Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  I haven’t checked my email in days. Fans are coming out of the woodwork sending all kinds of weird shit that I have no interest in reading, or so says my assistant. I haven’t looked. I’ll have her go through them eventually, but for the time being, they’re not a priority of any kind. And the crazies won’t be getting a response because fuck them.

  “I’ll be there,” I say.

  “Okay, cool.” Shane clears his throat. “All right, man. See you then.”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, wait,” he says seconds before I’m about to end the call. “Did you meet Bryce’s sister the other night?”

  “Bryce had a sister?” This has got to be some sick, twisted joke. Some delusional fan coming out of the woodwork in an attempt to swindle what remains in his massive bank account before some distant relative gets their hands on it.

  “Apparently.”

  “Nope. Didn’t meet her.” Have no interest in meeting her either.

  “You sure, because she ...” his voice trails. “That’s weird then.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She said she wanted to meet you because we told her how you knew him better than any of us. I thought maybe she got a hold of you?”

  “Sounds crazy.” I scratch my temple. “Don’t mean to sound like a dick, Shane, but I have no interest in spending a minute of my time with anyone remotely related to that asshat.”

  “Understand, Rhett,” he says, exhaling into the receiver. He doesn’t understand, and he never will. “See you, man.”

  “Yep.”

  3

  Ayla

  I stumbled out of bed this morning with a killer hangover and a brief bout of confusion when I realized I wasn’t at home, that I was over three thousand miles away. I don’t remember how I got back here or what time they dropped me off, but it was sweet of them to take care of me. Those Spartans are good people, and I hope to God Bryce never took them for granted.

  I managed to scrounge up some ibuprofen and washed it down with a glass of almost-expired orange juice, and then I decided to begin the day by doing smelly dishes in the sink. Washing the plates Bryce ate from less than a week ago was surreal in a way I don’t think I could fully put into words, which says a lot because I make my living stringing sentences together.

  I was thirteen when Mom told me I had a half-brother, and on that first day, it felt like I’d won the lottery. There was someone out there, about my age, who shared fifty percent of my DNA, someone I could talk to about how stupid middle school was or how unfair my mom’s curfew rules were.

  I imagined us chatting on the phone for hours, getting to know each other, flying across the country to spend time together, and I pictured myself bragging to all my friends about how I had the coolest big brother who would do anything for me.

  Imagine my dismay when I found him online and sent him an email, only to be met with a raging, spewing, hate-filled response that could be summed up in two words: “Fuck off.”

  I cried for weeks.

  Laughing to myself, I think about what an idealistic idiot I was, and I dry my hands on a clean dish towel before moving to the shoe area. I had a bunch of plastic containers delivered this morning from a place out of Long Island. For now, everything’s going into storage, and at some point, I’m going to hire an auctioneer. I toss his shoes into a nearby box, noting that most of them barely seem worn and they’re all the same brand.

  I bet he got them for free just for being who he is. I’ve heard of athletes getting sponsorships and million-dollar contracts just to wear certain brands exclusively. Was my brother a sell-out or a stellar businessman?

  I’ll never know.

  That said, I’ve only spent a few days in Bryce’s world, but already I’m beginning to get an idea of who he was.

  He was an asshole.

  He was an asshole who lived in a nice place and treated it like shit.

  He was an asshole who never smiled in pictures.

  And he was an asshole who stole his best friend’s girl right out from under him.

  My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, and I rise with popping knees, making my way across the open floor plan and nearly tripping on a rug.

  “Bostyn!” I answer.

  “Ayla!” she squeals on the other end, her enthusiasm just as contagious as it was back in Iowa. “When can I see you?”

  “Um, right now.”

  “Good, because I’m already on my way,” she says in a sing-song voice. “And I have coffee from Dean and DeLuca.”

  “How do you know where I am?”

  “You called me last night, remember?”

  I rest my elbows against the counter, hunched forward. “No. I don’t remember anything about last night.”

  “Not surprising. You never could hold your liquor,” she says, sighing. “Plus you said you were drinking Jäger, and you always do stupid shit when you drink Jäger. You should probably check your phone and make sure you didn’t call any ex-boyfriends.” She coughs. “Ethan.” She coughs again. “Noah.”

  Shit. She’s probably right. She knows me well.

  “Anyway, I’ll be there innnnn about five minutes,” Bostyn says.

  I hang up with her and check my call history with suspended breath, breathing easy when I see there are no Ethans or Noahs in my call history. It never fails. I get drunk–I drunk dial ex-boyfriends. I’m a sentimental, gushing idiot when I’ve had too much to drink, and the alcohol always makes me temporarily forget all the reasons we didn’t work out, even if those reasons were rock solid.

  Pulling up Safari, I check my web history as well because I’ve been known to do a bit of drunk-emailing in my day, though I suppose that comes with the whole writer territory. My agent tells me I’m the only person she knows who drunk–emails people, but I don’t believe her. There are more of us out there, I just know it.

  The contents of my Google search history seem about right.

  What time is in Los Angeles right now?

  What time does Starbucks open tomorrow?

  Starbucks + Lexington Avenue + NYC

  How many calories are in a venti very berry hibiscus refresher?

  Starrbuckks vs Dean and Delluucca who is better?

  Turtle meeme

  Turtle memee

  Turrtle meme

  Funny turtle memes

  Baby sea turtle gif

  Is there actual deer blood in Jägermeister?

  Rhett Carson

  Rhett Carson + New York Spartans

  Rhett Carson hockey player

  Are pet sloths legal?

  Rhett Carson girlfriend

  How tall is Rhett Carson?

  Rhett Carson biography

  Rhett Carson photos

  Well, fuck. Drunk me must’ve been doing a bit of research last night. I laugh and place my phone back on the charger. I have zero recollection of any of that. I wonder if I found anything good, or what the hell made me so curious that I had to dig up everything I could about this poor man.

  A knock at my door a moment later sends a giant smile to my face, and I do a little jump when I check the peephole and spy the incomparable Bostyn Beckford on the other side. I throw my arms around her, burying my face in her signature sunshine blonde hair and breathing in her nostalgic Coco Mademoiselle perfume, and I try not to knock her over.

  “Okay, okay. Good God, get off me. You know I’m not a hug-y person,” she laughs. “Let me put the coffee down so I don’t spill it down your back.”

  I let her go and follow her to the kitchen. She hands me my coffee and takes a seat on one of the bar stools.

  “You look good,” she says, eyes dragging the length of me. “I mean, you look tired right now, but you look good. You haven’t aged at all.”

  “I don’t think the aging process is that noticeable when you go from twenty-four to twenty-five.” I give her a wink and sip my coffee, and then I close my eyes and enjoy it because it’s nothing short of amazing.

  “Figured yo
u could use some help with all this.” She looks around at Bryce’s things, and she doesn’t try to mask the repulsed look on her face. “This place is nice as hell and it looks like a dump. This man lived like an animal.” She covers her mouth. “Shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk about him like that.”

  I wave my hand. “He did live like an animal. I spent all morning doing his dishes, and I almost threw up twice because they were so disgusting.”

  Bostyn slides off the bar stool and moves to the window. “I mean look at this view. Do you know what kind of view I have? Do you? My view is of a parking garage and a karaoke lounge. I would kill for this view.”

  She turns back to the living room, eyeing the cluster of throw pillows on the ground and the half-empty beer bottles littering the coffee table. Without saying a word, she begins tidying up, fluffing pillows and carrying trash away in her arms. Five minutes later, the living room looks amazing.

  “How’s the bedroom situation? You want me to handle his bedroom?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  Bostyn disappears down the hall, her coffee in one hand. A second later, she screams, and I bolt across the apartment to get to her.

  “Dirty condoms!” she shrieks, covering her mouth with her hand. “They’re literally everywhere.”

  “I thought you found something bad!” I’m slightly winded, and my palm is splayed across my chest, and I want to hit her for scaring me.

  “This is bad.”

  “It’s not bad, it’s just ... gross.” I retch at the sight of my brother’s dried semen just chilling in its final latex resting place. Couldn’t he have tossed them in a garbage can like a normal human being?

  Thank God Bostyn’s here.

  “No offense, but your brother was a slob,” she says. Her nose is wrinkled as she fashions a makeshift glove from a clean t-shirt in his top drawer, and she proceeds to collect the used specimens with the caution of a Law and Order detective gathering evidence from a crime scene. “Didn’t his mom teach him better than this?”

  I give an ambiguous shrug and opt not to tell her that his mom died when he was younger, and that his dad, our dad, raised him after that. I’m sure I told her once, many years ago, but we were probably drunk and I was probably in a mood and I’m sure I was vomiting my life’s story in a way that was impossible for her to keep up with.

  “You good now?” I ask, lingering in the doorway. She sticks her tongue out at me, and I turn on my heel. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she yells.

  I get back to the kitchen and find my phone, docking it on some fancy Bose speaker on the island and pulling up the Rolling Stones’ Greatest Hits, which has always reminded me of Bryce over the years. Maybe it’s because there was a photo of him that I’d seen once and he was wearing a Stones t-shirt, and since I didn’t know much about him, I just assumed he was a fan.

  Two hours pass, and a significant portion of Bryce’s belongings are boxed and labeled. Nine boxes are stacked in the corner in the entryway, and they mostly consist of shoes and clothes. I’ve set his hockey gear aside, because I’m sure those can be placed in some hall of fame or auctioned off and donated in the near future.

  “Who’s Rhett Carson?” Bostyn appears out of nowhere, leaning against the wall in the hallway.

  “God, you scared me.” I smack my hand across my chest. “How do you know Rhett?”

  “I don’t know Rhett,” she says. “I’m asking who he is because your Facebook status from last night just says, ‘Rhett Carson.’”

  “What? No, it doesn’t. Let me see.” I swipe her phone from her hand and bring the screen close. Sure enough, there’s my name and my photo and the words ‘Rhett Carson’ typed next to it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  It has four likes, two loves, and one “LOL” already.

  What the hell, people?

  I check the names of the likers and immediately realize they’re all Spartans I must have drunkenly added at some point last night. My hands shake and my cheeks burn.

  I want to crawl in a hole and never come out.

  “I was looking someone up last night,” I say, hands trembling as I undock my phone from the speaker in the kitchen, pull up my account, and search for a way to remove my post. “I must have accidentally typed his name into a status instead of the search bar.”

  “Who is he?”

  “One of the guys on Bryce’s team.”

  “Delete it!” Bostyn says, fanning her hands.

  “I’m trying!”

  A minute later, it’s finally gone, but the damage has been done.

  “I can’t believe I did that,” I say. Our eyes meet, and I cover my mouth in slow motion.

  “I can.” Bostyn folds her arms across her chest, her pink lips twisted into a smirk. I’m glad one of us finds this amusing. “You can never talk to those guys ever again.”

  “Nope. Never again.”

  4

  Ayla

  “Mom, I’ll call you later, okay?” I stand outside the Spartans’ ice rink late Monday morning. It’s been nine days since the funeral now. Bryce’s coach called me earlier today, asking if I could come in at some point to discuss establishing a foundation in his name, and he was shocked speechless when I told him I could come in immediately. I guess I’m supposed to still be in mourning? Over a complete stranger who hated my guts?

  “When are you coming home?” she asks, proving once again that she’s the hardest person in the entire world with whom to end a phone call.

  “I told you,” I remind her gently, “as soon as everything is straightened out.”

  I don’t tell her that New York is kind of nice in the summer, that I spent all day yesterday with Bostyn, and that Bryce’s apartment is too amazing of a place to let sit empty for the next five months.

  “But what about your place in LA? You have a lease,” Mom says, as if I need reminding.

  “Bryce’s rent is paid through the end of the year, and I’m still making my half of the rent on the condo,” I say. “I told Vivian she could sub-lease my room if she wanted, but I think she likes having a little love nest with Fernando.”

  Mom giggles. “Oh, stop. I just hope they’re not touching your things.”

  I roll my eyes, laughing through my nose. My mother thrives on creating drama out of thin air, bless her heart. She just can’t help herself. But she means well most of the time.

  “Anyway. Busy day today,” I say. “Love you. Call you later?”

  I hang up before she has a chance to stall, and I head through the automatic doors at the front of the building.

  A directory on my immediate right points me to Coach Harris’ office on the second floor, and on my way to the stairs, I pass a hallway of Spartan mean-mugging portraits in alphabetical order.

  Alistair, Ridley

  Atwood, Wyatt

  Briggs, Brandon

  Carson, Rhett.

  Oh, god. Rhett.

  My cheeks warm when the vivid memory of my Facebook fiasco washes over me all over again. I still can’t believe I did that.

  It’s a miracle that I was able to muster up the strength to show my face around the Spartans’ headquarters, truly. I was serious when I told Bostyn I could never come around those guys again.

  If only it were that easy.

  The sound of trampling footsteps and men’s voices echoes through the stairwell, growing closer, louder. I steal a good look at Rhett’s portrait, studying his chiseled jaw line, dimpled chin, sun-kissed complexion, and piercing blue stare, and I turn to reach for the railing, my eyes still glued on his beautiful face.

  I can’t breathe for a second, his image burned into my mind, and then I realize I’m on the ground, the wind knocked from my lungs.

  A hand extends as I come to, and I realize in my gawking glory, I must’ve bumped into one of the players as they made their way down the stairs. I place my hand in his, and it’s rough, calloused. Shielding the fluorescent lights from my eyes,
I brace myself as he pulls me to standing. Our eyes don’t meet. In fact, he won’t even look at me.

  But I know it’s him.

  It’s Rhett.

  His gaze pierces past me, narrowed at something in the distance. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t apologize or acknowledge me.

  And just like that, he’s gone.

  “Ayla?” I recognize Shane from the other weekend, though he looks completely different in a white t-shirt and faded green chino shorts. His hair is soft and fluffy, free of product, and he doesn’t smell like the cologne aisle of Macy’s.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “What’s up?” Shane slides his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. I’m not sure if he’s trying to make conversation or if he’s actually asking me what I’m doing here.

  “Just meeting with Coach Harris about a few things.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and glance toward the door once more on the off chance Rhett might be lingering outside, but there’s no trace of him.

  “Ah, I see.” His eyes rest on mine. “You doing okay?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “You still have my number?”

  I nod again, holding my breath and waiting for him to bring up the Facebook post.

  “Listen, if you ever want to-”

  “Ayla?” I turn toward the voice calling my name, and I see Coach Harris standing at the top of the stairs, decked out in a Spartans green tracksuit. It’s amazing that after meeting me once, at Bryce’s funeral, he recognizes me so easily.

  “Hi,” I turn away from Shane, quickly whispering an apology, and head toward Harris.

  “Thanks for coming,” he says, his expression stuck in shocked mode. The bags under his red-rimmed eyes tell me he’s still struggling with this, and maybe I should be the one comforting him. “I’ve got the conference room all set up.”

  He slips his meaty arm around my shoulder like I’m one of the guys, and we climb the remainder of the stairs and turn the corner, stopping at the end of the hall.

  “Go on in,” he says, right behind me.

  I take the seat next to the one at the head of the thirty-seat table and eye a pitcher of water.