Heartless (8 page)

A
idy

“
D
o
you think you’ll ever see him again?” Wren pours two cups of steaming hot water and unwraps a couple of chamomile tea bags. I’ve just finished filling her in on the Helena situation and wasted no time rambling on about running into Ace at the pharmacy and meeting up with him after.

Plunking myself into a kitchen chair, I slump over, resting my chin in my hands.

“Considering the week I’m having, I’m willing to bet anything could happen,” I say.

“You’ve had quite the night.” My sister takes the seat across from me and slides a teacup my way.

I nod, blowing cool air across the top of my steeping tea. It skims the hot liquid, leaving a pattern of ripples, and a puff of steam rises.

Wren rests her chin in her hand. “Still think the writings are his?”

I nod. “I honestly don’t know anymore.”

“Theory. If the notebook was his, and it was filled with all those personal writings, wouldn’t he really, really, really want it back? What would make him deny, deny, deny?”

Shrugging, I suggest, “Pride? Maybe he was too embarrassed to claim it? There’s some
very
explicit entries in there. Like graphic, detailed rendezvous. I wouldn’t claim something like that in front of a complete stranger who’s read it all.”

“So he’s this public figure, but he’s perfectly okay with this secret journal of his being in the hands of some random woman?”

I smirk. “Hey, if he wants it back, he has my number. I’m not going to do anything with this book. He’s got nothing to worry about.”

“Right, but does he know that?”

Shaking my head, I say, “Probably not, but he’s more than welcome to ask if he’s really worried about it.”

Wren sips her tea, staring blankly over my shoulder. “Think you’ll hear from him again?”

“Doubtful.” I trace the tip of my pinky finger along the rim of my cup. “We both said our piece. It’s not like we made plans to meet up sometime.”

“You look sad.”

Glancing up at Wren, I shake my head. “I’m not sad at all. Why would I be sad?”

“I’m not
saying
you
are
sad, I’m
saying
you
look
sad.”

Rising from the table, I take my cup to the sink and rinse it. “I guess I wanted closure.”

“Closure?” Wren coughs, laughing. “Closure from what?”

Looking down into the shiny, stainless sink, I tuck my chin against my chest. “I felt such a connection with those writings. I was so vested in the love story of those two strangers. I wanted to know what happened because the journal had no ending.”

“Then you should’ve brought up the journal more. Asked some questions. You had his full attention and you squandered the opportunity in favor of flirting,” Wren says.

“I wasn’t flirting,” I say. “I was trying to prove to him that I wasn’t some demented, obsessed stalker fan. And as soon as I accomplished that, it was too late to flip the conversation around and wind up exactly where we started . . . with him thinking I’m a lunatic.”

Wren lifts herself up from the table, shuffling across the kitchen in a pair of ratty bunny slippers she’s had since college.

“Well, then, sister,” she says, slipping her arm around my shoulder. “Guess you’re going to have to settle for never knowing.”

Exhaling, I nod. I know Wren’s right. I need to let this go. I need to accept the fact that I’m never going to have answers, and that ultimately, it’s none of my business.

If only it were that simple.

Saying goodnight to my sister, I take my phone from my purse and head into my room to wash up for bed. Clicking on the bedside lamp, I grab the notebook from the tabletop and roll to my back, skimming through as if some giant glaring clue is going to pop out at me.

Flipping to the back jacket, I catch a glimpse of a tiny white slip of paper tucked away behind the cover. I’m not sure how I’d never spotted it until now, maybe it was hidden too well, but a quick tug and it slips right out.

It appears to be a note folded six times, and upon closer inspection, the handwriting is distinctly feminine.

D
earest
,

What happened last night was amazing and incredible. Never in my life has a man’s love brought me to my knees and made me question all the truths my heart claimed to know. I cried in the library after you left. I cried for us. I cried for him. I cried because ultimately, my heart knows that this is going to get complicated and that none of us can come out of this unscathed.

I love you. So much. But I also love him. So much.

Even on our worst days, my bond with him is endless and shatterproof. And on my worst days, my love for you is a permanent, tangled mess of a knot.

Dearest, the thing is that one of you has my heart and the other owns my soul. I love and need you both in ways no one could ever comprehend.

I’m a selfish woman. I know that. I won’t pretend to be worthy of your love. Or his. There are times I wish one of you would realize I’m not half the woman you think I am. And there are times I imagine you moving on. But the mere thought of either of you looking at another woman the way you look at me blinds me with envy.

You’re a fool for loving me, baby.

And I’m wicked for allowing it.

Where do we go from here?

Yours
forever
,

K.

A
ce

I
haven’t looked
at her photo in almost a year.

Standing before my hall closet, I flick the light on and glance up at the brown shoebox on the top shelf.

It’s like our past lives in that box. Or at least the memories of us do. Sometimes I struggle with the reality that what we had is over and done, never to return, despite the fact that it felt it would last forever.

I was so convinced she loved me with an infallible intensity, even on our worst days.

I was one hundred percent certain we were going to spend our lives together, that there was no one better suited for me.

I was sure a life without her would be akin to trying to breathe under water.

Turns out, I was nothing more than a damn fool.

I’m more upset with myself for believing her empty promises than anything else.

Pulling the box out, it feels a lot smaller than I remembered, and maybe that’s a metaphor for our relationship, but I’m too exhausted to think that hard about her tonight. I tuck it under my arm and take it to the fireplace.

It’s June, and the AC is running on high, but it feels like a good time to light a fire.

Dropping to my knees, I pop the lid off the box, glancing down at the photo that rests on top of piles of love letters and cards and the kinds of sappy mementos a lovestruck man might think meant something at the time.

“Kerenza.” I say her name out loud, though I’m not sure why.

It feels foreign in my mouth, though my chest tightens at its familiarity.

She’s grinning in the photo, perched on the edge of a sailboat just outside of Martha’s Vineyard. Kerenza’s wearing nothing but an emerald green string bikini, a summer tan, and a mischievous glint in her violet eyes. Her glossy black hair is tied loosely on the top of her head, piled into a knot of some kind, and she smiles wide for the camera.

For me.

We were happy then, blissfully unaware of our fate. Taking things one day at a time with a mutual understanding that we were on the same page: hopelessly, endlessly, unstoppably in love.

Or so I thought.

I reach forward, hitting the switch on the bottom of the mantle, reaching so far it causes my shoulder to ache. A fire roars to life and I push the screen aside. Taking Kerenza’s photo between my two fingers, I fling it into the flames, something I should’ve done a long time ago.

A
idy

“
A
ce asked
about you this morning.”

I stop chewing the delicious medium-rare filet mignon before me and glance across the table at Topaz. She wears a mischievous glint in her eye and her lips are twisted.

Chewing my bite, which takes for-ev-er, and swallowing hard, I say, “I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah,” she says, glancing toward the sidewalk at passersby. It’s a beautiful Friday, perfect for a casual café lunch with one of my best friends, and she drops a bomb like that? Like it’s nothing? “He asked how you were doing.”

Reaching for my water, I ask, “And what did you tell him?”

Topaz grins wide. “I asked why he wanted to know.”

“You didn’t repeat anything I told you, right?” I ask, mentally rewinding to last night, when I caught her up to speed on everything and she accused me of having a crush on him and I admitted I thought he was ridiculously gorgeous but way too moody for me and changed the subject.

She pretends to zip her lips. “I would never.”

“Good.” I exhale, attempting to cut through my steak with the dull end of my knife. I flip it over after making sure no one saw.

“I told him he should take you on a date or something. You two would be so cute together.”

“Topaz.” I scold her with my tone, placing my fork aside.

“He said he’d think about it.”

“Topaz.” I bury my face in my hands. She knows how I feel about her meddling with these sorts of things. I’m sure he was just being nice and telling her what she wanted to hear. Guys like Ace, professional athletes, date super models and actresses and long-legged European socialites. Plus, like I told her last night, he’s too moody. I’ve made it my life mission not to take life too seriously, and Ace acts like it’s physically painful to smile.

We’re oil and water. Clearly.

“What?” Topaz scoffs, acting as though she’s done nothing wrong. “I was doing you a favor.”

“You know I don’t have time to date.”

“If you have time to Instagram thirty-second makeup tutorials that take you hours to edit, you have time to date.” Topaz lifts both of her palms and lifts her brows. “Just saying.”

“Those are for work,” I say. “For my
business
.”

“Anyway, you think he’s hot, he thinks you’re hot, I was just doing the two of you a favor,” she says. “You’ll thank me someday.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Back up. He thinks I’m hot?”

“It was implied.” Topaz shrugs, sipping her mojito and smiling at a handsome suit that passes by and checks her out.

“Implied how? I need you to be specific. I need details.” This is the most frustrating part of being Topaz’s best friend. Trying to extract information from her is a strategic endeavor. You have to be careful and know when to fill in the gaps because she can be flighty and forgetful and her stories are all over the place.

She laughs. “Implied like . . . I don’t know. We were talking about you, and I said that you were one of the first friends I made when I moved to the city and how you’re so sweet and funny and how there are a lot of social climbing assholes in New York and you’re not one of them.”

“Okay, and then?” I sit up and lean forward, impatient because she still hasn’t answered my question.

“And then I said you had inner and outer beauty, and he said that was a rare combination in this day and age.”

My shoulders fall. “He was just making a general observation, Topaz. He wasn’t necessarily implying anything.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” she says, winking. “So then I said, ‘Don’t you think she’s absolutely stunning, by the way?’ to which he said, ‘Undoubtedly.’”

My heart flutters hard and fast before settling to a moderate pace.

“He was probably being nice,” I say.

“Aidy, now’s not the time to be modest.” Topaz rolls her eyes. “Anyway, you act like I’m arranging a marriage here. All I did was get him to admit you’re a sexy little thang and then nudged him in the right direction.”

“If he doesn’t call, I’ll know he was just being nice,” I say. “Just promise me you won’t hound him about it anymore, okay? God, you’re worse than my mother trying to set me up with all her friends’ sons every time I go back home.”

Topaz laughs. “Not a problem. Anyway, I probably won’t see him again. His guest spot ended today. Antoine is back on Monday.”

There’s a slight sinking feeling in my stomach that I can’t deny if I try. Picking up my utensils, I return to my filet and change the subject.

Up until now, I hadn’t considered what I’d say if Ace asked me on a date because until this moment, the likelihood of him randomly calling me up and asking me out was pretty much nonexistent. Besides, the whole prospect of dating anyone, let alone him, has been completely off my radar. I’m too busy with work, and I’m not necessarily lonely or looking.

And yeah, Ace is an outrageously beautiful specimen of a man, but there’s also something dark and tormented about him, and I’m fully certain we’d look ridiculous together.

Topaz checks her phone after we pay our tabs. “Ugh, that guy I went to Aruba with won’t stop texting me ever since we got back.”

“
That guy
?” I ask. “I thought you two were dating? Now he’s just
that guy
?”

She rolls her eyes. “Shit got weird in Aruba.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? Weird like how?”

Topaz tucks her lavender hair behind one ear and leans forward. “He got really drunk one night, I mean hammered. He told me he loved me. Aidy, we’ve been seeing each other for two months. There’s something wrong with him if he already thinks he loves me and we’re still not through the open-bathroom-door-policy part of our relationship.”

“Could be that he just knows?” I ask. “I mean, when you know . . . you
know
.”

“Or he’s loco?” Topaz rises, pushing out her café chair and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Besides, he’s too touchy feely for me. I need space. He encroaches.”

“And you wonder why you’re always single.” I brush my shoulder against hers as we exit the restaurant and hit the sidewalk.

“Nothing wrong with being single,” she says, grinning. “Life’s too short. There’s an ice cream smorgasbord of eligible bachelors out there all dying to show me a good time, and I want to try all the flavors before I die.”

“What flavor was this last one?”

Topaz lifts a finger to the side of her mouth, staring to the left. “Vanilla. No question.”

We come to the familiar street corner where I turn south and she turns north, and I throw my arms around her.

“I’m going to feel like the biggest dweeb if he doesn’t call. You know that, right?” I say into her ear.

She squeezes me, hard, and laughs. “He’ll call.”

“I don’t even know if I’ll say yes. He’s not really my type.”

“You will.”