Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

“Okay, we’re going to take a quick break,” I say. I’m not supposed to do this unless it’s an emergency, but we always have a clip on standby in case of this sort of thing. “Why don’t we listen to clip from a few shows ago. I’m told it’s a listener favorite. Be right back, folks.”

  I take my headset off and bury my face in my hands as Lara rushes into the room.

  “You okay?” she asks, placing her hand on my shoulder.

  My entire body feels deflated, defeated. I hate letting them down.

  But I hate it even more when I’m wrong.

  And it kind of seems like that’s happening more than usual lately …

  “Yeah,” I lie. “I just need a sec.”

  9

  Locke

  I’m slicing some strawberries and bananas for Joa when my phone buzzes on the counter. Glancing over, I do a double-take when I see Bostyn’s name filling the screen. Sliding my thumb across the glass, I lift the phone to my ear.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  Before she says so much as “hello” I pick up on a bit of hesitation. “Hey.”

  “What’s … up?”

  This isn’t awkward or anything.

  “What if I give you a chance?” she asks. “What I break my rules and make an exception for you and you fuck me over?”

  I carry the plastic bowl of sliced fruit to my daughter’s high chair, and she squeals.

  “What if I don’t?” I ask.

  She sighs. “Don’t … screw this up.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’ll give you a chance,” she says, voice soft and uncertain. “One date, Locke. That’s it. But you have to be a gentleman. You can’t kiss me. You can’t invite me up for a drink. And by the end of the night, if you leave me wanting more and I leave you wanting more, we’ll know it was a success. But it has to go both ways. And you have to respect that if I’m not feeling it, you’ll need to stop pestering me to date you.”

  “Pestering?” I chuckle. “That’s an interesting choice of word there, Bostyn.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Okay, fine,” I say.

  “Fine, what?”

  “Fine to everything you just said.”

  “Can you repeat it? So I know you were listening?” she asks. God, she’s terrified. All this time, I thought she was resisting me because she had super-human-strength and an emotional heart of steel, but here it is. All along, she was afraid to give me a chance.

  Afraid I’d hurt her.

  Afraid I’d be like the others.

  Her dating advice and hard-to-get persona is nothing more than a suit of armor, a self-imposed shackle around her heart, but all she needs is the right knight to come along to free her from herself.

  “I’ll take you out, Bostyn,” I say. “I won’t kiss you. I won’t ask you up for a drink. And by the end of the date, you’ll want more. I promise.”

  “We’ll see.” She exhales, like she’s relieved.

  “This Saturday,” I say. “Seven o’clock.”

  “I’m working.”

  “Okay,” she says. “See you then.”

  10

  Bostyn

  I check my reflection in the mirror, smoothing my hand down the front of my little black dress. It doesn’t dip down at the cleavage or squeeze my hips too tight, but it’s sexy all the same.

  The trick, I’ve learned over the years, is to leave as much to the imagination as possible. It doesn’t mean dressing like a schoolmarm or ensuring ankles are covered, but I’ve always gone by the rule of one.

  You choose one thing to show off.

  11

  Tonight it’s my back.

  Breasts and legs and thighs are overdone, and besides, I’m not a Cornish hen waiting patiently to be devoured at the end of the night.

  My dress dips down in the back, baring my milky, cashmere-soft skin, and though he won’t be seeing them, tonight I’m wearing a slinky little lace thong—also black. But that’s more for me. I want to feel sexy because sexy equals confidence, and confidence is a key ingredient in the recipe for an enjoyable date night.

  I remind myself that tonight is all about the tease—the hint that something better is around a corner so few have had the privilege of experiencing before. I also remind myself that a perfect date is a slow, sensual dance—not hot and heavy grinding in a club. This is a marathon, not a sprint. And in the case of tonight’s date with Locke, there’s not even the guarantee of the finish line at the end.

  One minute at a time—that’s how I’m going to get through this date.

  I dab my perfume onto a few pulse points. One behind each ear and a little in the insides of my elbows, and then I finish off with my wrists. Just enough.

  Smoothing my pale blonde hair back, I check to ensure my chignon is perfectly in place, and then I fish around in my makeup drawer for the perfect pink lipstick.

  Within seconds, I’m done, and by the time I’m transferring my phone and credit cards into a little black clutch, Locke is knocking at my door.

  My heart races, but I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and promise to treat this like any other date with any other guy.

  I told myself I’d go easy on him tonight. Believe it or not, I actually want to enjoy this. I don’t want to be glancing at the lock every five minutes or reading comebacks on the tip of my tongue every time he opens his mouth.

  Maybe if I’m nice to him, he’ll be nice to me, and we’ll have a nice, enjoyable evening together?

  Locke knocks again.

  “Hi,” I say when I open the door a moment later, offering a smile.

  He looks good. Really good. He’s in a navy suit with a white shirt and no tie. There’s a polished silver watch on his left hand, and his hair shines with a hint of product. His cologne is subtle yet sexy, and his baby blues are framed in long dark lashes and they crinkle in the corner when he smiles at me.

  “For you.” He produces a bouquet of flowers from behind his back. Pale pink peonies in full bloom are wrapped in brown paper, their sweet, light scent filling my lungs.

  “Thank you.” I take them from him, and all of this feels formal and unnatural. It’s like we’re two entirely different people who’ve never met until tonight. He’s not … him. And I don’t feel like … me.

  Maybe this is a good thing?

  I place the flowers in a vase filled with water and turn down the lights before heading to the doorway.

  “Ready?” he asks. I watch him inhale, and I can’t help but wondering if he’s as nervous about this as I am.

  “Yeah,” I say, pulling the door closed behind me.

  He lifts his elbow, and I slip my hand into his arm.

  Away we go.

  12

  Locke

  I knew Bostyn was beautiful, but tonight? Tonight she steals the show. I find myself walking slightly behind her every chance I get just so I can feast my eyes on her bare back.

  Never knew a bare back could be so sexy—at least not when there are clothes covering the rest of a woman, but tonight I’m proven very wrong. I find myself using every excuse I can just to touch it—to touch her.

  With my hand on the small of her back, I escort her off an elevator and onto a rooftop restaurant and wine bar in Chelsea owned by one of my buddies. There’s a tepid, late summer breeze that ruffles the hem of her dress just so, and she immediately moves toward the railing, staring several stories below to the city street and the symphony of late night traffic.

  “Look at this view,” she says, her lips pulling up at the sides. She brushes a loose hair behind her ear before turning to me. Her ocean blue eyes are lit from within. This may very well be the first time she’s ever been at ease around me. There’s something calmer about her when she’s not on the constant defense. “This is beautiful, Locke.”

  A wooden pergola with hanging party lights covers the bar to her left, and I make eye contact with the bartender.

  “Let’s get something to drink. Our table should be r
eady soon.” I lead her to the bar, ordering for her—like a gentleman— and the hostess comes to find us.

  Garrett, my buddy, ensured we’d have the best seat in the place, a cozy little corner on the rooftop that straddles the best views this part of Manhattan has to offer.

  “Are you warm enough?” I ask as we get seated.

  “Yes,” she says. “It’s a beautiful night.”

  The hostess leaves us with menus, and man in a suit comes by with a bottle of wine.

  “Complements of Garrett,” he says, pouring our glasses and leaving the bottle between the two of us.

  “Shall we toast?” I ask.

  She bites her lip, nodding and lifting her glass.

  It’s weird being all formal with her, but I want to prove I can do this.

  I’m ready for love. I’m reading for a long-term commitment. I’m ready to take the next step in life.

  I, Locke Everett Carson, officially have #relationshipgoals.

  And I’m not afraid to admit it.

  “Where’d you go to school, Locke?” she asks, taking a sip of red wine that leaves her lips berry-stained. For a split second, I think about what they’d taste like, feel like. Then I snap out of it.

  “MIT,” I say.

  “Oh, that’s right. You mentioned that the other day,” she says. “How’d you get into app-making?”

  “I took a bunch of coding classes,” I say. “And it all just kind of clicked. Everything made sense. My professors said I was one of the most advanced in the class. I made this cinematic video-editing app for a project my senior year and someone showed it to some developer who ended up buying it. Once I realized how lucrative it could be, I started brainstorming all these ideas. Some of them were dumb, I’ll admit. But one of them was, uh, Date Snap, and that’s the one that kind of put me on the map.”

  “How’d you think of Date Snap anyway?” She cocks her head, fighting a smile.

  “Well, we already had Tinder and Bumble and OKCupid and Match,” he says. “But they were all photo-based. Anyone can edit a photo. Hell, people can edit videos too or add filters that make themselves look hotter, skinnier, curvier, whatever. But no one out there had anything that combined unfiltered videos with dating profiles, so that’s what I wanted to try. There’s a lot of relationship science that went into this app believe it or not.”

  She laughs, closed-mouthed. “Yeah? How so?”

  “So a lot of attraction has to do with the way someone sounds, the way they talk, the way their voice sounds like,” I elaborate. “Their mannerisms. All the things you can’t tell from a cropped photo or a well-lit selfie.”

  “That is true.” She takes a drink, her gaze never leaving mine.

  “As far as I’m concerned, those other dating apps? False advertising,” I say. “Date Snap? It’s as real as it gets. You upload a video of yourself talking about whatever. Or telling a funny story. Or being cute. Anything you want. And someone’s going to be able to tell, right off the bat, if you’re genuine or if you’re someone they might hit it off with.”

  “Huh.” She sinks back in her chair. “And here I thought you guys only used it for dirty stuff.”

  I laugh. “Well, there’s a lot of that, yeah. But the original intention was for it to be a tried-and-true dating app.”

  “Wow, um. That’s kind of … noble of you.”

  “You’re shocked, I know.”

  “I am.” She slips me a sly smile. “Impressed too. Last time we talked about your app, you told me it wasn’t for dating.”

  “It was,” I say. “Initially. But yeah, at the time, no one was using it for dating. It is what it is. You can design something, but ultimately the users dictate how it’s used.”

  “That’s … meta.”

  “I’m deeper than you think I am.”

  “I see that.” She takes another drink, her gaze falling on me like it’s the first time and I’m a complete stranger. “Where did you grow up, Locke?”

  “Toledo,” I say. “Well, a little suburb outside of Toledo. But yeah. Just me, Mom, Dad, and Rhett. My parents were overprotective though. We didn’t get out much. That’s why Locke took to hockey. He needed a hobby he could do outside the house.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Begged my parents to let me buy a computer. I mowed the lawn, washed cars, anything they wanted. They finally got me one, but they wouldn’t get me any video games and they wouldn’t let us have internet,” I say.

  “What?”

  “I managed to hack into the neighbors’ WiFi,” I say. “The password was their dog’s name. Lucky guess. Anyway, I learned how to code a little bit, and after a while I was making my own video games. They were pretty basic, but they were enough.”

  “You couldn’t just play online games?”

  I shake my head, leaning back in the chair. “Nah. The signal wasn’t strong enough. The games would stall or freeze. Was easier just to make my own.”

  “Wow.” Her lip press together as she studies me.

  “What?”

  “I just … never thought of you as this nerdy computer guy,” she says. “It’s kind of cool.”

  I laugh. “I was definitely a nerdy computer guy. Believe it or not, I didn’t have a girlfriend until I was twenty-one.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re so …” Her shoulders sway back and forth and she sits up taller. “… so smooth. So confident.”

  “Chalk that up to my first million,” I say. “Thought I was King Shit for a while. Turns out I was mostly just a douche bag with way too much money.”

  She laughs. That’s good.

  “That was shortly before I met you,” I say. “So, Bostyn, I want to apologize. I know you don’t believe me when I say I’m not that guy anymore, but … it’s true. I like to think of that as a phase in my life.”

  “I don’t know a lot of twenty-something men who could catch a windfall like that and not be turn into a manwhoring jerk,” she says, her thumb and pointer finger spinning her wine glass by the stem. “You’re forgiven. And I’m sorry for telling you your app was dumb. I … guess maybe a part of me was jealous I didn’t think of it first. And I resented you for rubbing your success in my face. That’s why I rubbed mine in yours.” She buries her face in her hands. “God, I was so juvenile back then.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “It’s probably a good thing we didn’t take our first date until now.” Her head tilts and we linger in some sort of silent understanding until the waiter comes.

  We laugh about how we haven’t even glanced at our menus yet, then I quickly order a filet and she requests the same.

  “Anyway,” I say. “What about your childhood? Where’d you grow up? You blessed with normal parents?”

  “Ha.” She shakes her head. “Normal? No. Not unless you think it’s normal for your father to do yearly performance evaluations for your mother.”

  “What the …”

  Bostyn nods. “Every year. He had this really elaborate criteria, and he’d rate everything on a scale of one to five, five being ‘exceeds expectations.’”

  “Let me guess. She never got fives?”

  “Never. Not once.”

  I’m speechless. I take a sip, letting my mind wrap around what that must have been like for a young Bostyn, watching her father degrade her mother and treat her like an employee sent to do a job.

  “Imagine my surprise when I got to high school and started talking to my friends and realized no one else’s parents were like that,” she adds. “I guess you could say my fascination with relationships started somewhere around that time.”

  “Makes sense.” I top off our wine glasses.

  “Anyway, the weird thing is, my parents always seemed happy. The performance evaluation thing just worked for them.”

  “Did your mom ever do one for your dad?”

  “Nope. I wish she would have though.” Bostyn exhales, glancing through the railing and d
own toward the street. “Whenever she had a problem with him, she just flat out told him. He wasn’t as good with the verbal stuff. I think that’s why he liked everything in writing. That’s my conclusion anyway, after several years of studying this sort of thing in college.”

  “Well, let me just promise you, right here, right now, that if you ever marry me, I’ll never do a performance evaluation on you.”

  Her hand flies to her open, smiling mouth. “Getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?”

  I wink, taking a sip of wine. Sure, we’re both on our best behavior tonight, but it doesn’t mean I still don’t like to razz her up.

  The restaurant fills as each minute passes, the background growing louder and louder, but the only thing I’m focused on is Bostyn. The conversation never ceases, and not once have I found myself bored or wishing I were home.

  By the time our food comes, I’ve learned ever more about Bostyn. She’s an only child. She studied Human Development and Relationship Studies at Walthrop University in Chicago. She grew up in Denver until her sophomore year of high school when her dad took a job in Portland, Maine. Oh, and like me, she used to go out all the time—get drinks after work with friends just to unwind and socialize, but now she’s a huge homebody.

  We have more in common than she expected, and I can almost see the realization on her face in real time.

  “You want to take a walk?” I ask after we finish dinner.

  She lays her napkin across her plate and nods. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

  By the time we’re downstairs, the night sky is full of stars and the sidewalks are emptying.

  “I love the city on the weekend,” she says. “I love those moments when you find a patch of sidewalk that’s completely yours. No one else.”

  “Me too.”

  She glances at me, half-smiling. “Some people think it’s crazy to be in a city with millions of people and to stumble across an empty city block. I think it’s good luck.”

  “Good luck?”

  “Yeah. Like wishing on a star or when you see 11:11 on the clock. Good luck.”