Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  “I was bored.”

  “And you re-routed us three times because you didn’t like how crooked our original route looked. You wanted more of a straight line.”

  “The crooked route had too many detours through small towns.”

  “You ironed your jeans,” I add. “That lady wanted us out of her bed and breakfast, but you took the time to iron your jeans.”

  “They were wrinkled from my suitcase.”

  “When you mixed your coffee this morning at the gas station, you added creamer. Stirred. Added sugar. Stirred again. Then added creamer. Then you replaced the lid and swirled it like it was a goddamned martini. Like you had it down to a science. Like it wasn’t your first time.”

  Daphne shrugs. “Okay, particular about things doesn’t mean I’m Type A.”

  “The hell it doesn’t.”

  “Fine. I can be both Type A and adventurous, can’t I?”

  “You can,” I say, “but don’t pretend you’re only one or the other when you’re both.”

  She exhales loudly, pressing her cheek against the passenger glass.

  “I only brought it up because I thought it was cute,” I add, hoping to soften this situation. “I’m teasing you. I guess I forgot that you don’t know me that well. You probably don’t get my sense of humor. Guess it just feels like we’re friends, and shit, maybe we are now. You know my secrets. I know yours.”

  Daphne glances my way from the corner of her eye. “Lucky me.”

  Her phone rings from my side of the car, and I remember that I’d confiscated it a few miles back.

  “Here,” I hand it off, catching the name DELILAH on the screen.

  “Hey,” she answers the call. “Everything okay? You didn’t have the baby, right?”

  It’s quiet, and I catch Daphne biting her thumbnail again. Must be a nervous habit of hers.

  “Okay,” she says, “I’m so relieved. We’re making good time. Everything’s going smoothly. I should be home by Friday night. We’re headed to Chicago now. We’ll stay the night, and then from there, we’ll head to Scranton, Pennsylvania so I can drop him off, and I’ll be home three hours after that . . . I promise . . . love you too.”

  She hangs up with her sister and buries her phone in her purse, reaching for the backseat and grabbing a photography magazine she bought at one of our pit stops.

  “Everything okay with your sister?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says, flipping a glossy page.

  “You’re quiet.”

  “Just anxious to get home.”

  “I’ll get you there.” I think about calling my friends back home to reassure everyone that I’m getting close, but Joey’d probably give me shit for calling with an update. If I say I’m going to be somewhere, I’m always there. I’m a man of my word.

  Checking the GPS on my phone, I note that we’ll hit Chicago around eight o’clock, which is nice because then we can avoid rush hour. Daphne made us reservations at an actual chain hotel, one with clean, modern furnishings, a bar and grill, and a pool. I’m looking forward to a good night’s rest tonight, that’s for damn sure.

  She even made sure there are two beds in our room, and the odd thing is, when she told me we wouldn’t have to share a bed tonight, the smallest part of me felt a twinge of tightness in my chest.

  It’s been kind of nice lying next to her at night. Plus she’s soft as hell and she smells good, too. Like lavender and oranges and clean laundry.

  Last night I passed out by the time my head hit the pillow. Driving all day took its toll on me. But had I kept an ounce of remaining energy, I’m not sure I’d have been able to keep my hands off her.

  It’s easy to be around her. As annoying as she is. As stubborn as she is. Something about being with her just . . . works. It fits. It feels right. I’m comfortable around her. I don’t feel the need to turn myself into some Prince Charming to get what I want. I’m myself. And she’s herself. And neither of us apologize for it.

  She’s genuine. She isn’t trying to be cute. She isn’t trying to get me to fall in love with her. She isn’t playing some pseudo-girlfriend role just because we’ve found ourselves in this coupled situation.

  She’s just . . . herself.

  And shit, if things were different, I might even entertain the idea of . . .

  Nah.

  It would never work.

  We’re almost too similar.

  I’m not the settling down type, plus the last thing I need when I’m traipsing around the globe is some girlfriend back home worrying about me.

  Glancing at her through the corner of my eye, I watch her tug her bottom lip between her teeth as she stares blankly ahead at the cars in front of us. I’m seconds from asking what she’s thinking about, because I’m genuinely curious, but for some reason I stop myself.

  “I’m going to take a nap, all right?” she asks, yawning and reaching for the backseat to retrieve a neck pillow we picked up at a gas station yesterday. “Wake me up when you need me to drive.”

  10

  Daphne

  “When the sign said World’s Largest Turtle, I expected it to be real. Not some painted, fiberglass turtle sculpture thing.” I stand in front of a fifty-foot plastic-looking turtle painted in the most garish shade of puke green. The painted smile on its face is comically crooked, and the eyes are two dark empty windows. There’s a sign that says you can pay five bucks to go up into the turtle’s head, but I think I’ll pass. “You going to take the picture or what?”

  Cristiano lifts my phone and snaps a couple of pics. We’re in some tourist trap on the border of Iowa and Illinois called Turtle World, which happens to be conveniently located in Turtle County.

  “All right, your turn.” I walk toward him, reaching for my phone.

  “I’ll pass.”

  Sticking my tongue out at him, I say, “Don’t be so boring.”

  “If not standing in front of a giant plastic turtle makes me boring, then I’m as boring as they come. Come on, let’s get back on the road. We’re making good time. Let’s keep it going.”

  We trek through the dusty, pea gravel-filled parking lot and head toward our car. In the passenger side is a white plastic sack of snacks and random turtle items I bought from the turtle shop when he was fueling up the car.

  He climbs into the passenger side, moving the bag and then peering into it. “I’m fucking starving. What’d you get?”

  Biting a smile, I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine.

  “What . . . the hell.” He pulls out two saran-wrapped gas station-quality sandwiches that happen to be cut in the shape of a turtle. Next, he retrieves a shiny red bag with a chocolate turtle on the front. “What are these?”

  “Turtle chips,” I say.

  His nose wrinkles. “I’m not eating fucking turtle.”

  “No, they’re potato chips covered in chocolate and drizzled with caramel. No turtles were harmed in the making of those chips.”

  “Did you get any regular food?”

  “Ha. Did you honestly expect a place called Turtle World to offer regular food? There’s a burger place up the street.”

  I guide us out of the gas station, passing the giant turtle on our way to the highway, and follow the iconic golden arches so that my fellow traveler can have some non-turtle sustenance.

  A minute later, we’re fourth in line at the burger place, and he’s squinting to read the menu from clear back here.

  “Hang on,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket. He presses the green button on the screen and lifts it to his ear, though I had no idea it was even going off. “Hey, what’s up?”

  He’s mostly quiet, like he’s listening, and I hear him say, “Mm hm.” He nods, his eyes narrowed on the glove compartment. The line moves, but he’s still on the phone. He doesn’t seem preoccupied with his growling stomach anymore.

  “Everything’ll be fine. We can talk about this more when I get there,” he says. “Just don’t freak out. You’ll make it
worse. Yeah, I wish I was there too, but I’m not. I’m here if you need me. Just stay cool. I’ll be home in two days.”

  He hangs up, and I pull the car forward again. It’s our turn to order next.

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “Joey.” He pushes a hard breath through his nose, concentrating on the lit menu on our left.

  “Everything okay?”

  His lips form a flat line. “Cold feet, that’s all.”

  He orders a combo, shouting over the driver’s seat, and we pull forward.

  “Cold feet is normal,” I say. “Or so I hear. I wouldn’t know. But I feel like if someone’s at the point where they’ve already committed to marrying someone, they’re probably making the right choice. I mean, if you go so far as to give someone a ring and propose to them, you had to have wanted to be with them at some point. Maybe I’m not making any sense. I just think that the week of the wedding is kind of the worst possible time to second-guess your decision. You’re stressed and feeling irrational and not thinking clearly. You have to trust your gut and trust that the non-stressed, rational version of yourself made the right choice.”

  I quietly pat myself on the back because I feel like Delilah would be proud of me right now. I’m well aware that I suck at psychoanalysis most of the time. Art is my strong suit. Give me something abstract, and it makes perfect sense. But this . . . I feel like I made some sense here.

  “Nah,” Cristiano says, his chin jutting forward. “Those two have no business being married. I’ve tried to get my point across for the last two years. Not sure what they’re thinking, but if it were up to me, I’d stop the wedding in a heartbeat.”

  “Oh.”

  “Biggest mistake of their lives, if you ask me. They’re all wrong for each other. And Joey deserves better.”

  We pull forward to the next window, and he hands me a ten-dollar bill to pay.

  “If more people would listen to you, the world would be a better place, right?” I tease, trying to lighten his mood.

  “I don’t know about that, but a lot less people would be getting fucked over. That’s for damn sure.”

  11

  Cristiano

  “The hostess won’t stop staring at you.” Daphne fights a smile as she peers over a laminated drink menu in a booth at the bar and grill attached to the Family Comfort Inn Hotel and Suites.

  “She wants me,” I tease, polishing my nails on my shirt and stretching my arms over my head. Lacing my fingers behind my neck, I toss her a wink and a smile that makes her blush and spin on her heel. She nearly bumps into a busboy. “It’s nothing new.”

  “Women stare at you a lot. I’ve been noticing that the last couple of days. Everywhere we go, you literally turn heads. The gas stations . . . the rest stops . . . the restaurants . . . driving seventy-five miles per hour down the freeway . . .”

  “And your point?”

  “It’s weird, don’t you think?”

  I shake my head. “It is what it is.”

  “I hate that saying.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’m ordering two drinks tonight. Just an FYI.” She flips a page in her menu, studying her options.

  “Two? You lush.” I scan the bar area for our server. We’ve been seated for five minutes now, and I’m starving and I haven’t seen a single server in sight. A group of people are huddled in the corner, and every so often laughter erupts.

  “What’s going on over there?” Daphne peers over her menu, squinting toward the group of people.

  “I saw a sign by the door when we came in. Palm reader or something.”

  “Palm reader?”

  “It’s just some stupid gimmick bars use to lure people in. Come for a palm reading, stay for a drink. Or two.”

  “I want my palm read.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Is it free?”

  “I think so, but it’s also fake, so it’s a huge fucking waste of time.”

  “Have you ever had your palm read?”

  “Never.”

  “Then how do you know it’s fake?”

  “Because I know everything. I’m a know-it-all, remember?”

  She rolls her eyes and drops the menu. “I’m going over there.”

  If I’ve learned anything about Daphne Rosewood in our short time together, it’s that once she gets an idea in her head, there’s no stopping her. Within seconds she’s clear across the bar, standing in line for a palm reading.

  Pulling in a deep breath, I slide out of the booth and join her. I want to hear what this scammer says because God forbid she tells Daphne to go out and buy a grand worth of lottery tickets on the second Wednesday of next month . . . and she actually does it. These people tell you what you want to hear. I learned that a couple of summer ago in Rome, when a gypsy read my “fortune” and declared that I was going to be wealthy beyond my wildest dreams by the time I was twenty-five.

  Twenty-five came and went, and I was just just some random guy posing for book covers making a comfortable living.

  “Oh, hello,” she says when she sees me. Her lips pull wide and the white of her smile brightens the dark. “Decide to get a reading, did we?”

  “Nope.” I fold my arms across my chest and pull my shoulders back. “Just making sure you don’t get ripped off.”

  “How could I get ripped off? It’s free.”

  I shrug. “They have ways. It’s what they do. She might try to sell you some kind of potion or some shit.”

  Daphne bursts out laughing, covering her mouth. The man standing behind her cranks his head to shoot her a dirty look. Apparently people in this town take their psychic palm readers very seriously.

  “I would so buy a potion from her,” Daphne says.

  “Wait, what?”

  “Where else, in this country, can you get an actual potion? A potion!” She punches my arm, her face lit. “Do you know how freaking awesome that sounds?”

  “I don’t even know if she makes potions, I was just saying. She’s got bills to pay and there’s no such thing as a free lunch, so just . . .”

  “Cristiano. Stop.” She places her palm flat on my chest. “I’m a big girl. I can handle this.”

  “Who’s next?” the woman calls her, her accent vaguely Romanian, though it could very well be fake.

  Daphne steps forward and takes a seat at a round table covered in a lace cloth. A flickering candle rests between them as well as a deck of Tarot cards and a crystal ball. If Daphne believes in any of this shit, I’m going to be really fucking disappointed.

  “Palm or tarot?” the psychic asks, peering down her wire-frame glasses. Wild gray waves cascade down her shoulders, and she’s wearing some sort of purple velvet dress. Her fingers are covered in giant rings with various crystals, ruby, and emerald centers, and bangle bracelets clink around her wrists when she moves her hands.

  “Palm, please.” Daphne is beaming. She’s excited about this. Her hand flies to the center of the table, palm-side up, and she shoots me a wink.

  “Ah, yes. Okay.” The woman holds Daphne’s hand in her own, examining it, rolling it from side to side and lifting it closer to her vision. “Very interesting.”

  “What is it?” Daphne asks, eyes flicking from her palm to the lady and back.

  The woman traces the pad of her finger along Daphne’s ring finger. “This. This tells me you’re very creative. You’re very left-brained. You think outside the box. Abstract.”

  Daphne’s smile fades, maybe from shock. The lady is one-for-one.

  “This line here, between your index and pointer finger,” the psychic says. “Tells me you’re the baby of the family. I’m guessing . . . fourth child?”

  Daphne’s jaw hangs, though she says nothing.

  “This line here,” she says, “these are your children. Well, looks like you’re only going to have one. A little girl. No time soon. You’ll have her later in life.”

  “What else do you see?” Daphne scoots forward, even more invested t
han she was a moment ago.

  “This is your marriage line.” The woman drags her nail down the center of her palm. “You’ll only get married once, but it will be forever.” Closing her eyes, the woman says, “You will marry a man you’ve already met. He is your soulmate, but you don’t know it yet.”

  Daphne bites her lower lip, concentrating on the psychic’s face, clinging to her every word. “You can tell that by looking at my palm?”

  The woman nods. “Well, that, and I just . . . know things. It’s very complicated. But I’ve always sort of . . . known things. Ever since I was a little girl. Call it an exaggerated gut instinct. Mine just happens to be a bit stronger.”

  “Anything else?” Daphne lifts her brows, hopeful.

  With her eyes on Daphne’s palm, she smiles slowly. “Yes, you’re going to have a long life. I see here you’ll live until your upper eighties.”

  Daphne pulls her hand back, pressing it against her chest. “Thank you.”

  “Young man, would you like to go next?” The psychic turns to me with a smirk on her face. I’m sure she’s been doing this long enough that she can spot a skeptic from a mile away.

  “Do it!” Daphne nudges me closer to the table.

  “No, thank you.” I back away.

  “Come on. What do you have to lose? She was spot on with me,” Daphne says. “She’s legit.”

  I don’t want to offend this woman, and I don’t want to cause a scene. A group of women standing behind are mumbling to each other, probably complaining that I’m holding up the line.

  “I’ll pass,” I say.

  “Please? Where’s your sense of adventure?” Daphne presses her hands into prayer formation and stands on her toes.

  Fuck. She has a point.

  But I still don’t believe in this shit.

  “Fine.” I yank the chair out and take a seat, placing my palm on the center of the table.

  “No, no.” The woman lifts her nose, her lips pursed. “I won’t be reading your palm.”

  The second I go to stand, she places her hand over mine.

  “Sit. Stay,” she says, like I’m a goddamned dog. “I won’t read your palm. But you’re getting a reading.”