One Trip Around the Sun (18 page)

When the wheels finally touch the ground, a strange combination of relief and anxiety wash over me. I inhale deeply and swallow down the sensation.
A fresh start
.

I can do this.

My eyes scan the empty apartment. It’s strange to be here without Rachel’s boisterous personality filling the space. When I told Rachel about my plans to go abroad senior year, I insisted on helping her find a suitable roommate in my absence, one who could handle her quirks and habitual study partners (her code for hook ups) every weekend without fail. But she refused, saying no one would ever take my place. Really, we both knew she was looking forward to having some space and freedom to walk around the apartment in nothing but her unmentionables. Not that my presence ever stopped her before.

Walking into my old room, I see traces of my life before Italy scattered everywhere. This is the room of a completely different girl. Photos of a questionably happy Matt and I smile down at me from the corkboard above the desk. Movie stubs, concert posters and old Badger football tickets from Saturdays at Camp Randall Stadium litter the walls.

The only thing that has changed is the fine layer of dust collected upon my former life. Walking to the bathroom, I trace my finger along the bookcase, leaving a trail of cleanliness in its wake.

I take my time and unpack enough to get me through the next few days. No sense in unloading all of my belongings for my brief graduation layover here in Madison. Looking around the apartment, I can’t believe how much I’ve missed this place. Wisconsin was always more of a home to me than Chicago ever was.

Snagging a soda from the fridge, I settle into the overstuffed love seat that is too large for our modest living room. Frankly, the yellow and blue paisley pattern is hideous but adds character to an otherwise drab space.

When we found it the summer before our sophomore year, Rachel demanded that it be the focal point of the room, deeming that it would make us sit closer to the guys we brought home. In reality, the most action it saw was the pair of us huddled together under a blanket gossiping. The one time Rachel tried to get lucky on it, she put too much weight against the backside and the whole thing flipped over in the throes of passion. I stormed out in a sleepy daze, convinced we were being robbed, and beat the hell out of the nameless naked jackass with a golf club. Since then, we’ve agreed to relegate all promiscuity to our respective bedrooms.

I open my laptop and instantly connect to the wireless network. It’s true what they say—home is where your Wi-Fi connects automatically. I load my email page and key in my password. Six new messages flash the top of my inbox. After deleting a plea from a Nigerian prince and several solicitations for black market penis enhancers, I click on an email from my favorite professor with a smile.

Professor Whitman is an elderly stout gentleman with a refined penchant for Renaissance and Baroque art. And when I say gentleman, I mean it. He’s a true southern beau at heart and vigilant proponent of random acts of chivalry. I never did learn how he ended up in Wisconsin for the long haul, but if I had to guess, I’d venture to say it was a hopeless act of romance that kept him here.

I had taken nearly all of my Art History cornerstone classes with him and he’d become fond of me when I practically begged him to take me on as a teaching assistant for the entry-level Art History lecture. He saw it as enthusiasm. I saw it as a paycheck to bring myself one step closer to living independently from my parents. Most of all, I liked Professor Whitman because he was simply a nice guy. He knew how to make learning fun and, as Associate Dean of the Fine Arts program, he made it his business to know who’s who among the student body. Over the past four years, he’d evolved into the dad I had always wanted but never had. Don't get me wrong. I have a father in the sense of an overbearing, controlling, ATM machine. But he isn’t a
dad
.

As I open his email, it’s impossible not to imagine Professor Whitman reciting it aloud with a cigar in one hand, whiskey neat in the other, his over exaggerated gestures sloshing the amber liquid through the air.

Ivy,

Welcome back! I trust that your European adventure has served you well and that this message finds you in the comforts of home. Teaching Art History 101 to a lecture hall of freshman thinking they were in a blow off course was not nearly as satisfying without you joining me as my T.A. again. I always appreciated your snark and ability to break through to them. But I digress.

James Horejsi, a friend and former colleague, contacted me last week about a new endeavor. Last year he opened Gallery 545 in New York and now has an opportunity for an Associate Curator. James asked me if I knew of anyone who would, theoretically, be worthy and knowledgeable enough to take on such a prestigious position. I replied that, theoretically, if I did have someone in mind, I would need to talk with him or her prior to handing him his or her personal information.

Naturally, with your passion for art, you were the first student to come to mind.

So, Ivy, if you are
—
in theory
—
interested, just say the words and I will put him in touch with you. James has worked at countless art museums around the world including The Louvre and Prado Museum, and within the last decade has begun opening art galleries across the globe. Opportunities from him are rare and tend to be available for a fraction of a millisecond. He
’
s good people and you would get along swimmingly, of this I am sure.

Feel free to stop by during my office hours so we can chat a bit more. I would love to hear all about Italy and learn if you are interested in scheduling an interview with James. Theoretically, of course.

Sincerely,

Dr. Elias Whitman

Flattered, I shoot him a quick message back and make a mental note to head to campus and visit him tomorrow. My insides fall through my feet when I click open the next email. Her inevitable acrimonious tone floods my head as I start to read.

Ivy Elaine,

I am writing to let you know that your father and I will be unable to attend your graduation ceremonies this weekend. Genevieve and Cortland have their tasting for the wedding, along with a few other important appointments that simply cannot be missed. As maid of honor, you need to reconsider your stopover in Madison and join us to fulfill your sisterly obligation.

I do not understand why you have chosen to fly directly to Madison upon arrival in the States. We will see you when you return to Chicago. I will plan to send our driver up to collect your belongings and take you home this weekend.

- Mother

Seriously? Reconsider staying in Madison. Miss graduation? This woman is ridiculous. Puckering my lips and releasing a drawn out exhale, I click reply.

Don
’
t worry about it, Mom. I
’
ll have Rachel bring me home after graduation. And Italy was amazing. Thanks for asking.

That woman is impossible. She clearly still hasn’t forgiven me for “bringing shame to the family name” as she so eloquently called it during my rebellious phase in high school. She called it shame, but I called it, “showing the world not everyone in the Cotter family is a stuck up asshat.”

I’m sure her face is still void of emotion, pulled skintight from the copious amount of Botox she injects, trying to make herself look younger and become the perfect trophy wife on my father’s arm. My mother never wastes an opportunity to remind me that she wanted Genevieve to be an only child. I was the accident—the accident that ruined her life. My mother resents me for it. She doesn’t need to say it aloud, though; her actions tell me everything I need to know. But I stopped taking offense a long ago and realized that my value goes far beyond my mother’s opinion of me.

I snap my laptop shut and head back to my room so I can decompress in the shower. I don’t want to think about my parents or Chicago, and I certainly don’t want to think about Matt, who is looking at me smugly from the confines of a picture frame. As I walk by, I rip down any photographic evidence of him, tossing the shreds into the wastebasket in the corner.

I don’t want to think about what the future has in store for me. I just want to enjoy my last few days of freedom in Madison with Rachel and not have to worry about any impending responsibility.

Retreating to the bathroom, I crank the water to scalding and slip inside, washing the grime and my worries away.

I scream as I’m startled to my senses when the bathroom door flies open. Popping my head out from behind the shower curtain, I see Rachel bouncing around frantically. She never was one for social protocol. If only her energy could be bottled, we would surely have the world’s most effective antidepressant.

“I haven’t seen you in ages, Ivy Cotter … Phillips … whatever the hell you are calling yourself these days! Get your cute little ass out of the shower and hug me. Now!” Rachel commands in an enthusiastic fashion that only she can pull off. I manage to finish rinsing the conditioner out of my hair and turn the water off just before she tosses a towel over the curtain. She drags me out, near naked and envelopes me in a bear hug worthy of grizzlies. We are just one towel drop away from a ridiculous lesbian love scene— moments like these are what teenage boy fantasies are made of.

The steam from my shower has fogged over the mirror, where Rachel has written ‘Welcome Home!’ surrounded by stars. When I pry myself from her grasp, I wrap my bathrobe around me as Rachel jumps up on the counter and proceeds to tell me about everything I’ve missed over the past nine months.

God, how I’ve missed her incessant babbling.

When she finally comes up for air, the fog on the glass has dissipated and the air between us has chilled. My eyes meet Rachel’s in the mirror and she pauses with a deep breath and a look of worry in her eyes.

“So I guess I should tell you … Matt called me the other day. He wanted to know when you were getting back into town.”

Her words ricochet right off me and I continue to brush through my hair, unaffected. “That’s nice, I guess. I hope you told him I had no plans of returning.” And as far as he’s concerned, that’s the truth. I have no intention of seeing him again. Ever.

“Ivy…” She touches my arm, and I stop brushing my hair to look her in the eye. “Our friends back home have told me that ever since you left last year, he’s really changed. I know you don’t talk about what went down with you guys, but maybe you should consider hearing him out. Give him a chance.”

“Don’t you dare go defending him. And for the record, I’ve changed too. Like my tolerance for his bullshit? It’s nonexistent now. So what did you tell him?” I start brushing my hair again, each stroke getting increasingly more aggressive. I do not want to be discussing this with her right now. Talking about Matt will only sour my mood and spoil our reunion.

“You know I can’t lie.”

“Rachel!” I whine as I rip a knot out from my scalp, yelping in pain.

“He knows you got back in today. But don’t worry. Matt has a life of his own set up back home in Chicago, working for some big fancy ad agency downtown, so I don’t think he’ll be making the three hour trek up here just to surprise you, especially since we’re headed back to Chicago this weekend.”

“Good.”

I’m honestly not sure if I’d run away from him or run right into his bed, so it’s best for everyone if he keeps a safe distance from me.

I know why I started dating Matt, but I never really understood why I let it go on as long as it did. I was emotionally checked out after a month of dating and Matt seemed to like the
idea
of me far more than he actually liked being with me as an individual. I always had the sneaky suspicion that it was because of my parent’s money. Early on I’d learned not to complain and that it was good to keep him around for three reasons:

One
, he was great in bed. And by great I mean he gave me the ability to completely disconnect from all of life’s bullshit and see stars for days.

Two
, my parents adored him and as long as they believed that I was with him, they tended to stay off my back—a major plus for me, and if we’re being honest a necessity to my survival.

And
three
, he was insanely easy to cheat on.

By the time I’d finally ended it, I was repulsed by everything little he did, so I decided to cut my losses and fled to Italy. Don’t get me wrong, I miss the sex; I just don’t miss the person on the other end of the dick.

At all.

“So when do your folks roll into town for the main event?”

I can’t help but laugh. “They don’t.”

She looks at me slack-jawed. I fight the urge to reach out and close Rachel’s mouth. Really, this move shouldn’t surprise her.

“My mom emailed me earlier to let me know they aren’t coming up for graduation. Apparently Gen and her fiancé have some wedding crap they’ve roped the whole family into attending. Then she laid it on thick about me choosing to be here, at my graduation, and not back in Chicago with them. All of this in an email when I haven’t heard their voices in nearly nine months. She may as well have sent me a telegraph by way of pigeon.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No … that’s my family,” I say with a sigh. It’s sad but true. I have always played second fiddle to Genevieve. I’m just ready to be done with it all and get myself as far away from them as possible. Italy was a welcomed taste of independence, and I’m dreading being back under their roof for even a short amount of time while I figure out the job situation.

It’s unfair that I’ve had to deal with this nonsense for so long. You would think they’d be proud to have a daughter who actually has a spine and a fuck it all attitude, but instead I get to spend the rest of my life being cast away as the black sheep for refusing to fall into line. I come from a family with serious control issues. My parents try to control everything in sight, and I refuse to be controlled. It’s a nightmare for everyone.

“You know what I say, girl? When all else fails, eat your feelings. I’ll be right back,” Rachel says with an infectious smile that touches her eyes.