by B. L. Berry
When I push open the door, I find our home is eerily peaceful. And just when I think he’s not here, I hear a slight cough coming from the back of the apartment.
The sooner you say you’re sorry for losing your shit, the faster you can get back to loving each other.
I stand in the kitchen doorway, watching him silently. It’s hard to see what he’s doing from behind, but I don’t want to interrupt him. It’s probably some new plans for work. He’s been working just as hard as I have these past few weeks.
“Hey,” he says, quickly glancing over his shoulder. His voice is meek and his eyes are red as if he’s barely slept since I walked out a few days ago. “How long have you been standing there?”
He’s at least talking to me. That has to be good, right?
“I just got home.” I set my bag down and slowly walk into the kitchen. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
His head is back down, leaning over the kitchen table. “No, I’m just keeping my mind busy.”
Coming up behind him, I rest my hand on his shoulder and give it a soft squeeze. His back melts into my hands.
“I’m sorry.”
I want my apology to come across as confident and meaningful, but my voice just sounds feeble. It’s one thing to feel weak, but it’s a completely different story to actually be weak. And I loathe being weak. I wish I’d never started this stupid fight with him.
“I hate arguing with you,” I admit softly.
“I know, me too. But it’s what we do, Ivy. We fight hard, and then we love even harder.”
He pulls away from the table and holds me in his arms like he means it. His embrace is so tight it nearly suffocates me. Even so, his touch breathes life back into me. I’ve never felt more loved than I do right at this moment. And the ironic part is, I know I don’t even deserve it.
“I just hate fighting with you. I know it’s inevitable in any relationship, but it doesn’t mean either of us enjoys it.” I let go of him and pull back to look him in the eyes.
Even though I’m the first to break the hug, he doesn’t break contact. Instead, he drapes his hands over my shoulders and tangles his fingers in my hair. I watch his chest rise and fall as he takes a deep breath.
“Look, the way I see it is neither of us is fighting to win the argument or piss the other off,” he says.
“Then what the hell are we doing?”
“We’re figuring each other out,” he says calmly. “Rather passionately, I might add.”
Passionate. That’s one word for it.
I nod my head knowingly and offer a small smile. “Well, I am sorry, Phoenix.”
He tilts his head as he looks down at me. That single look makes me feel so many unnamed emotions. Slowly, he sits back down in his chair and reaches out to take my hands. I’m taken aback by just how handsome he is.
“I know. I’m sorry too, Ivy. I shouldn't have pushed the issue—”
“Stop. I was a complete bitch and you caught me on a shitty day where I was over-thinking everything. And even then, that’s no excuse for my behavior. You don’t need to apologize … Unless, of course, you have something to be sorry for.”
I leave the door wide open. I silently promise that I won’t be mad about whatever it is. I just need him to talk to me.
Tell me. Please just tell me. I know there’s something. I can feel it.
He opens his mouth to say something, but quickly snaps it shut before he looks down. “There are … things I want to tell you. I just can’t. At least not right now.”
I nod my head, trying to respect his admission, but secretly wanting to pummel whatever it is out of him. Perhaps that’s something that I would have done once upon a time. But this is a relationship of equals. And I need to appreciate the fact that he’s at least acknowledging that there is something. Even if he can’t bring himself to talk about it yet.
My eyes shift from Phoenix to the pile of colorful squares littered across our tiny kitchen table.
“What are you doing?” I ask, changing the subject. Picking up a piece of delicate paper and examining it between my fingertips. This piece, in particular, is a textured parchment, in slate with woven specks of silver intertwined.
“It’s something my mom spent hours doing in a haze after we left my dad. I think she took comfort in keeping herself busy with something so mundane. She would spend hours mindlessly folding the paper, barely slowing down to look at her fingers, making dozens of paper cranes in one sitting. I didn’t realize just how therapeutic it was until after she was gone,” he says as he pinches the paper to make the head of the bird and sets the yellow crane upright on the table. “When she died, I started to make these almost daily. It made me feel closer to her. It’s been a while since I made one and I’m surprised I remember how to do it. My fingers must have committed the motions to memory. Here, you try.”
Phoenix passes me a square piece of navy paper and I look at it, completely clueless.
“I don’t know how. I’ve never done origami before.”
“It’s easy,” he says with a hint of a smile that just touches his eyes.
He kicks out the chair next to him and I take a seat. He guides me through the process of folding, unfolding, creasing and tucking the corners of the paper, whispering each step like a lullaby as we go.
Each fold creating an imperfection on a flat piece of paper, but those flaws skillfully creating a beautifully perfect bird. Phoenix is an artist in his own right and doesn’t even realize it.
“There,” he says proudly, placing his red crane next to the yellow one from earlier. Six of them stand wing to wing on our table.
I look at my blue blob of a bird and laugh.
“Mine looks like a deformed swan,” I say, comparing it to his. “That’s a lot harder than it looks.”
“It’s perfect.” He closes his eyes and gives me a soft kiss on my forehead. “Did you know that the crane is a holy creature fabled to live for a thousand years? It’s Japanese folklore. Whenever my mom would finish folding a crane, she’d hand it to me and tell me to make a wish. She believed that each crane you created granted you one wish. I wished for so many things. For my mom to get back to her old self. For her to find love again and get remarried. As I got older, I wished for more trivial, selfish shit like a car or to get laid.” He laughs at the memory.
I brush the hair out of my eyes and look at Phoenix, lost in thought at the memory of his mother. It’s obvious that losing her still pains him after all this time. He grabs another piece of square paper and begins to fold in the first corner.
“She had it all wrong, though. The legend actually says that in order for you to receive a wish, you have to fold one thousand paper cranes—one crane for each year of its life.”
I watch him in silence as he runs his fingers over a mint green square, creasing the paper, making it perfectly crisp. I reach out and rest my hand on his shoulder, running my thumb along the soft cotton of his shirt.
“That’s not all, though. She didn’t realize that the wish only comes true for the person who made the cranes. She spent all her time wasting those wishes on me when she needed to keep them for herself. Maybe then …” He trails off with a sigh.
I know he’s thinking that she could still be here on earth if she just kept the wishes for herself. But we both know there’s nothing anyone could have done to save her.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out just louder than a whisper. And he knows I’m not just apologizing for his mother.
Phoenix nods and reaches for my hand. We sit in silence for what feels like hours.
“Ivy.” He closes his eyes and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “This relationship … this is the one that I want to fight for, but I can’t be the only one fighting. And I certainly don’t want to be fighting with you.”
My vision turns everything into watercolor and I lose it. I am so not deserving of this incredible, forgiving man in front of me.
Phoenix pulls me into his lap an
d holds me tight as his shirt welcomes my tears.
“Shhh …” he whispers.
“I love you.”
“And I love you more than all the birds in the history of time, paper or otherwise.”
And just like that, everything is as it should be.
Almost.
THE ACRID STENCH OF TOBACCO smoke burns my nostrils, pulling me from the back office where I was busy rocking out to One Way or Another. A strange man is lying down in the middle of the gallery floor, arms splayed out to his sides, cigarette loosely hanging from his lips. His feet flip back and forth lazily, like a metronome keeping rhythm as he mumbles some indecipherable tune that is most definitely not Blondie.
“Excuse me … you can’t smoke in here.” I nudge his foot with mine and cross the gallery floor to turn down the music.
I walk up beside him again, but he is lost in his own thoughts. He brings his hand up to his face and takes the cigarette from his mouth, flicking the ash to the floor as he exhales several smoke rings into the space between us. He’s like the hookah-smoking caterpillar, and I’m Alice, and together we’re lost in this magical place called Wonderland. Except Wonderland is this whitewashed gallery just waiting for the colorful mess of the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Though in fairness, he’s probably taking both the red and blue pills.
When he brings the cigarette back to his lips, I nudge his leg with my food. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave.” I grit my teeth, politeness faintly seething through.
“I’m really struggling with the zen of this place.” He waves his empty hand in the air. “It doesn’t feel right.”
And I’m really struggling with you interrupting my Debbie Harry zen with your nonsense.
He sits up abruptly, folding his legs underneath his body. And I eye the phone on the desk, tempted to make a dash and call the cops.
“Sir,” I bite back, trying to be firm, but polite and professional. “You need to leave. Now.”
He stands himself upright and drops the cigarette to the floor, crushing it under the bottom of his soft leather shoe.
“Simmer down, peaches. I’m just checking the place out.” He has the audacity to wink at me, and I’m surprised by his striking blue eyes electrified by his sapphire gingham shirt. I feel like I should know him, but nothing rings a bell.
Now that he’s at eye level, I can see just how handsome he is. I quickly snap myself from my reverie and follow him as he explores the space.
He uses his hands to frame invisible things throughout the gallery as he mutters nonsense to himself.
Cautiously, I walk over to the desk and grab the cordless phone, debating if I need to call the cops.
“This’ll do. But it’s bigger than what I envisioned. So I’ll need to push everything back. By at least three weeks.”
Push back? What the hell is he talking about? “I’m sorry. What was your name again?”
He turns his back to me, as he circles the room. “Brock. I’m Brock Coulter.” His voice is low and rough from what I can only assume is decades of smoking.
He stops and turns, looking directly at me. The man before me shares little resemblance to the photographs I saw online.
“Oh … my apologies. I had no idea you were coming in today.”
Damn moody artists, so unpredictable. I dismiss the cigarette butt on the floor, knowing full well that Mr. Horesji would be fine with him breaking the rules of the gallery.
“And you are?”
“Ivy Phillips. Associate Curator. I’ll be your main point of contact here. Anything you need, I’m your girl.”
“Anything?” He paws at my arm, and I blush at the insinuation in his voice.
“Don’t push it, buddy.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about a thing. I’m a practicing asexual.”
I stare at him blankly.
“I practice loving myself. A lot.”
Oh geez. “Um, I hate to break it to you, but that’s not what it means to be asexual.”
“Sure it does! I just love myself until I find some other man who can love me hard enough on my behalf.” He flits his fingers in the air as though his comments are fact.
“If you say so.” I chuckle and give him a brief tour of the gallery, explaining the capabilities of the space and my vision for his upcoming show.
“I meant what I said though. About the zen. It’s all wrong for my artistry.”
God, this man is full of himself.
“Well, whatever you need me to do to make it right, just let me know.”
“Oh, I’ll let you know.” He tries to undress me with his smile, but I just shake my head in disbelief.
We spend the next few hours discussing exactly the kind of zen he needs to ensure satisfaction at Gallery 545, and I learn three very important things about Brock.
One, while he may be certifiably insane, the man is pure genius. He doesn’t listen and he’s moody, but he has a vision and knows precisely what he wants. I like to imagine that all of the artistic greats throughout history shared a similar manic approach to life. I’m sure I’m one of the few out there who appreciates this kind of mentality.
Two, the man is in love with himself. Ridiculously so. It’s as if he’s the forbidden love child of Andy Warhol and Steve Stifler from American Pie. When I ask him what inspires him, he replies, “Anything phallic.” When I ask him what he likes to do when he’s not holed up in his studio all day, he simply says, “Myself.” Brock is a giant man-child in so many ways. He needs both his cock and his ego stroked to stay happy.
And three, despite the fact we clearly have nothing in common beyond an appreciation for art, we are getting along swimmingly. He makes it clear that, in general, he hates people, but for some reason he didn’t hate me. When I ask why he simply responds, “Have you actually met people? People inherently suck.”
And with that, he seals his fate in my good graces. I kind of want to put him in my pocket and take him home, though I’m sure there is some kind of professional rule against it.
But something tells me Brock wouldn't mind one bit.
TRUE TO HIS WORD, MY dad has come to visit me in New York. And true to my nature, I’m running behind schedule to meet him. Again.
The first time he was here we grabbed a quick lunch since he was in and out of the city the same day. It was rushed, but not nearly as awkward as I thought it was going to be. Things have finally started to feel easier in his presence. It only took twenty-some odd years.
About damn time.
This time he’s back in town for an overnight business trip and wanted to take Phoenix and me out for a nice dinner.
“Can’t you go any faster?” I beg the cab driver.
“And where exactly would you like me to go?” His European accent is thick and his cab reeks of homeless people and bleach. I reach for my phone in disgust and Phoenix answers after the third ring.
“Ivy?”
“Sorry, I’m on my way there now. I'm stuck in a cab on Fifth Avenue, but I’m almost to Broadway.”
“I told you the train would be faster.”
“I know. I just don't have the patience for swarms of people right now.” I look out the window and see an elderly man with a cane moving faster on the sidewalk.
“And you'd prefer to sit in the parking lot known as Fifth Avenue during rush hour?”
“I know, I know …” I hate it when he’s right. And he is almost always right.
“Well, your dad and I are about to be seated, so we will see you whenever you get here.”
“Okay. Go easy on him, Phoenix. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I end the call and begin taking notes on my phone with tomorrow's to-do list for work. With less than a month until opening, there is still far too much to do: contact the lighting company, the invite list for the press preview, providing the showcase list to insurance, and a dozen other odds and ends tasks. By the time we finally pull up in front of The NoMad, my list is
nearly twenty items long. Of course, my dad couldn’t just dine at one of our favorite local dives. He went and picked the fancy restaurant in his hotel. Phoenix and I will surely be out of our element here.
Once inside, I easily find their table. I'm shocked to find them laughing heartily over a two glasses of whiskey neat.
“And just what is so funny?” I smile as they both stand to greet me. My dad gives me a quick hug.
“Oh, I was just telling Phoenix about the time you drove my Jaguar into the side of the garage when your mother and I were out of town. I still can't believe you called a contractor to fix it before we got home.”
He grins at the ridiculous memory, and I can’t help but smile back at him. The only reason they even found out was because I gave a hilarious drunk confession during Easter dinner my freshman year of college.
“And don't forget I brought the car to the dealer to touch up the paint I scraped off.” I beam at them both and give Phoenix a kiss. “Lesson number one in stealing your parent’s car—don’t do something wrong when doing something wrong. And if you do, make sure you cover it up.”
“You're incredible.” Phoenix shakes his head in disbelief as he pulls my chair out from under the table.
“Thorough is more like it.” I sit down and place the napkin in my lap. “So are you two behaving?”
I feel horrible leaving him with my dad for so long, but he seems to have fared well. I know how badly Phoenix wants to lay into him for the way he and my mom treated me in the past. But I appreciate him heeding my request and giving my dad a chance, all things considered.
“Yeah, we're behaving,” Phoenix says with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Just sharing a few of my favorite stories from when you were growing up. Nothing you need to worry about, Ivy.” Dad reaches out and gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Ooookay.” Phoenix secretly winks at me as my dad looks down at his menu.
I open the menu and scan the entrees, quickly realizing just how out of place I am. No longer am I privy to expensive dinners like this. Not that I ever truly enjoyed them in the first place. It reminds me of just how far I’ve come in a few short months. I’ve turned my life around and learned how to stand on my own two feet.
