by B. L. Berry
Phoenix breaks eye contact and looks apprehensively at the floor. “Hailey,” he deadpans.
“Oh.”
That was one name I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear. A fitting ringtone—the perfect mixture of death and evil. My stomach flops as I remember the horrible feeling that washed over me when I saw Phoenix with his arm around her at the welcome party at the Signature Room before Gen’s wedding. It’s just as nauseating now as it was then.
“I didn’t realize that you guys still talked.” I hate that my voice sounds so feeble and pathetic.
“We don’t, actually.” He stops eating and fidgets with his cheeseburger wrapper nervously. “But she won’t stop calling. This has to be the tenth time this week.”
Tenth time?
While I appreciate his honesty, part of me would rather not know she has been calling him, let alone calling him obsessively. I don’t like the thought of any girl calling him, period. I don’t want to be that girlfriend, but nothing good can come from this. However, I do know from personal experience that there are only two ways to get someone to stop calling you.
One, you block the number.
Or two, you deal with it head-on, answer the damn phone and find out what the hell it is they want.
“Don’t you think you should at least answer? If she’s been trying to get a hold of you, it must be something important. What harm is there in asking what she wants?” I take another bite of my cheeseburger, but it no longer sits well in my stomach.
“I wouldn’t say there isn’t any harm. Hailey has a history of starting unnecessary drama. Forcing her way into situations and stirring shit up. And I don’t want to invite that into our life.”
The way he says our makes my insides melt, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more than what he’s telling me. I thought for sure we’d be leaving all of the past bullshit in Chicago where it belongs. But that’s the thing about bullshit. It will hunt you down and slowly erode your sense of security.
“All right. Well, she is your friend.”
“Was,” he clips sharply. “She’s certainly no friend of mine now.”
“What the heck happened with you two?”
Phoenix diverts his eyes toward the floor, grinds his jaw and simply shakes his head, either unable or unwilling to tell me about their history.
“Whatever she is—or was—I know you’ll make the right decision.”
Phoenix leans over with a small smile and kisses my cheek. “Thank you for understanding, Ivy.”
I’m not quite sure I do understand, but I’m trying to. Just as I’m about to ask him how he and Hailey fell into the same circle of friends, a petite blonde walks through the door, lifting her sunglasses on top of her head. She stops in her tracks and looks at us questionably through slitted eyes.
“James informed you there’s no food allowed in the gallery, did he not?”
Well, hello to you, too. Glad to see we’re off on the right foot.
“You must be Farrah,” I say, pushing myself to my feet and rushing over to introduce myself to her formally. “I’m Ivy.” I reach out my hand and she takes it cautiously. Her handshake isn’t nearly as firm as I’d expect it to be. “And no, he didn’t mention it to me. I just assumed it was fine since the shows here are catered. It won’t happen again.”
I look back to Phoenix and he wraps up what’s left of our food and stuff it back into the bag.
She looks at me and embarrassment flashes in her eyes. “Sorry, I’m usually not this rude. I’m just not having the best day. My boyfriend left the country this morning and I won’t see him for a few months. I just picked up the paperwork from Coulter’s studio,” Farrah explains, shoving a stack of papers into my hands. “I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He had a collection of antique doll heads nailed to the wall. No bodies. Just the heads. And on top of it all, he hoards junk. Literal piles of junk that should be thrown away. The guy really creeps me out.”
Farrah shudders and the hairs on my arm stand on end.
“Maybe it’s art?” Phoenix says, attempting to put her in place.
“Or … maybe it really is just trash?” Farrah retorts as she examines her nails in what I can only presume is boredom.
“Well, regardless, he sounds lovely.” I try to be optimistic, but these details paired with his alleged penchant for partying send all sorts of red flags flying in my mind. I’ve spent the last twenty some odd years dealing with the inexcusable antics of Genevieve and my mom. Certainly I can handle whatever theatrics this guy throws at me. But if he’s anything remotely like my experience with Dane Wright, this shouldn’t be bad at all.
“Yeah, good luck with that.” Farrah drops Brock’s signed contract on the desk and heads out the door.
Then again, maybe not.
I’M HAVING ONE OF THOSE days.
You know the kind—the world is out to get you, nothing is in its right place, and the only thing you want is to be left the hell alone.
For whatever reason, Phoenix’s secrecy is really just pissing me off today. And with the seed of Hailey now firmly planted deep inside, I feel like a grenade just waiting to detonate. But instead, I’m here on the couch with Phoenix, his head resting in my lap. I should be content in this moment, but I’m more irritated than anything else. He keeps laughing at the television, but I couldn’t even tell you what he’s watching. I’m mindlessly lost in my own thoughts, playing the tortuous game of what if.
I can’t shake this feeling that there’s something he’s not telling me.
What if there’s someone else?
What if we’re not going to work out?
What if he feels obligated to stay with me, not out of love but out of some misplaced responsibility?
And why the hell is Hailey still calling?
Phoenix rolled out of bed last night around three or so. This is the fourth time this week he’s done that. I couldn't fall asleep after he left, and I couldn’t bring myself to go after him. Instead, I listened to the TV through the wall. Nineties sitcoms are a popular choice for him in the wee hours of the morning. I focus on the screen for a moment and notice that’s what he’s watching right now. It’s the Friends episode with the naked guy and the giant poking device. I’ve seen this one no less than twenty times to be exact. It must be nice to have all of your problems solved in thirty minutes or less with some heart-warming underlying message. It makes me wish Marta Kauffman or Lorne Michaels could direct my life.
It amazes me how Phoenix and I rarely butt heads on things. It’s kind of refreshing, especially having grown up in a home where more often than not you could hear my parents arguing through the walls about mundane bullshit. But with Phoenix, the only time we’re ever at odds is when he doesn’t want waffles for dinner. And even then it’s not a major point of contention. And it’s not like one of us is just being overly accommodating—we just genuinely share the same interests and views. But there’s one thing we can’t agree on, and he refuses to agree to disagree.
Sully.
Don’t get me wrong. We both vehemently agree that he is a self-righteous shitbag who deserves to have the ACME anvil dropped squarely on his head in a most painful death. But I would much rather not dwell on all the shit that happened. I know that I can’t keep moving forward if I continue to allow my past to have a grasp on me. So I elect to just let it go.
But Phoenix, on the other hand, wants me to personally crucify him. And as enticing as that sounds, I don’t think I have the emotional capacity to face it head on without absolutely imploding. So I do as I see fit. And continue to ignore the whole situation.
Or at least try to.
Phoenix looks up at me and knits his eyebrows together, detecting something is off. He sits up to see me at eye level. “What’s the matter, hon?”
“Nothing, I’m fine,” I lie.
Why is it that once you start lying it’s easier to keep telling lies than to simply come clean? Then again, he would know. He’s been sitting on
a secret for a while now.
“You look like you’ve got something on your mind, babe. Want to talk about it?”
It takes effort not to ask what is eating at him to the point of insomnia. But instead, I just shake my head, not wanting to probe him. I’ve done a good job convincing myself that he’ll open up when he’s good and ready.
“You’re thinking about what happened back in Chicago again, aren’t you?”
“No, but now I am.” I press my index fingers to my temples and rub.
Trying to calm my racing mind.
Trying to squeeze out the rising hurt.
Trying to forget about everything that happened.
“Ivy,” he says, his voice laced with unease, “I really think you should reconsider pressing charges.”
I close my eyes and slowly inhale through my nose, attempting to rein in the mounting rage. It’s like he’s pulled the pin out from the grenade and I’m mere seconds away from detonation.
Three …
Two …
One …
“Jesus Christ, not this again!” I turn off the TV and throw the remote down on the coffee table as I stand to leave. This has to be the hundredth time he’s brought this up over the past few weeks and I’m sick of it. I just want to move on and forget it ever happened. There are plenty of other issues that we should be addressing. Like his issues.
“Yes, damn it! Yes, this again.”
“I can’t. I don’t want to think about this right now, Phoenix.” I storm into the bedroom, putting some much-needed space between us. I busy myself by folding the shit out of the basket of clean laundry that has been sitting on the floor for days. His heavy footsteps come up behind me, but I don’t dare turn to look at him.
“Can’t we talk about this rationally?”
“No.”
“You can’t pretend it didn’t happen, Ivy. It did.” There’s compassion in his eyes, but I just don’t care.
But he’s wrong. I can pretend. And I’ve been doing a pretty damn good job of it lately, I think.
“I know it did. And I don’t need you to fucking remind me of it every other god damned day.”
I snatch up the pile of T-shirts and toss them in the drawer before slamming it shut. It rattles so hard the framed photo of us on top tumbles over the edge. I watch it hit the ground, but by some miracle the glass doesn’t shatter.
“Stop it.” He spins me around and pulls the rest of the clothes from my hands. “The only time you ever clean is when you’re pissed off. Can’t you just stop and talk about this?”
I look at him blankly and pull a loose piece of hair behind my ear. No, I can’t talk about this. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to relive anything that happened with Sully. I don’t want to think about that night and how I can’t remember anything that happened with him. It’s like Phoenix expects me to suddenly remember and piece my emotions together. There are no memories other than how empty and confused and angry I felt sitting in that hospital room as the truth of Sully drugging and raping me soaked in.
The only thing I carry is rage over being violated, and that has the power to consume me, so I’m doing my best not to let it. I just want to forget about it all. Forget learning the truth.
The truth doesn’t set you free. The truth will fucking destroy you.
There are days I think I would have been much better off not knowing. I want to move on and leave the past exactly where it belongs—in the past. But Phoenix won’t stop pressing the issue.
“Please, Ivy. You clearly have unresolved issues over what happened.”
I know he’s coming from a good place and wants to help, but his pompous intonation makes me want to slap the dimple right off his perfect cheek. “The only issue I have right now is that you continue to bring it up.” I clench my teeth so hard that pain radiates through my jaw.
“You need to deal with this. You need to do something to help you work through it.”
His eyes look desperate. I know he’s coming from a genuine place, but I really don’t think he’d like who I’d become if I dealt with this head on. I wouldn’t like me. I know he wants me to feel some kind of resolution over what happened, but the truth is that is never going to happen. I just need to accept that it’s a part of me and move on.
He needs to learn to accept that, too.
“You know, there are days I wish I would get hit by a truck on my way to work. Suffer some head trauma. Get amnesia. Forget any of that shit ever happened to me. Just leave it all behind and get a fresh start.”
Phoenix cringes and I instantly feel horrible wounding him like that. I’ve reminded him of the way his mother died. And as much as I hate it, he is deeply woven into my past. Forgetting where I come from and what happened to me would mean forgetting him, too.
“You don’t mean that.” He reaches down and picks up the photo, setting it gently back on top of the dresser.
“Sometimes I think I do,” I bite back. He needs to lay off.
I watch his chest rise and fall slowly for a few moments before I finally meet his gaze again. “I love you, Ivy,” he says, searching my face.
“If you loved me, you’d just let it go,” I whisper.
“It’s because I love you that I can’t let it go. You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. Sully abused you. He fucking drugged you and took advantage of you. And you’re going to let him get away with it?”
“You can’t even say it. Can you?” I give him a pointed look, reminding him that I’m the victim here. Not him. “Sully raped me. How does it feel to hear that? To know that someone you once called your best friend raped your girlfriend?”
Phoenix rakes his fingers through his hair and I’m certain he’s going to rip his locks from his skull. “I know! And it fucking kills me to think that I could have prevented it. I fucking beat myself up over this every day. I should have stayed with you in the room that night. He never would have laid a finger on you. I should have taken better care of you. I can’t help but take the blame for this.”
“I wasn’t your responsibility. And neither was he. You can’t take the fall for that piece of shit. He would have found a way to take what he wanted. And if it weren’t me, it would have been somebody else. “
“And that is exactly why I think you need to talk to someone. File the police report.” His voice turns commanding and that is not the way to get me to crack.
“Look. Pressing charges isn’t going to turn back the clocks and change the past. It can’t undo what has already been done.” Selfishly I haven’t filed because I don’t want to relive any moment that involves that asshole.
“No, but it can prevent it from happening to someone else.” His eyes plead with me.
“So I report it and then what? Sabotage Genevieve’s sham of a marriage? I’ve already ruined my family enough as it is. Any more damage and my mom will personally schedule my public execution. I’m done with them. I’m moving on. And you need to move on with me. I can’t think about this right now.”
“Look, I get it, babe. You’re not ready to face your past. I just don’t think you should be so quick to dismiss it. I can’t force you to do anything about it, but if you decide to, I’m here for you.”
Oh. Now he wants to play the nice guy? He’s so wrapped up in me and my problems he’s not even going to acknowledge his own.
“Really? Really, babe? You think I’m not ready to face my past? What about you, Phoenix? What the fuck are you not telling me?”
His eyebrows knit together and he softly gasps. Judging from the look on his face, I’ve caught him off guard.
“You don’t think I know you sneak out of our bedroom in the middle of the night? What were you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit! I’m thrilled to finally get to be the pot because I was getting tired of being the goddamn kettle.”
His eyes fill with rage and I watch his jaw tense as if he’s grinding the words in his mouth before he spits acid at me.
“I don’t know what it is you’re hiding from me, but I know whatever it is, it’s bad enough to eat at your insides.” I push him away from with all of my strength.
“Stop it! You’re acting like a child, Ivy. Can’t you see I’m not fighting with you? I’m fighting for you. You don’t seem to have any fight left.”
No fight left in me?
“You want fight? I’ll show you a fucking fight.” I storm out of the bedroom, grab my purse and slam the front door with so much force our neighbor pops his head out into the hallway.
“Everything okay out here?” He looks sheepishly at me from his doorway.
“I’m fine, Thom,” I mutter as I walk away with more purpose in my step than I’ve had in weeks.
IT’S BEEN THREE DAYS AND we haven’t said a word to each other.
Three. Painful. Days.
On my walk home from work, I resolve to extend the olive branch. I hate that we’re fighting. But secretly I’m relieved because it means we have something that is actually worth fighting for. I’ve been with far too many men who have no backbone. They’d let me walk all over them and simply had no fight. Maybe if I had cared about them, things could have been different. But now? Now I have a partner who isn’t afraid to punch back and fight with me. Fight for me. Fight for us. When I get caught up in my own head, he knows how to push me and bring me back to earth. And knowing I get to kiss him each night with a proverbial swollen lip and bruised cheek makes me the luckiest girl in the world. The amount of happiness Phoenix brings is incalculable. And I am such an idiot for not talking to him the past few days.
Both of us are idiots, really.
Even if he’s not ready to talk about whatever is eating at him, I need to put my pride aside, go home and make this right. I know he was only looking out for me. And frankly, our relationship is far more important than my need to be right and get the last word in.
Standing outside the door, I take a deep breath and collect myself while searching for my keys.
