Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  Guess there’s always next year . . .

  Two years ago, I rang in the new year in Paris with my Parisian lover who turned out to be a royal scumbag.

  Last year, I rang in the new year at home with my family, quietly nursing a recent breakup with a professional football player named Weston. He was still madly in love with his ex but kept his feet planted in denial until I finally showed him the writing on the wall. And that was the end of something that could’ve been pretty freaking amazing.

  A job interview at a small, private fine arts college landed me here this week, and I was planning to meet up with some old college friends in Vegas tonight, but Delilah’s cervix thinned, or whatever, and now here I am.

  I’m seconds from facing forward again to reassess the state of this slow moving line when my eye catches a tall man, approximately my age, with messy dark hair and a laser sharp stare pointed directly at me. My heart skips for a second, and I face the front of the line. I’m not sure it’s possible to physically feel someone staring at me, but my entire backside is tingling and warm. Not the front. Just the back. My ass, if I want to get specific.

  I’m half flattered, half annoyed, and one-hundred percent determined to ignore his shameless behavior when all of a sudden a loud chime plays above the chatter and drone of anxious travelers.

  “Attention passengers,” a woman’s muffled, muddled voice comes over the intercom at Seaview International Airport. “Flight 802 with nonstop service from Seaview to Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C. has been canceled. Please report to your nearest Red Jet Airways desk for further information.”

  I lift a brow, release a breath, and silently sympathize for the hundred-plus passengers whose hopes of ringing in the new year in another part of the country have suddenly been dashed.

  The line moves ahead, and I grip the handle of my wheel-y bag and move ahead an entire eighteen inches.

  Yay, progress.

  A man in front of me wears a frown as he checks his phone.

  “They’re saying almost two feet of snow in some parts,” I hear him tell his wife. “And even more tomorrow.”

  His wife covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes holding worry. “I was hoping we’d be able to get back before the storm hit. You think they’ll cancel ours next?”

  The man shrugs, dragging his thumb down the screen of his phone as he reads. “Possibly. The storm’s moving north now. Parts of Maryland are without power already. All of Baltimore is covered in a sheet of ice.”

  She clasps a palm at her chest, twisting a gold cross necklace between her fingers, the corners of her mouth pulled down. “Surely they’d have said something by now. Our plane boards in an hour.”

  “You’re right, Margaret,” he says, slipping his phone in his pocket and putting his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We have nothing to worry about. They’d have canceled by now.”

  The line moves ahead once more, and I check the time before scanning the area behind me again. Tucking a strand of white-blonde hair behind my ear, I peek from the corner of my eye and accidentally meet his gaze again.

  The dark-haired guy.

  He’s still staring at me.

  Whipping my attention toward the front of the line, I realize there’s a good three-foot gap between me and the couple ahead. That’s what I get for paying more attention to the Greek Adonis behind me and not watching the line.

  Clearing my throat, I pick my bruised ego off the floor and pull my bag ahead. The lady with the overweight bag appears to be long gone, which explains why the line’s finally moving.

  Dragging in a long breath, I dig my hand into the front pocket of my jeans to retrieve my ID. I stuck it in there before I got in line because I hate to be that person standing at the desk, dumping out their ridiculously overstuffed purse in search of their license because they failed to prepare for their turn.

  I’m a bit of a budding world traveler. I love to fly. I love to jet-set across oceans and continents, countries and states. I’ve flown dozens of times in the last few years alone. Preparation is my middle name.

  My heart jolts a little when the tips of my fingers feel nothing but the cotton lining of my pocket. I check the other side, my blood running cold with panic. The line moves again. I’m next. Sitting my purse down, I shove both my hands down the front and then back pockets of my jeans, digging deep and coming up with nothing but lint. I’m sure I look like a crazy person, but I’m dead set on finding my ID.

  It’s in here.

  I know it is.

  My mind functions in warp speed, replaying my earlier steps and wondering if there was any possible way I somehow thought I put my ID in my pocket but actually forgot. Mentally retracing my steps, I think back to my hotel room. My bag was packed. My purse was lying on a table by the door. I checked out. Hailed a cab . . .

  My mind runs blank.

  I could’ve sworn I grabbed my ID from my wallet after I paid the cab driver.

  Yes.

  I was standing on the sidewalk of the drop off lane.

  I know I did.

  There’s a quick tap on my shoulder and a shadowed presence behind me. My body freezes as I’m startled out of my own thoughts, and I turn to face this person that dares to interrupt me at this horribly inopportune moment.

  “You dropped this . . . Daphne.” The handsome stranger wears a half smirk and flicks my driver’s license between two fingers before handing it over.

  “Oh, God.” I swipe it from his grasp. “Thank you.”

  “Sorry for staring,” he says, his eyes almost smiling, as if he’s not truly sorry. “I wanted to make sure this was you. You should be more careful. This gets in the wrong hands and you never know what could happen.”

  My words catch in my throat as my brows meet. I’m appreciative of his good deed but not in the mood for a lecture.

  “Next,” the woman behind the desk calls out.

  His gaze flicks over my head, and I turn around to see that I’m, in fact, next.

  “That’s me,” I say. Turning back, I start to tell him, “Thanks for . . .”

  But he’s already returned to his place in line.

  I check my baggage, get my boarding pass scanned, and make a mad dash toward security. The waiting area just outside security is packed like sardines in a can, and squeezing myself through the thick crowd proves to be a bit of a challenge, but I make it to the escalator and breathe a sigh of relief when I see the actual security line isn’t half as long as I thought it would be. I’m sure a lot of that has to do with stranded travelers, and I can’t help but feel for them.

  I’d hate to be in their shoes.

  I’d probably cry.

  By the time I make it past the initial checkpoint, I’m yanking off my shoes and shoving all of my things into a gray bin. Checking my jeans pockets, I’m doubly relieved to feel the hard plastic of my ID in the left front pouch.

  As much traveling as I’ve done over the last couple of years, I should be a pro at this. This so isn’t me. I’m not this disorganized. I’m not so easily rattled.

  “Next,” the security guard calls. We make eye contact and he motions me forward, his front two fingers bent and his lips holding a flat line.

  I step forward, let them scan my body, and immediately receive a green light. Glancing back, I watch for my gray bin to come down the conveyor and unintentionally spot the tall, dark, and mysteriously fetching stranger readying to come through. Wearing fitted indigo jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that clings to the curves and muscled bulges that make up his torso, he motions for the guard to step closer, and then he says something. The guard then turns to another and makes some kind of hand signal. A third guard appears from out of nowhere and pulls the stranger aside to begin a patdown.

  Weird.

  My bin finally comes through, and I grab my purse and leather Oxfords, locating a nearby bench so I can get these things back on. They’re easy to pull off and impossible to put back on. I should’ve known better th
an to travel in these, but at least I won’t have to take them off again. This is a non-stop, direct flight from Seaview, California to JFK International in New York.

  Tugging and pulling, I wriggle my heel into my left shoe and prepare to begin again with the right.

  “You don’t have to do that, you know,” a man’s voice says from my right.

  I glance up.

  It’s him. Again.

  “You don’t have to go through the x-ray machine,” he clarifies. His brows meet when he glances up at it. “It’s invasive. I don’t like it. You can request a patdown.”

  I snort. “Because having someone’s hands all over you is somehow less invasive?”

  “I’m fine with someone professionally touching the outside of my clothes,” he says. “I’m not fine with someone checking me out naked because the government tells them it’s okay.”

  I shove my right heel into my shoe and stand up to jam it in a little better, bracing myself on a nearby window ledge. Outside it’s sunny and these Californian skies are baby blue and cloudless. It’s hard to imagine there’s a snowpocalypse sweeping the northeast as we speak.

  “Good to know,” I say with a mild smile, politely pretending to be appreciative of his second round of unsolicited advice. I could give a rat’s ass if someone sees me naked. I’ve modeled nude in enough art classes that taking off my clothes is a bit of a pastime at this point.

  Glancing at my phone, I realize I’m boarding in fifteen minutes, and I still need to grab a book and some coffee for the plane.

  “Have a good flight.” I sling my purse over my shoulder and trek toward the coffee cart halfway down Terminal A. Perusing the menu, I decide on a half-caf soy latte with cinnamon and sugar-free vanilla syrup because just thinking about the snowflakes I’ll be feeling on my face in a mere five hours and some change makes me crave something warm and comforting in my belly.

  I place my order and slip the cashier a five-dollar bill and exact change.

  “Thank you,” I say to the cashier, re-adjusting my purse strap on my shoulder and tightening my grip on the coffee. The paper cup is comfortably warm in my palm, and I can already practically taste the rich, bold flavor on my tongue.

  Turning on my heels, I find myself face to face with him again. He’s right up on me. His deliciously clean scent invades my airspace, and I could probably calculate the distance between our faces in mere inches. But the sheer unexpectedness of his proximity to me causes me to stop hard in my tracks, which then proceeds to cause the scalding coffee in my cup to splash up over the lid, dribbling molten brown liquid all over my shoes.

  “Wonderful,” I sigh, lifting my cup and moving out of the way.

  His hand reaches for me, gently gripping my forearm. “I’m so sorry.”

  He sounds genuine. This time. It’s not like earlier, when he was “apologizing” for staring at me. This time his eyes are softer and his expression is void of any kind of ornery glint or smiling eyes.

  “I was looking at the menu. I didn’t mean to stand so close . . .” he says, exhaling.

  There’s a small stand to our left that holds straws and cream and sugar, and I watch him yank half a dozen paper napkins from a dispenser before lowering himself to my feet and dabs, pointlessly, in an attempt to salvage my Oxfords.

  “It’s okay,” I say. Even though it’s not.

  I know it was an accident.

  I know I should be gracious and giggle and pretend this is some kind of romantic comedy, but these shoes weren’t cheap.

  And they’re my favorites.

  And they’re ruined.

  And my others are currently sitting in my suitcase in the belly of my plane.

  And I’m going to have to smell stale, sticky coffee wafting off my shoes for the next five hours.

  I’m sure there’s a gift shop around here that sells flip-flips, but I’m not exactly heading into flip-flop friendly weather.

  “No,” he says, rising to a standing position and holding out his hand. He’s got height, this one. And his shoulders are so broad. Distractingly broad. And so round they fill out his clingy t-shirt. I try not to stare at the centered veins running down his biceps. There’s no good explanation as to why I’m focusing on these things right now, but I am. “It’s not okay. I’m so sorry. Take them off. I’ll go rinse them off in the bathroom.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, eyeing the terminal up ahead. “My flight’s boarding soon, I need to go.”

  “Which flight are you on?”

  “Five-twelve,” I say, brows scrunched because I’m not sure why it matters.

  “Me too.” He flashes a half-smile, and I momentarily lose myself in the golden flash of his irises because apparently I’m running low on self-control today.

  I bet this works for him.

  I bet this is his shtick.

  He messes up in life, flashes his pearly, dimpled smile, winks his honey-brown eyes, flexes his biceps, and all is right again. I bet he gets off the hook for everything because he’s obnoxiously good-looking and knows how to charm his way out of any situation.

  Too bad for him, I don’t have time for this.

  “Do you ever shut it off?” I ask.

  His expression fades into confusion. “Um, what?”

  “This,” I say, waving my hand up and down his length.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, eyes searching mine.

  Groaning, I feel the burn of word vomit as it rises from my core. I’m not sure if it’s the holiday travelers, the packed airport, the fact that I’m running late, or the fear of not getting home in time to be with my sister, but I couldn’t be in a worse mood than I am right now and this guy has the audacity to try and be all cute and charismatic?

  “The smile,” I say. “The eyes. The staring. The following me around and trying to be all charming and helpful. You think I don’t know what you’re doing, but I know. But I’m trying to get home, and listen, I’m not going to buy whatever it is you’re selling, so please, leave me alone.”

  I chuck what’s left of my spilt coffee into a nearby trash can and push past him.

  I swear I’m not normally this big of a bitch.

  I’m just having an off day.

  A really, really, really off day.

  The second I storm off, I instantly regret not being kinder to him . . .

  . . . especially when I remember we’re going to be on the same flight for the next five hours.

  Oops.

  Nothing I can do at this point but pray we’re in completely different sections of the aircraft.

  Gate C1 lies ahead, and I see the sign indicating we’ll be boarding soon. I find a seat next to a phone charging station and juice up while I have the chance.

  When a text from Delilah appears on my screen, asking if I made it to the airport okay, I quickly respond, letting her know I’ll see her in time for dinner. When I ask her how she’s feeling, she immediately replies that she feels like she could burst at any moment. Delilah’s not hyperbolic or dramatic. I know she’s not trying to be some cutesy, nine-month-pregnant lady. She could literally go into labor at any moment, and that does very little to quell the anxiety I’m feeling right now.

  Seats fill all around me, everyone sitting around with their noses buried in their phones. To my left, a mother rocks her baby, humming what sounds to me like Bad Romance by Lady Gaga, and I chuckle, because I would probably be doing the same thing. Screw Brahm’s Lullaby. Give me something with a real melody I can get down with.

  I’m not a baby person at all. I mean, I’ll love any and all nieces and nephews thrown my way, but as far as having a kid of my own, it’s never really been something I’ve fantasized about.

  Maybe one.

  Maybe when I’m pushing forty and that fertility window of opportunity is closing down on me and I’ve got some long-term boyfriend begging for me to carry his child before it’s too late and I feel that deep tug on my heartstrings when I see a pudgy faced kid smiling at
me in line at the grocery store. Then and only then will I get knocked up. But until that time comes? I’m soaking up my freedom and independence because I’ve only got this one life.

  Checking my phone, I see my battery has gone up a whopping two percent since I’ve sat down. I note the time and feel a tiny leap in my chest when I realize we’re going to be boarding any minute now. I just want to hear the high-pitched whir of the jet engines and feel the G-force pressing my chest as we begin our ascension because that means I’ll be that much closer to my little bottle of airplane vodka.

  “Attention passengers,” a muffled, muddled voice comes over the intercom a moment later. I glance up to see the lady behind the flight attendant’s desk at our gate holding the mouthpiece of a phone up to her moving lips. “Flight 512 with nonstop service from Seaview to JFK International Airport in New York City has been canceled. Please report to your nearest Jet Stream Airways desk or the counter at gate C1 for further information.”

  My jaw falls in tandem with the sinking of my heart in my chest.

  No . . .

  No, no, no, no, no.

  2

  Daphne

  “I’m a passenger with Jet Stream Airways.” I slide my hotel voucher across the front desk at the Blue Star Hotel across from the airport, feeling like the pregnant Virgin Mary desperately trying to find an inn for the night. “They said you might have a room available.”

  I cross my fingers, and my toes, because the last three hotels I stopped by were at full occupancy being that it’s New Year’s Eve and one of their busiest days of the year. Seaview, California is one of those towns you could blink and miss, and because of that, their hotel situation is severely lacking.

  The front desk clerk tucks her dyed purple hair behind her ear before pushing her thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. She looks like one of those cool moms, the kind that let their kids get tattoos on their eighteenth birthday and probably competes in air guitar competitions nationally. Biting the corner of her pierced lip, she focuses on her computer monitor.

  “I’m sure going to try, doll,” she says, her voice not holding the amount of certainty I’d like to hear in this type of situation. “An hour ago we were full, but I think there may have been a recent cancellation.”