to the other. I open up the closet door only to find the bathroom instead. The space is no larger than a postage stamp. While the hotel advertised itself as “luxury boutique accommodations,” the emphasis certainly was not on luxury.

On the back of the door, I find a hook to hang my clothes up for tomorrow’s interview and organize my toiletries on the bathroom sink before turning the hot water on.

My shoulders finally begin to relax once the scalding water beats down my back. I wash away the grime of my travels, the stench of the cab, and let my mind loose as the heavy steam sticks to my skin. Gone are my worries from Chicago—no Genevieve to commandeer my free time, and no parents to try and submit me to their control. This trip is about me, my future, and nothing else.

I spend the next few hours pampering myself. I take my time getting ready and make my way outside right as the orange sky comes burning to life. Glowing clouds spiral the sky, echoing vibrant hues of red and pink before darkness takes over.

I take the long way by foot to Gallery 545, picking up a sandwich at a local deli to eat on my walk. The director said the gallery could be tough to find, so I want to make sure I know what I’m looking for tomorrow so I’m not late.

The Chelsea neighborhood is otherworldly and with each step I find myself walking further and further into a dream.
My dream
. It’s a perfect blend of trendy and historic with fine restaurants, contemporary bars, and an appreciative nod to its past while flirting with the future. Street art meets sophisticated architecture. It’s easy to see why it earned its reputation as the art gallery capital of the world. It’s easy to imagine myself living here among the impeccably manicured tree-lined streets, thought provoking street art, and wrought-iron fences protecting the brownstone dwellings.

Eventually, I find myself staring up at a three-story building. It’s a rehabilitated warehouse with frosted windows. The brick, presumably original, is chipping away into small piles of crumbs on the sidewalk below. There are no signs, and the door to the gallery is unnumbered. The only identifying marker is a small handwritten note above the doorbell that reads, “In art as in love, instinct is enough. – Anatole France.” I can only assume Mr. Horesji intended it to be inconspicuous. You would likely pass it by if you weren’t specifically searching for it. It’s beautiful and unassuming; everything I want my life to be.

I cross the street and sit on a bench, studying Gallery 545 as I pull the sandwich from its bag. With each bite, I imagine its interior walls, clean and white. Exquisite paintings and sculptures, depicting a modern marriage of Western and non-Western styles. I’m so lost in thought I don’t even realize night has fallen and I’m flirting with nine o’clock. I rush back to the hotel to settle in for the night.

THE UNFAMILIAR DEFAULT RING ON my phone startles me. I don’t recognize the number. Normally I would send it to voicemail, but it is pulling up as a video chat request.

That’s odd.

“Hey, gorgeous!” Delight tingles through my body as I find Phoenix smiling back at me enthusiastically. “I hate not knowing when I get to see you next, so I bought an iPhone so we can video chat.”

His sweet gesture takes me by surprise. I can’t help but find the irony in the situation. The very piece of technology he hates is the one that threads us together.

A quick rasp on the door pulls my focus away momentarily.

“Hang on a sec, someone’s at the door.”

I jump up and peer through the peephole to find room service on the other side. That’s strange … I didn’t order anything. Opening the door, I welcome the young man, who places a tray of strawberries, sliced cheese, and a glass of wine on the end of my bed.

“Thank you,” I say before returning my focus to Phoenix. “Well, this is nice. It must be from the gallery.”

Examining the silver tray, I realize there’s no note. I watch Phoenix’s face light up as he brings a matching glass of white wine up to the screen as if to toast me.

“Or it could be from your date,” he replies.

“My date?” I say inquisitively. “You did this?” He nods. I shouldn’t be so surprised. Phoenix has always been so thoughtful. “Aww, you’re so sweet. Thank you!”

I take a bite from a plump strawberry and the juice runs down my chin in what is arguably the most unromantic move of all time. I smile at myself, having the grace of a Mack truck, but I savor the sweet nectar as it brings my taste buds to life.

“I thought you weren’t a fan of wine.”

“I’m not. But I figured I’d make an exception on this special occasion. To you, Ivy. May tomorrow be the beginning of everything you’ve ever dreamed of.” He takes a sip with a serious look in his eyes, and I follow his lead, taking a sip of wine. It’s smooth and fruity and calms my nerves. I instantly recognize the taste.

“Mmmm … Moscato is my favorite. How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess, I suppose. I wanted to bring you a taste of Italy before your big interview tomorrow. I remembered you telling me that you had visited Piedmont during your travels, so I thought this would bring you comfort and smiles.”

Is this guy for real? These are the kind of moves reserved for Harlequin fiction and romantic comedies. Drinking the wine, admiring the smooth, rich flavors, I can’t help but wish I were drinking him instead.

“Guys like you aren’t supposed to exist in real life.”

He softly laughs as a light blush tints his cheeks. “I’m all real, baby.”

Over the next few hours we talk about everything and we talk about nothing. We sit in silence, looking at the other as if we were in the same room, only two feet apart. At one point I find myself reaching out to touch his face, but pull my hand back quickly, realizing just how weird it would be if I caressed my cell phone. I want nothing more than to climb through my phone and into his lap, drowning him in kisses. It is truly one of the best dates I’ve been on in my life.

But there is something to this distance thing we’ve got going on. Talking on the phone for as long and as often as we have, has allowed us to get close without ever being physical. There is never an opportunity for the “old Ivy” to rear her ugly head and fuck everything up by sleeping with him too soon. I don’t have to worry about him thinking I’m a prude if I don’t go home with him, or worse, what he’d think if I slept with him too soon.

“God, I wish I were there with you tonight.” The look in his eyes pierces right through me. I recognize it from the moments before we kissed on Lake Mendota.

“Me too. You’d be able to keep me calm before the big interview.” And what I really mean by “keep me calm” is keep me distracted in the most pleasurable ways possible. I glance over my shoulder and notice the clock. “Oh shit, it’s almost midnight. I really should get some beauty rest so I can be on my A-game tomorrow.”

“Okay. You’re going to be brilliant. Just be yourself and remember to breathe. They’ll love you. And if you get nervous, just imagine yourself as ten years old. Minus the fart jokes.”

I snort at his ridiculous words. Talking to him for the past few hours had completely eased my nerves. I take a deep breath, feeling confident.

“Thanks, Phoenix. I appreciate it. Everything, really.”

“No problem, Ivy.” He pauses thoughtfully. “There’s one more thing I need you to do tonight.”

Please God, don’t let him ask me to flash him my boobs or something equally juvenile. I actually like this one.

“Before you fall asleep, but after we hang up the phone, look underneath your plate,” he says with a shy grin. “Good night, Cubby Bear. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“’Night,” I whisper sleepily before he ends the video feed.

Curiously, I lift the corner of the china and find a simple note, hand-written on a napkin. I have no idea whose script it is, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is he went through the effort to make this surprise happen for me.

He remembered! Maybe things with us don’t have to be a complicated adult relationship after all. Perhaps things between us could be this simple and straightforward. I’m tickled that he remembered me saying this on our date a few weeks ago.

Quickly, I grab a hotel pen from the bedside table and put a checkmark next to “yes,” then snap a photo of the napkin with my camera phone. Before I can second guess myself, I attach the picture to a text message and send to Phoenix.

As my head finally hits the pillow, I take a deep breath. They
definitely
don’t make guys like him in real life.

LAST NIGHT’S WINE AND CONVERSATION was just enough to relax me into a deep, satisfying sleep. I wake up excited, refreshed and ready to conquer the day.

The interview, while nerve-wracking, went surprisingly well. Professor Whitman had warned me that any playful quizzing James might do would really be a test to make sure I was more than adept with my Art History knowledge. Whit taught me well, so I knew I would have no issues impressing him, but when we began talking about modern day artists, I really started to shine. Some of the connections I had made in the local art scene in Italy would prove to be invaluable to him and I left feeling confident that I would be offered the position. As he walked me out of the gallery, James promised I would know more in the next few days.

When he closed the door behind me, I examined the small piece of paper with the handwritten quote by the doorbell more closely.

“In art as in love, instinct is enough. – Anatole France.”

I trusted my instinct with following my passion for art and things seem to be falling into place. Could I be so lucky for the same to happen with my love life? Can I let my guard down, follow my instinct, and reap the riches it could possibly bring?