One Trip Around the Sun (17 page)

To my husband, Mike—Thank you for loving me even though I ignore the hell out of you in favor of giving all my attention to these fictional characters. Although it might not seem like it, I love you more than I love them—not much more, but a little more. ☺ You calm me when I worry about what people are going to think of the crazy path that my imagination has taken me down, and that is the only reason I move on to the next story. Your encouragement is what makes me brave enough to publish these books. I love you.

Chadd, Alexis, Brandon, Keely, Avery, Zack, Ella, and Keisha—Thank you for always encouraging me. You certainly have more faith in me than I have in myself. I love you all more than you will ever know.

A special thanks to Alexis, Keely, and Keisha for beta-reading and loving Reese and Brady as much as I do.

To my family and friends who have been so supportive and excited for me—Your support keeps me going. I love you all so very much.

Jovana, thank you for not only editing my story, but for also coaching me all the way. You polished her until she was a beauty. I am so blessed to be able to work with you.

I must have nearly driven you to drink with these covers, Kellie. Sorry—not sorry! They are perfect and true to my story. Thank you.

Trish Springer, the beautiful hand-forged necklace that you gifted me belongs in this story. I love to wear it, and I love seeing it on this cover! Thank you! You are a very talented woman and a wonderful friend.

https://www.facebook.com/FromTheFlames.MetalArt

http://www.forgedfromtheflames.com

A huge thank you to the amazing photographer Forest Worstell for picking a beautiful morning to shoot a picture of the sun just for this cover. It could not have been more perfect. I’m so blessed to have you as a friend.

Thank you, BL Berry, for mentoring me through this insane journey. I would have been lost without you!

Rachael Duncan, you have been so kind and patient with my questions. I’m so glad to have you as a friend. Thank you!

Valerie Douglas of the Indie Author Group, you might have given me the best advice ever. Thank you a million times over.

Jen Beebe, Christina Edwards, Sarah Piechuta, and Gina Grima—You ladies were the first to love these characters. You beta-read, edited, and critiqued the story, making it into what it is today. Thank you so much. You are dear friends, and I love you ladies so much.

Linda Russell, Melissa Oudemans, and Jennifer Gauthier—I’ve saved you three for last because…well, you know! Along with beta and proofreading, you three kept me on task when I would drift off to other stories. You remind me that I can do this and why I do this. And you’ve grounded me throughout this crazy journey. Thank you seems inadequate, but thank you. I’m blessed to have you girls not only helping me, but to also have you in my life every single day. I love you…more!

Love Nouveau

By B.L. Berry

Four Months Earlier

I
’
m blindsided when the musty throw pillow from the loveseat smacks me in the face. Popping the buds out from my ears, I give my flatmate Robyn a cross look.

“What?”

“Your phone. It’s been ringing nonstop. Answer the damn thing already.”

Oh
.

I snatch it off my nightstand and look at the screen, cringing when I see three missed calls from home
flashing across the window. It’s just after one in the morning and I’m in the zone writing a term paper on the influence of ancient Greek Architecture in modern America, a requirement for my Art History track. When the call comes through a fourth time, I click the accept button, mildly annoyed at the lack of consideration for the seven hour time difference since technically I should be in bed.

With any luck, someone is dead.

“Ivy! He proposed! I’m getting married!” a voice shrieks into the phone before I can even extend a greeting.

“Who is that?” Robyn asks curtly as I pull the phone away from my ear.

“My sister,” I whisper back.

“You have a sister?”

I roll my eyes and return my focus to Genevieve on the other end of the line. Yes, I have a sister. No, I don’t talk about her, let alone
to
her … or anyone else in my family on a regular basis for that matter.

“CJ proposed tonight! I am so excited! I’m getting married!” she squeals again before pausing. “Hello? Ivy? Are you there?”

“Sorry. Yes, I’m here. Congratulations, Gen,” I reply with a heavy sigh and try to hide the annoyance in my voice. “That’s really great. I’m happy for you.” There are no sincere words I can offer her. The purpose of her call wasn’t really to tell me that she’s engaged. She and I both know that this call is to remind me of how superficially amazing and perfect life can be when you fall into line in the Cotter household. Something that I’m simply
not
willing to do.

“Oh my God! I cannot wait for you to meet him, Ivy! He is absolutely amazing. And last night was so romantic. He took me on a horse-drawn carriage ride through downtown and he slipped the ring into my glass of champagne. It had just started snowing and we were all bundled up under fleece blankets and it was just so, so beautiful! I wish you could have seen it since it will
never
happen to you …”

I tune her out. I’m not sure when clichés became romantic, but this guy sounds like a winner. My eyes return back to my computer screen and I continue to edit my paper as I toss in an obligatory overzealous “yay” and “mm-hmm” to appease the princess while she motors on with mundane details.

How she can be this far along with wedding plans baffles me. The poor sap
just
proposed. Oh, who am I kidding? She’s had her wedding planned since she was six years old.

“Anyway, Daddy said we could have the wedding anywhere we wanted, but there is, like, a wait list everywhere for at least two years. Then it turned out that The Drake had a cancellation for this June, so we snatched it up and we’re getting married in six months. Six months! Can you believe it? There is so much to do! You’ll need to find a seamstress in Italy to take your measurements so I can have your maid of honor gown designed, and when you get back you’ll have to plan a bachelorette party for me, but don’t worry, I’ll tell you exactly what I want and can even make a few calls for you, and—”

Wait. What?

“What do you mean maid of honor?” I ask, cutting her off.

“You, silly! You’re my sister, and I can’t possibly have one of my girlfriends outshining me. You’ll be my maid of honor and then some other girls from my sorority will be standing with you. I was thinking a deep red, but I don’t know how well that’ll work with your skin tone. We can’t have you sticking out in photos.”

She can’t be serious. This five-minute conversation is the most we’ve said to each other in nearly four years.

“Listen, Gen. Surely there is someone else you’d rather have as your maid of honor. I really don’t think I could do the job justice and help you out like you’d need me to. I’m halfway around the globe.”

“Oh shush. You’re my only sister. You’re standing up there with me. Non-negotiable,” she barks back.

Suddenly, I find myself overjoyed with the fact that I’m halfway across the world, divided by the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. But something tells me I could be living on a different planet and Genevieve would still find a way to bridge the gap and torment me.

I’ve spent my senior year in Europe studying art history. Partly because it’s my major, but more importantly I’m here as a means to get away from my family. I fed my parents some bullshit about how it was necessary to immerse myself in antiquity and art and embrace ancient cultures to truly make myself marketable after graduation. In reality, I needed to disconnect from them, but more importantly, disconnect from myself and who I had allowed myself to become. As much as I love the University of Wisconsin, the one hundred and fifty miles between campus and my home in Chicago were just too close for comfort.

And at this moment, being a continent away still doesn’t feel far enough. Hell, I didn’t even return home for Christmas break. Instead, I flew to Prague for a few days with a stopover in Budapest. Exploring a foreign country by myself is one of the most liberating and terrifying things I’ve ever done. I learned to eat by myself in public, smoked some damn fine weed with two tourists from Australia in a youth hostel, and experienced my first Thai massage. Unlike romance novels, but not unlike my life, there was no happy ending.

“Fine, Gen, I’ll wear whatever you want. Listen, I need to get going. As much as I’d love to rack up Mom and Dad’s phone bill with this call, it’s late and my roommate is trying to sleep. I guess just email me with the details and we’ll chat more when I’m home for graduation, okay?”

“Sure, okay.”

“Bye,” I chirp before I realize that Genevieve has already hung up the line. Fitting, after all this time she still thinks she has the right to the last word.

Robyn pulls herself out from the novel she has been reading and gives me a pointed look, mouth agape. I run my fingers over the threadbare quilt I bought from a thrift store on the square, avoiding her stare. The teal and gray details have faded over time, but the weathered weaves are soft and comforting. Italy feels more like home than anywhere else.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

“Whatever you say, girl.”

And with that, she snaps her book shut and clicks off her lamp, leaving me alone in the glow from my laptop.

1

Mid-May

I lean my head against the window and look out beyond the wing to the twinkling city lights below. As we descend toward U.S. soil, I can
’
t help but think about how things have changed over the past nine months. And when I say
‘
things
’
I
’
m really talking about myself. Who knew that it would take an escape to realize that I am not my mother
’
s daughter and that who I
’
ve slept with is certainly not a reflection of my true self.

When I left for Italy, I wanted to get away from all of the drama with my family and with my now
ex
-boyfriend, Matt. I had become the girl who would excessively drink to avoid actually having to feel something, and I’d slept with countless guys who most definitely were
not
my boyfriend. I desperately wanted to disconnect from the world around me.

So I ran.

I ran halfway around the globe to a place where I knew not one soul and where the Cotter family name would have no consequences. And just to be sure, I took up my grandmother’s last name—Phillips.

It was a glorious nine months abroad. I learned more about myself than I’d ever imagined possible. The old Ivy feared parental reaction from each tiny act of defiance. But the new Ivy says, “Fuck ‘em all!” a sentiment that Rachel will surely appreciate. My new motto? Be who you are and own that shit—because only with true self-acceptance comes peace and joy.

No more
self-loathing.

No more
hiding behind the guises of liquor and meaningless one-night stands.

No more
fearing living life
my
way.

No more
aiming to please my parents, especially when they don’t see the value in me.

I, Ivy Cotter, am returning to the states a completely different woman … Ivy Phillips.

It took all of three bags to pack up my belongings. Last August I brought one trunk of clothes, some toiletries and a few supplies for classes. The only memories I packed were a few photos, mostly of me and my best friend Rachel. She was really the only one I’d actually missed. We’ll be reunited in a matter of hours, and in a few short days we’ll walk together in the University of Wisconsin commencement ceremonies, entering the proverbial real world. I’ve never understood why they call it the real world. The past twenty-something years of my life sure as hell have felt real, absolutely painful. And there’s nothing like pain to prove you’re really alive.

The captain announces preparations for the plane’s final descent and I realize just how anxious I am to get back to Madison. Only within the past few weeks have I really started to crave the familiarity of home. A few weeks ago I even sought out the American sports bar La Botticella so I could watch the Chicago Cubs on opening day. They lost, which was more comforting than surprising. It’s good to know that some things will never change.

I can hardly contain my excitement when it comes to Rachel. It feels like we’ve been separated for a decade. I’ve missed everything about her, especially her energy and her ability to make me forget about my bat shit crazy family. But the best thing about our friendship is the fact it is so effortless. The moment we see each other, I know it will be as if no time has passed at all.

Our time together is numbered, though. Rachel is returning to Chicago, presumably to live off of her trust fund for a while as she figures out what she wants to do next with her life. Not that I blame her. While majoring in Political Science, she still has no idea what she wants to be when she grows up.

I, on the other hand, have known what I’ve wanted to do ever since a junior high field trip to the Art Institute of Chicago for the traveling Monet exhibit. I wandered off on my own, and as all of my classmates were waiting for me on the bus, Mr. Moyer, my Art Appreciation teacher, found me sitting in front of the
Water Lilies
painting, lost in thought. Rather than turning angry because I’d separated from the group, he’d sat down next to me and talked about Impressionism—not so much about the art itself, but how it made each of us feel. I have Mr. Moyer to thank for opening my eyes to countless other movements like Surrealism, Constructivism, Cubism, Pop Art and more. And when he showed me how I could have a career in art without actually being an artist, I knew I had found my calling.

Majoring in Art History has been one of the most fulfilling things I’ve ever done for myself, much to my family’s chagrin. And while I don’t have anything lined up after graduation, I’m hopeful that I can find work. I’d give anything to work in an artist’s studio or even an art gallery. Then again, Kate Middleton majored in Art History and that seemed to work out well for her, though my life is anything but a fairytale with a crown prince waiting for me in the wings.