Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2) by B.L. Berry Page A

from my cheek. I may be delicate right now, but he doesn’t treat me like glass.
    “Listen to me, Ivy.” His eyes pierce mine, as his face turns flat, serious. He speaks slowly. Deliberately. “You know exactly who you are. Where you belong. And what you are—and aren’t—willing to compromise. Nothing from your past will ever shake that.”
    I absorb his words and know he’s right. I bury my head in his shoulder. My shoulders quake, but his arms keep me whole.
    “Thank you,” I whisper into the darkness between us. “Thank you for giving me strength.” And for loving me in spite of being screwed up and royally damaged.
    He kisses the top of my head. “What can I say, Ivy? You’re my weakness. And I’d do absolutely anything for you.”
    At that moment, I know he’s speaking the truth in his heart.

 
     
    THE DAYS THAT FOLLOW MY dad’s visit spiral out of control. I have a hard time concentrating on work, and Brock has been increasingly more demanding. Farrah is all up my ass with details that don’t even matter yet, and I’m still not convinced Phoenix is telling me everything that plagues his mind.
    I’ve never really understood the phrase “waiting for the other shoe to drop.” I mean, what’s so bad about a shoe dropping in the first place? Unless, of course, it’s the heel of your favorite pair slipping into the subway grates on the sidewalk. That happened to me this morning and subsequently ruined my red patent leather pumps.
    Phoenix is stuck late at the office tonight, so I’ve become a permanent fixture on the couch eating Chinese take-out directly from the carton. And, of course, I’ve made a mess of things because I’m stubborn and insist on using the chopsticks. Which would be fine if I were capable of using them correctly. Which I am not.
    I have the TV turned up so loud I barely hear my phone chime, alerting me to a new text message. Tossing the chopsticks onto the coffee table, I snatch up my phone and smile to see a message from Rachel.
     
    Rachel: How are you holding up?
     
    Ivy: Fine.
     
    Rachel: Really? I don’t believe that for one second.
     
    Ivy: Why? Is there a reason I shouldn’t be fine?
     
    Rachel: Glad to see you’re still fluent in sarcasm. Seriously though, I can’t believe Genevieve did that. Are you okay?
     
    Genevieve did what? And why the fuck am I the last to find out about everything these days?
    I quickly dial Rachel’s number from memory.
    “What are you talking about?” I command. No hello. No how are you. Just give me the answers.
    “Genevieve. She went to the cops.”
    Fuck.
    “What? Why? She didn’t …”
    “She did.”
    “And?”
    “Apparently that loving husband of hers beat the shit out of her.”
    My stomach drops. From the fact he hit her or from the fact she still married him, I’m not entirely sure.
    “She filed a police report. Has a restraining order. She’s building a case against him. Everything.”
    I don’t say anything. The only thing I’m capable of doing is taking slow, shallow breaths. Even though my sister can be a raging cunt, I never would have wished this upon her. I would never wish this upon anyone.
    “Hello? Ivy? Are you still there?”
    “Yeah. I just …”
    I stare off into space with no fucking clue how to process any of this. The memories rip my heart into countless shreds.
    “I know. I wasn’t sure when or how you’d find out. I kind of already assumed your dad mentioned something when he was in town.”
    I’m surprised he didn’t say anything either. Perhaps he doesn’t know? Or maybe he decided that dropping the hey, I ’ m not actually your dad bomb on me was more than enough news for one visit.
    “No, he didn’t mention it. He was too busy telling me that my mom resents me because I’m a constant reminder of her inability to be faithful in their marriage.”
    Rachel gasps into the phone. And doesn’t say anything. It’s official. The shit show that is my life has finally rendered my