Brothers of Paradise Series

My eyes stray to the giant pile of paperbacks stacked along the wall of my New York apartment. Books I haven’t read. Books I’ve yet to read. Books I’ve started and stopped. And manuscripts, endless manuscripts I’m sorting through to sign to the company.

It’s been a long time since you’ve really tried at something.

I dial the number to Ivy’s modeling agency, going for broke.

“Star Models, this is Maria.”

“Rhys Marchand,” I say. “I recently worked with Ivy Hart, one of your models. I need to drop off some material.”

“Ah,” the voice returns. “Ivy.”

“Yes. Do you have her address on file?”

“Well, she’s no longer with the agency.”

“What?”

“She’s no longer with the agency,” the woman repeats.

“Do you have any-”

“I can’t give out information on former employees,” she continues. “Sorry. Have a good day, Mr. Marchand.”

I stare at the phone in my hand for longer than I like to admit. Had they dropped her? What happened? Rieler Travels hasn’t determined which marketing campaign will be used yet, not with the launch party weeks away.

I try to lose myself in work, but even that is fruitless, because there’s only one person in those pictures.

Silhouetted by a waterfall in Bali.

Smiling under the Eiffel Tower.

Twirling on a street in St. Barts.

I get it now, seeing all these pictures. There’s not an ounce of distaste left in me about the marketing concept, because I get it. Ivy is the gateway to all these places. She’s enjoying them all, a wide smile on her lips and wonder in her eyes, and through her, they come to life.

I pause at the pictures from the trattoria in Rome. Ivy’s looking at Paolo like she’s in love with him. My hand grows tight around the edge of my laptop. The irrational envy is still present, watching that expression on her face directed at someone who’s not me.

Because I want it to be at me. Always, at me.

The pictures I’d taken of Ivy in Bali are gone. The ones we’d taken for our own pleasure, where the air had been humid and time had stood still. Only her and me and the light dancing across her naked skin.

They’re all gone.

I flick through and see the images she’d seen, looking at them from her perspective. The models or women who’d requested I shoot them nude. For their portfolios, or simply for the pleasure of having portraits. For immortalizing a moment in time.

From Ivy’s point of view…

I think of the look in her eyes when we were in Kenya, where she’d first told me she’d never been with a man before. The tentative trust that had burned like embers, and how I’d watched it grow into a flame.Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org

Had it been blown out entirely?

I push my computer away in disgust. To think those images, the ones from a different time, might have made Ivy feel less in any way makes me sick.

She’d always been the one who was painfully authentic.

I dip my head in my hands and sit, aching and furious at myself, on my couch. Furious for not being more honest. For not saying the things I’d felt.

The itinerary. She’d always wanted to follow it. I’d barely looked at it, but wasn’t there…? My hands tremble with adrenaline as I pull out the crumpled sheet of paper from my bag. Her address is there, listed at the top, for when the car picked her up to the airport.

I’m out the door and calling for a cab within minutes. There’s an overwhelming chance that she won’t answer. Won’t want to talk to me. But perhaps it’s time I start taking real risks in life.

The midtown apartment building is nothing special, but as I stop outside the door to the lobby, it feels like everything. We know so little of each other’s real lives.

I send her another text. I’m outside your apartment. Please talk to me.

And then I wait. Ten minutes. Twenty. Leaning against the cold brick, my eyes closed, arms crossed over my chest. People come and go, but it’s never her. Not until I’ve nearly given up hope, not until my legs ache from standing still.

She steps out of the front door to her building. Her hair is a golden braid down her back, her skin free from makeup. She wraps her arms around her body.

“Hi.”

I push off from the wall, taking a step closer. “Hi, Ives. Thanks for coming out.”

She nods, looking past me to the busy street beyond. My whole body feels taut, like a drawn violin string. If only I knew the notes to play. “Still jet-lagged?”

“A bit,” she says. “It’s getting better.”

“It’s been quiet, not being around you for the last week.”

“I thought I spoke too much,” she says, but without any real conviction. “Grated on your cynicism.”

“It could use being grated on,” I admit. “You’re not with the agency anymore?”

She looks down at her hands, twisting them in her grasp. Like the rest of her skin, they’re tan from our days in Bali. A real tan, this time.

“I quit.”

“Good.”

Her lips twist into a sardonic smile. “It wasn’t because I’ve suddenly started hating modeling.”

“Of course not.”

“It’s just… They never liked that I tried combining work and my studies, and I don’t want to work for an agency that holds dropping me over my head like that.”

“Not to mention the pressure to grow your social media.”

She nods, her gaze flicking past me to the street again. The air is uncomfortable between us.