Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2)

by B. L. Berry

  I feel like I've been living at the gallery recently, preparing for the opening of Sleeping Shadows. And in a way, I have. It’s probably not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it works for me. It’s too painful to stay at home … alone … with nothing but the memory of him everywhere I look. So I’m better off working long hours and proving my worth to James Horesji and ensuring a successful show.

  It's for the best though. Brock's opening is tomorrow and as I expected, I've been left scrambling to accommodate some last minute changes. It feels like there won’t be enough time to do it all. There’s never enough time. Though I don’t dare mention that to Brock. He doesn’t care because he’s convinced time doesn’t exist, and I don’t have it in me to argue about it.

  I'm standing in the center of the gallery floor in the dark trying to look around the main room.

  “Just one more minute,” Brock says through the darkness.

  Through the speakers, I hear the same piano chord repeat itself and I instantly recognize that he is playing my favorite alt-J song, Tessellate. Of course, he’d pick a song about sex.

  “Are you ready?” Brock says over the intro with a hint of childhood excitement in his voice.

  “Yes! Just do it, already!” His excitement is infectious and my voice sounds like seven-year-old Ivy waiting to peel down the stairs on Christmas morning.

  He cranks the volume up as loud as it can go, flips a switch and all of the spotlights turn on simultaneously. I don’t know where to look first. I suck in a sharp breath, rendered speechless.

  Wow.

  Slowly, I spin in place, looking around the room. He moves to the center of the room next to me, standing shoulder to shoulder. He reaches out and grabs my hand with a confident squeeze.

  “Brock ... this is incredible!” I’m overflowing with awe and bewilderment.

  “I know, right? Things aren't always what they seem. That's the one thing I want people to take away from this experience.” After giving my hand another squeeze, he winks and moves to make a few adjustments to a piece on the west wall of the gallery.

  I sit down on the floor in the middle of the room and soak everything in. Amid all of the darkness, there is a beam of light that casts beauty in the chaos … just like my life.

  I stare at the silhouettes about to kiss as the lead singer’s voice rolls over my body in comforting waves. In front of me, a shadow is cast of a child holding onto the tail of a balloon while being pulled up into the sky. On my left is the silhouette of a man with a butcher's knife above his head, the structure casting the shadow is made entirely up of random doll limbs. It's truly what nightmares are made of. Next to that creepy doll piece is a pile of fast food wrappers that reveal a shadow of a bulimic girl, hovering over a toilet. And to my right, a couple leaning in for a kiss, one breath away from their lips connecting.

  That is the piece that gets me. I know they’re just faceless, nameless shadows ... but I feel as if that image is Phoenix and me. The hair and body types are just too similar. And in some ways, it’s almost too difficult to look at. But I don't dare ask for confirmation though.

  Shadow after shadow Brock has captured snapshots of life. Each one powerful in its own way. Each one telling a very different message. Each one simply captivating.

  When the song is over, Brock turns down the music. He looks around, impressed with himself. And he should be. This is quite the sight.

  “So everything out here is pretty much ready to go.”

  “And what about that room?” I ask, pushing myself back to my feet and gesturing toward his secret project in the back corner.

  Earlier this week, he’d rushed into the gallery to tell me that he has one final addition for the show. The only problem was it required us to reorganize all of the existing floor plans for the show and build a completely separate room within the gallery. Brock called it a “three-sixty experience” and instructed me that it was to be kept under strict lock and key until the night of the show. I don’t dare tell him I already took a peek inside the room … and its contents, or lack thereof, is cause for concern.

  “It will be my finest piece yet, assuming I can pull it off.”

  “How much more do you have left to do?”

  “Um ... not that much?” Try as he may, he fails at acting casual about it and there's a bit of panic in eyes.

  Brock plays with the house lights for a little bit, quadruple checking his desired dimness levels for the show. Once he's satisfied, he turns the lights all the way and grabs six large garbage bags from behind the desk.

  “Is there anything that I can help you with, Brock? I can't have you still piecing things together when I open the doors tomorrow night.”

  “Nah. I've got it under control, my little Funny Bunny.”

  Brock smiles warmly as he disappears into the newly created room with his arms full of the trash bags. I roll my eyes at his absurd pet name and follow him. But when I get close, he slams the door on my face.

  “I'm serious, Ivy. You can't come in here,” he says through the wall.

  Fine.

  Without Brock in my space, I make the executive decision to blast my 80’s guilty pleasure jam before grabbing the broom from the back office so I can tidy up a little bit. As I sweep, I dance to the ridiculous musical stylings of INXS and sing “I Need You Tonight” at the top of my lungs. I’m in such a good mood.

  Hopeful that there will be a resolve of some kind with Phoenix.

  Confident that tomorrow’s show is going to go off without a hitch.

  Certain that James Horesji will be nothing less than impressed with my performance.

  “So were you able to get a hold of Sergeant Sexy Pants at all?” Brock shouts through the door.

  “This is ridiculous, Brock. Just let me in.” I shake my head at the absurdity of the situation.

  Brock cracks the door to the new room and sticks his head out. “No. Now keep me company and start talking. And for the love of all that is good, turn this dreadful emo shit off.” He slams the door hastily and I cringe at the sound of something falling over in there. A ladder, maybe?

  “Excuse me, but INXS is definitely not dreadful emo shit. It’s eighties. It’s awesome. And it’s classic. So deal with it.”

  Humph. And if I’m not allowed in there, he’s not allowed to play DJ.

  “No. My mother is classic. Anyone who births a legend like me is an instant classic. Now turn this crap off and tell me what happened.”

  With a hop in my step, I walk over to the controls and turn the music down so we can talk. He’s not getting his way right now. Not after putting up with his pet names and general absurdity for weeks.

  I take a seat on the floor against the door, fold my arms and speak through it. “We talked for a few minutes last night on the phone. I didn't keep him long, knowing he was spending some time with his father.”

  “And did you two kiss and make up?”

  “Not exactly.” I frown. Something of this caliber certainly can't be solved over the phone, much less in just a few minutes. “But we're making plans to talk when he gets back into town next week.”

  I need to try and make things right between us. I'm not sure I can ever truly get over what happened between him and Genevieve, but I need to try to find a way to accept it. And I certainly don't like having him halfway across the country. It reminds me too much of the time just after we met and we had to rely on our phones to keep us connected.

  I give Brock the abbreviated version of our conversation, but he doesn't seem to be paying much attention, engrossed in whatever artistry is going down behind the closed door. Pushing myself up onto my feet, I turn the music back on and finish tidying up to help my mind distracted from the one person I want to talk to the most right now: Phoenix.

  THE SECOND HAND ON THE clock is moments away from striking midnight, and I can only assume Brock is nowhere near done for the day. Plus, I'm tired of talking to a fucking wall.

  I knock swiftly on the door and instantly
feel ridiculous. Or annoyed. Either way, both are totally appropriate in this context. Brock pops open the door and slips out so I don't see whatever this super secret project of his is. With my luck, he's probably fashioning some phallic tribute to his own dick with the shavings of his pubic hair. The press would have a field day with that shit.

  “Are you almost done?”

  “Honestly? No,” he clips, looking back over his shoulder. His forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat and I can tell he’s really starting to stress out.

  “Just let me help you.” If this doesn’t get done, it’s going to be both of our asses. Not finishing this piece, whatever it is, is not an option.

  “If I did that, your name would have to appear on the piece alongside mine. And that is not going to happen.” Brock slips through the door and closes it behind him. He wraps his arm around me and starts to walk me toward the back office. “Why don’t you head home and get some beauty sleep? I can handle locking up when I’m done. We both have a big day tomorrow and it doesn’t make sense to have you stick around, babysitting me through a wall. Besides, I need to listen to some Fleshcrawl and I know how much you love my music.”

  Ugh. I am not dealing with any more of his Nazi death metal bullshit.

  I stifle a yawn. “Are you sure?” I ask and Brock pulls me in for a quick hug.

  “Yeah. I really appreciate all of your help, Ivy. You've been incredible to work with, and tomorrow will be glorious, thanks to you.” I smile at his compliment and he releases me, pulling back at arms length. “Sweet dreams, Monkey Moo.”

  And now I'm a primate who lives on a farm.

  Awesome.

  BROCK LEANS AGAINST THE DOORJAMB to the bathroom, studying my every move.

  “You’re a fucking basket case. Would you just chill the fuck out already? Everything is going to be fine.” I realize that I don’t know him exceptionally well, but I’m starting to sense that an irritated Brock is an angry Brock.

  “I’m just anxious. That’s all.” I comb my hair again, trying to make sure each and every piece is in its perfect place.

  “You’re hot as shit, but you’re going to brush your head bald if you keep it up at this rate. And who will want you without that glorious mane of yours? Besides, the nervous look is really unbecoming on you. Now get out of the bathroom, Sugar Pants. I need to finish getting ready.”

  I slip out of the door before he has the opportunity to pinch my ass. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s managed to grab a feel. The man seriously has no social boundaries.

  “So everything is set up? Are you sure she’s going to go in beforehand?” I call out from the large space in his studio apartment.

  “For the millionth time, yes! She’s too curious not to go in. And I was there until ten this morning. It’s perfect. Now shut up and just trust me on this.” I can barely understand him over the sound of his electric toothbrush in his mouth.

  I check my reflection in the window. I’m wearing Ivy’s favorite gray and cobalt shirt. I just hope she doesn’t get pissed off when she sees me. As far as Ivy knows, I’m still in St. Louis and not due back until the weekend. Wiping my sweaty palms against my jeans, I pace around the room.

  “You know what they say will calm you down?”

  “I don’t know, but if it’s anything other than alcohol, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Hey—I was just offering to lend you a hand,” Brock says with a suggestive wink. “But if you really need it, there’s some gin in the cabinet above the microwave.”

  “No, there’s not. I polished it off last week.” I sit down on the couch and lace up my chucks.

  “Glad you made yourself right at home.” Brock crosses the room and stands right in front of me with his hands on his hips. “Come … let me see you.” He snaps his fingers demandingly.

  I stand and raise my arms in the air like I’m about to be arrested. He twirls his index finger in a small circle in the air and I slowly turn at his request. I need for everything to go according to plan today and that means I need to appease the mastermind to ensure smooth success. None of this will have mattered if I’m able to get the time I need to talk to Ivy. And if all goes according to plan, she’ll definitely take the time to listen to what I have to say.

  “You look devilishly handsome.” He smiles at my appearance in approval.

  “Thanks?” I’ve never been called handsome by another man.

  “You manscape?”

  I pick up a random piece of PVC pipe from the pile of trash on the small side table and chuck it at his head.

  “What? I’m just that confident that you’re going to get her back and then get her on her back tonight. That’s all. Have faith, young grasshopper.” Brock walks back into his bedroom and looks over his shoulder just before he disappears out of site. “We leave in twenty.”

  And just like that the nerves take over.

  Again.

  I ADJUST THE VOLUME FOR the music and walk around the gallery, taking in the fruits of our labor. We’re a few hours away from opening the doors and I can hardly contain my excitement. Yesterday, Brock and I had a minor disagreement about the musical selection for tonight's opening. And by minor disagreement, I mean World War III. He was insisting on a German band named Morgoth and I was leaning a little more toward something classy … you know, music that would actually fit the vibe of an art gallery. But I humored Brock and gave it a listen and the noise that invaded my ears was exactly what you’d expect from a band that calls themselves Morgoth. Somehow I convinced him that death metal was not an appropriate selection for the evening. After playing my veto card, I got him to agree to some ambient music by the French band, Air. Their amazing ambient sound on the Moon Safari album is much more fitting for an art gallery and, more importantly, a show titled Sleeping Shadows.

  This morning I chose my trusty little black sheath dress with delicate lace detail and styled my hair in long waves with the sides pinned back out of my eyes. For the time being, I’m walking around barefoot as I'm not quite ready to punish myself for hours on end in four-inch heels. I don’t think I’ll ever be convinced that the wicked blisters I’ll inevitably get are worth the price of beauty. If only my Converse were appropriate formal wear.

  I look around the room ... nearly everything is ready. The didactic panels explaining each piece are secured next to the respective sculptures, the caterer is nearly set and the lighting has created the perfect mood. I know Brock was still working in the room earlier this morning, and I have no clue if he’s still in there, but it’s nearly six o’clock and we’re a few hours away from showtime.

  In the back office, Brock left the final didactic panel for his three-sixty art experience on the seat of my chair. Normally it’s my responsibility to write the backstory to the piece for guests to read, but since I was forbidden from the room, I made Brock agree to take care of it.

  I lift the thick cardboard up off the cushion of my seat. The panel reads “VOL” in thick, black, bold letters. Underneath it he simply typed “Love can mend our broken wings and teach us how to fly.” My heart drops to my feet and I find myself trying to catch my breath. These are the exact same words he’d spoken to me moments before I went dumpster diving.

  Oh my God. What did you do?

  I quickly make my way to his secret room and knock on the outside of the hollow door.

  “Brock?”

  Silence prevails, but I know that the absence of his words does not necessarily mean the absence of him. I put my hand on the knob, turning it slowly to crack the door. I’ve respected his request for privacy back here for the past week, but we are hours away from opening to the press and I don’t have time for his nonsense anymore. I have to know what’s on the other side of this door.

  When I walk through the doorway, the sight on the other side steals my breath away. Brock has painted the entire back room in iridescent charcoal. The walls practically shimmer with the house lights. Strung from the ceiling are hundreds … no, thousands of b
irds in countless sizes and varying shades of gray. Each bird dangles from a clear piece of twine at alternating lengths, creating a stunning pattern of waves and monochromatic tones.

  Slowly I step underneath the installation to examine Brock’s work more closely and my heart sinks. These aren’t just birds.

  They’re paper cranes.

  Tears begin to flood my eyes and I find myself unable to breathe. I reach out to touch one of the birds cautiously when suddenly the lights go off and I’m standing in darkness.

  I turn my head toward the cracked door and see a stream of light coming through from the main part of the gallery. “Brock? Is that you? I’m back here!”

  My pulse rushes in hot pursuit of answers and I need an explanation for all this. Fast.

  Suddenly, the spotlight on each of the walls flick on simultaneously and the piece comes to life. The way Brock has angled the lights casts shadows of larger birds in flight on each of the four walls. The intangible shadow art he’s created throughout the room, and the dramatic display of tiny creations wired from the above, is truly is a full three-sixty experience.

  The door clicks shut behind me and I’m pulled from my awestruck reverie. I spin around to find him standing there in all his beautiful, broken glory.

  Phoenix.

  “Hey,” he whispers. Shyly, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at the wall to his right. “The guy is talented, right?”

  I open my mouth only to find myself rendered speechless. “How?” I ask for lack of a better word. I'm stunned that he's standing here before me. He's not supposed to be here.

  “I think that why is probably the question you’re looking for.” His eyes light up and his dimple quietly winks at me. He simply mouths the word, “You.”

  Slowly, Phoenix approaches me and takes both of my hands in his. We stand underneath the cloud of floating paper cranes and La Femme D'argent by Air fills the empty space between us.