Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2) (17 page)

“Oh, hell yeah.” There’s something about a way a guy dances that tells you everything you need to know about his bedroom capabilities. My mind flashes to the first time I danced with Phoenix.

Just when Channing Tatum pulls down his sweatpants to reveal his g-string, Rachel’s door buzzer sounds.

“You weren’t expecting anyone, were you?”

“No.” Rachel furrows her eyebrows curiously. “I was just planning to hang out with you tonight.” The buzzer shrills again, signifying the person outside is quite impatient. Rachel runs across the room to speak into the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Rachel! Let me up. It’s Genevieve.”

I cringe at the sound of her voice and feverishly shake my head no. She is not doing this to me. Not here. Not now. I will not be ambushed by her bullshit.

“I know Ivy is there. Please let me up. I need to talk to her! It’s important.”

“Don't you dare.” I shoot daggers at Rachel. Her finger hesitates over the button, but she sits back down next to me.

“How did she even know where I live?”

I shrug. “How does she even know I’m in town?”

Eventually, the buzzer stops and we continue with our movie until we nearly freak the fuck out when a fist beats on Rachel's door. It’s desperate, and it sounds like the whole damn wall is going to cave in.

“Ivy!” the voice pleads.

Are you fucking kidding me?
I pause the movie, roll my eyes and walk to the door, opening it a little too aggressively.

“What do you want, Gen?”

Her clothes are drenched and she shivers as she pushes her way into Rachel’s living room. It’s either storming much worse than we thought or she has been outside waiting for a while. Both, probably. But one thing hasn’t changed, being in her presence still makes my hair stand on end and my stomach turn in disgust.

“Oh, Ivy! I’m so glad you’re here.”

Genevieve turns to me and opens her arms for a hug, which goes unreciprocated. She stands there for a moment before dropping her arms back down to her sides. Her soft pink tunic blouse is stuck to her skin, revealing her black bra underneath. It’s like the forces of nature are making her pay for her crimes of fashion. I feel bad for everything she’s been through, but my empathy isn’t enough to make me fake some bullshit sisterly bond.

“I guess I probably deserve that.”

She probably deserves a cunt punt to the moon if we’re being honest. I softly snort and shut the door before walking back over to take my seat on the couch. I act like her presence doesn’t phase me, but I am totally affected and in all the wrong ways. Does she even realize that everyone around her simply tolerates her because we have to?

“What do you want, Gen?” I ask again.

She stands in the middle of the room awkwardly. She’s not accustomed to feeling unwelcome in someone’s home, and she doesn’t know if she should simply sit or be invited to make herself at home. Admittedly it’s entertaining to watch.

“I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate you coming back home and making a statement for me.”

She thinks I did this for her? Is she mental? Her husband is the one who rapes me and she thinks that I’ve come back here to help
her.
Of course, she finds a way to make this about her. Why should I expect anything less?

“Let me make one thing clear, Genevieve,” I say slowly and deliberately. “I didn't come back here for you. I came here to make that asshole pay. I came here to make sure your husband doesn’t drug anyone else. Doesn’t rape anyone else. Doesn’t hurt anyone else. He is a monster. Please don’t think I’m here doing
you
any favors.” I’m surprised that I’m panting and practically shouting. I was so even-keeled two-seconds ago.

Genevieve’s shoulders slink down and her bottom lip quivers.

“I know. I just...”

She drops her purse off her shoulder and it hits the floor at the same time my heart bottoms out. I watch her fall to her knees and sob. There’s a tiny part of me that wants to reach out and comfort her but it’s taking most of my effort not to pull her back up on her own two feet just so I can bitch slap her properly. But if I’m going to bitch slap someone, I’m not going to do it at their lowest point. I’ve been there and it’s arguably the loneliest place in the world.

The silence in the room is painstakingly uncomfortable. Rachel looks from me to Genevieve and then back at me again. I want her to kick Genevieve out, but there’s some sadistic part of me that wants her to stay. Even through all the bullshit she’s pulled and all the drama she’s been through, she’s still my sister. And I’ll forever hate what that monster did to her—did to
us
.

I sigh audibly, my shoulders rising and falling with my chest. I can feel my features soften and I quickly glance at Rachel, wordlessly letting her know that Genevieve needs to stay for a little bit. I know she has answers. And I know answering them won’t come easily. The sheer thought of watching her squirm brings me a small fucked up sense of satisfaction.

“I'll just give you two a moment.” Rachel slips out of the room as if reading my mind. Channing Tatum is still frozen on her TV screen, dripping sex. I can’t even stare appreciatively because Genevieve has found yet another way to infiltrate herself in my life and ruin things. Once we hear Rachel’s bedroom door shut and her stereo kick on, Genevieve lifts her gaze from the ground to look at me.

“Get up,” I say.

Genevieve looks pathetic sitting on the ground in front of me, but she doesn’t move. She just contorts her face into the most unglamorous sniffle I’ve ever seen. I push myself off the couch and reach my hands out to her in a tiny gesture of kindness. Reluctantly, Gen grabs them and I pull her to her feet and tilt my head to the empty recliner against the wall. I walk back over to the couch and toss her Rachel’s fleece throw blanket to help warm her up.

This could very well be the nicest thing I’ve done for her since we were kids.

“I’ve been trying to call you for a few weeks now.” I haven’t heard Genevieve’s voice this sheepish since we were little kids. “I’m not sure if you even got my messages.”

I nod, acknowledging her effort, but don’t say anything because it simply isn’t worth my air.
She
isn’t worth my air. Well, that’s not entirely true. But I don’t want her to know that.

“I just … I owe you an apology. You know, for everything.” Her eyes are bloodshot and she is packing some serious bags underneath them, but she doesn’t look at me and speaks to the floor. “I feel horrible the way things played out. I should have sided with you. Believed you. I never should have married CJ. I just … I don’t know.” She pauses thoughtfully before locking eyes with mine. “My life is so fucked up. I focused on all the wrong things. I’m sorry.”

That
’
s it? That
’
s all I get? I have no idea how to respond to that.

Genevieve draws the blanket to her more closely and caves in on herself, a feat that seems impossible. For a woman of so many words, brevity seems to have struck her at a convenient moment.

She sighs audibly. “Look ... there’s no way I can justify my actions,” she continues, her face desperate with regret. “And I won’t even begin to give you excuses because everything I’ve done is inexcusable. I just hate that it took both of us getting hurt to realize it. I know I don’t deserve it, but I do hope that you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”

This is single-handedly the more sincere moment we’ve shared in more than two decades of sisterhood. But just because someone apologizes doesn’t mean they should be forgiven.

I’m happy that she realizes she fucked up. I hate that it took her a black eye and broken heart to figure it all out though. Nobody deserves to be on the receiving end of abuse. But as much as she’d like to make this conversation about her right now, I simply don’t have time or capacity for her apologies. And even if I were to accept her apology, it doesn't change anything. I can’t forgive her. Not yet, at least. Her words can't change what she did. How she behaved. All the cruel things she said. Only time and her actions.

“It’s okay.” It’s really not, but I can hear the sincerity in her voice and a small part of me wants to try and be sympathetic since it was the same dickless spunk bubble who ruined both of us. Besides, I don’t want to get on the arguing carousel with her right now. Who knows how long that ride would last?

“Thank you for being so understanding, Ivy. I just—”

“I need to ask you something,” I say, cutting her off. Partly because if I don’t do it now, I never will. But also because I can’t bring myself to listen to her prattle on about their so-called relationship.

“Okay?” She’s uncomfortable but still willing to talk, which is more than what I can say for Phoenix these days.

I exhale slowly and wrap my arms around my knees. “Listen, Genevieve … I need you to tell me about the night you met CJ.” My stomach rolls at the thought of Phoenix lying to me. Or maybe it’s churning at the fact that I’m searching for answers behind his back when he assured me there was nothing to worry about. Either way, that stomach-curdling sensation has returned and I feel like I’m going to throw up again.

“Huh? I really don’t want to talk about him, Ivy. I just want CJ to be a blip on the radar and move on. It doesn’t matter.”

She runs her palms over her face and pulls at her hair. Unfortunately, that man has left more than a blip on both of our lives.

“Yes, it does. Please, Gen …”

“Why?”

“I just … I just need to know. Okay?”

I watch her sigh deeply, searching the air for some kind of memory to come back to her. “I honestly don’t remember much about that night.”

“I know you don’t. But you owe it to me to try, Gen.” I lean forward, pressing her for details. Something …
anything
.

Her breaths fill the void and send chills up my spine. I mindlessly look at the patterns on the throw rug, trying to suppress the demons in my imagination.

“It was at some college bar down in Champaign. I was there with some girlfriends and we met up with a group of guys. I was pretty fucked up that night. Like most nights,” she adds the last part softly with a sad flash in her eyes and I know she’s trying to tell me that she was coked out. “After partying for a while, we went to some apartment for after hours and it all is pretty hazy after that. I know Phoenix was there, and I assume CJ was, too. But I honestly don’t remember meeting CJ until the next morning.”

“What else happened?”

“I don’t know. We were all fucked up in various capacities. Half of us crashed there and I got CJ’s number before I left the next day.”

The story sounds a bit familiar. Has it crossed her mind at all that
she
could have been a victim of CJ’s bullshit as well?

“Think, Genevieve.” I press her memory, knowing it will be most likely useless.

“I remember dancing with Phoenix and flirting with one of the other guys. Bradley, maybe? I don't know. There might have been body shots. I vaguely recall taking a line in the kitchen. It was so long ago, I really can’t remember.”

I blanche at her confession. The thought of Phoenix taking a body shot off of anyone, let alone my sister, makes me wince.

“I don't see why any of this matters, Ivy.” Her eyes are panicked and there’s a charge in the air between us.

“Because Hailey said something to me in passing and it’s been chewing at me for weeks. I thought Phoenix was keeping something from me, bu—”

“Ugh, Hailey. That bitch will say
anything
to get her way. Her jealousy seriously knows no bounds.”

Does she actually hear herself talking?

“But she sa—”

“I honestly wouldn’t worry too much about it, Ivy. Everybody knows that almost everything she says is a lie and she only looks out for herself. Besides, Phoenix is so into you. I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

I’m unsure how to respond to this. This seems like legit sisterly advice, but she’s never been in the position to offer up her opinions so sincerely. Nor has she ever behaved like a legit sister.

“If you manage to remember anything else, would you please let me know?”

“Of course.” She sighs and shifts uncomfortably in the chair. “And, Ivy, I meant what I said. I
am
sorry.”

When Genevieve finally gets up to leave, it’s pushing midnight. She gave me a hug before slipping out and it’s the most cordial gesture we’ve shared in our adult lives.

It’s still storming outside and I feel like I have lightning in my bones when the thunder claps in the distance. My mind has been racing non-stop, thinking about Genevieve dancing with Phoenix, pawing at him, toying with him, doing God knows what else with him.

Shit. I have to get that visual erased from my mind.

After Rachel goes to bed, I grab my phone off the coffee table and curse myself for not realizing I never turned it back on. I quickly boot it back up and see that I have more voicemails than when I turned it off. Picking up the messages, I quickly delete the messages from Genevieve and smile when I hear Phoenix's voice. Even at a distance, his presence is calming.

God, I miss him.

I need more than his voice right now. I know it’s late and he has work in the morning, but I don’t care. I dial his number from memory and it connects me to him through FaceTime after three rings.

“Hey, baby...” he mumbles sleepily into the phone. His head is resting on the pillow and I can tell he’s sleeping without his shirt on. Clearly, I’ve woken him up. Phoenix stifles a yawn. “I was worried about you. You never returned my calls.” He shifts in our bed. I wish I were lying there next to him in our little oasis of colorful, overstuffed pillows and not here in Chicago with Rachel.

“I’m so sorry. I turned my phone off when Gen started calling me and I guess I forgot to turn it back on.”

“Genevieve?” He chokes on her name and slowly sits up. It’s hard to read his face since it’s a bit dark on his end, but he more awake at the sound of my sister’s name.

“Yeah. I don’t know how, but she knew I was in town. I never even mentioned it to my dad.”

“That’s really weird,” he says softly as I nod. “So everything went okay when you made your statement?”