Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  There are only two Cristiano Amatos, according to the search I perform, and I click on the first option. His cover photo is of a city at night. Looks like Paris. And his profile picture, though tiny, is undeniably Cristiano standing outside the pyramid of Giza.

  My heart patters as I click through his photo albums. Most of them are pictures from his travels. He doesn’t caption most of them; just a few random ones. Some people ask questions and he responds.

  Some girl, Joanna Marcuso, comments on almost all of them. Beneath a photo of Cristiano parasailing, she’s written, “I thought you were afraid of heights. You sit on a throne of LIES!” It shows he responded, so I click to expand the conversation.

  “I’ve never said I was afraid of heights. You must have me confused with Ben Fletcher,” he replies, tagging Ben. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but Ben was the one who climbed the flag pole in sixth grade and pissed himself when he got to the top.”

  Ben Fletcher replies twenty-five minutes after, saying, “Don’t listen to him, Joey. That never happened.”

  Joey . . .

  I click on Joanna’s profile, my heart pulsing and my ears heating. Her profile is an open book. Nothing is private, though she doesn’t have much to go sifting through. It doesn’t take long for me to find a picture of Cristiano with Joey. It’s from several years ago. He looks much younger in it, thinner, less brawny. They’re smiling ear to ear, their arms wrapped around each other. She’s wearing a baseball cap and a Red Sox t-shirt. Flipping through the rest of her photos, I find at least three dozen pictures of the two of them.

  My heart sinks.

  They look incredibly happy together. Natural. Comfortable. In love.

  This is Joey.

  This is the “friend” whose wedding he was headed to . . .

  The wedding he wanted to stop.

  Sitting my phone aside, I decide not to torture myself another minute longer. This feels like Weston all over again. I can’t do this. I can’t let my heart want another man whose heart is still stuck on someone else.

  Closing my eyes, I pull in a deep breath and try to let go of what once was and what will never be.

  Rolling to my side, I yank the covers up to my chin and let the day’s fatigue soak into my bones. Within minutes, I’m drifting, seconds from succumbing to a bittersweet slumber, when my phone vibrates softly against my nightstand.

  Eyes squinting in the dark, I reach for the phone, flipping it over and bringing the screen closer. The caller ID flashes a 973 area code. It’s him. At least I’m ninety-nine percent sure. My body freezes, and my mind replays a carousel of images of Cristiano with Joey, smiling, intertwined, inseparable.

  The vibrating stops, and the phone quiets, but it’s all the same because I can’t talk to him. I know where this will lead.

  I could answer the phone. I could drown myself in the sound of his voice and imagine his fingers in my hair. I could make plans to see him again and count down the hours until his mouth crushes mine again. I could let him sweep me off somewhere far away, traveling the world by his side and making priceless memories.

  But she would always be there in the background, just as it was with Weston. With him, I’d see it in the way he’d look at me, like he was there with me . . . but he wasn’t completely there. Sometimes I’d swear he was picturing her in my place, wondering what things would be like if he were sharing that moment with the one who still held his heart in her teeth. And it was never intentional, but it happened.

  I was a placeholder. I gave him hope. But in the end, I wasn’t enough.

  I couldn’t do it with Weston, and I can’t do it with Cristiano.

  I can’t play second fiddle.

  I can’t settle for half of his heart.

  I can’t sit around hoping I’ll be the one to help him move on, and I can’t spend the rest of my life trying to convince myself he doesn’t always think of her when he looks at me.

  I just . . . can’t.

  23

  Cristiano

  Hunched over the bar at Joey’s reception, I lift my empty glass the second I catch the bartender’s eye. He gives me a nod, an unspoken promise of sorts, like he knows a troubled man when he sees one, though I’m not sure I’d call myself troubled.

  Confused, maybe?

  I’d called Daphne earlier, and I’ve yet to receive a call back. All I wanted to do was make sure she got home all right.

  And hear her voice.

  I even left her a message.

  I could’ve taken the easy way out and shot her a quick text, but I thought I’d be a gentleman and take the old-fashioned route to show her I cared enough to actually pick up the phone and call her.

  The bartender slides me a fresh finger of bourbon, and I slide him a generous tip. Thank God for open bar tonight, the good man upstairs knows I needed a little something to numb the sting of watching my best friend marry Trent Tisdale and hearing her say for the first time that she doesn’t need me to take care of her after all.

  Maybe it was silly, to put that burden on myself, but for years, that burden was there. I figured I’d travel the world. See everything there was to see. And then come back home to Jersey, face Joey and what I’d done to her, and spend the rest of my life making it up to her. Making sure she’d never want for anything. Making sure she was comfortable. Happy . . . enough.

  But she’s happy with Trent. That’s all that matters.

  And she forgives me.

  And I’m happy for her. At least I am now.

  “Sure you need another one of those?” Two raven-haired women with strands of purple in their hair take the empty seat next to me.

  Wait. Shit. No.

  It’s just one woman.

  I’m seeing double.

  “I’ve been watching you all night,” she says, waving down the bartender. “You’re just sucking those down one after another. Although I do have to say, I admire a man who can hold his liquor. If you were causing problems, then we’d have problems. I’ll be damned if I let some drunk jackass ruin my cousin’s wedding.”

  “You Trent’s cousin?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. Joey’s. I’m Ashley.”

  “No shit?” I remember Joey talking about her cousin, Ashley, growing up. She lived in Minnesota and rarely came to Jersey. Joey and her mom would travel to Duluth every summer to stay with her aunt, and Joey would come back with a funny accent that always seemed to wear off by the time school started again. “You’re Cousin Ashley?”

  She rises slightly, leaning over the bar to order a draft beer before turning back to me. “In the flesh.”

  I toss back my drink, her face coming in and out of focus.

  “You want a water?” she asks, slowly reaching for my drink, like she’s going to try to distract me and take it away.

  Joke’s on her because I’m not a fucking dog with a chew toy. I slide it away, though in my uncoordinated state, I slide it too quickly and sticky liquor splashes over the rim and onto my hand.

  “Fuck,” I say, rising from the bar stool and nearly stumbling backward. Ashley hops up, looping her arm through mine to steady me.

  “Okay,” she says, like she’s about to make an executive order. “No more drinks for you. Come with me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say, though I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m slurring each and every last one of my words.

  “Yeah. You are.” This one has major attitude. She’s feisty.

  She pulls me to a corner table with a view of the dance floor. Strobe lights flash on half-empty slices of cake resting on tiny white plates. A disco ball spins in the distance, spilling sparkles of light all over the wooden dance floor. Up ahead, Trent is dancing around Joey, holding her hand as she sways in her chair to Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together.

  God, they look happy.

  Deliriously happy.

  I want that. I want that more than I’ve ever wanted it before. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had that before? Regardless, I w
ant it. And I want it with Daphne.

  Maybe it’s the alcohol talking or maybe I’m still strung up on all those high-running emotions from earlier today, but there’s an empty part of me that’s making its presence known for the first time in I don’t know how long. For years, I ignored this void. Convinced myself it was nothing more than my imagination.

  But watching Trent and Joey exchange vows tonight, hand in hand, and watching them tear up the dance floor with dopey smiles on their faces, I’m convinced that love is real. And if that’s the case, then loneliness is too.

  “Stay here,” Cousin Ashley says, speaking to me like I’m a puppy. Or a two-year-old. Same difference.

  I kick my feet up on the chair next to me and slip my hands behind my head, watching as more guests head out to the dance floor. Hell, I should be out there too, and I would be if I weren’t a safety hazard. Last thing I want to do is bump into a flower girl or step on Grandma Gigi’s toes.

  Cousin Ashley returns, though I’m not sure how long it’s been. I have zero concept of time right now. She could’ve been gone an hour for all I know.

  “Here,” she says, dropping a plate of white wedding cake in front of me and then handing me a fork. “You need to eat something. Soak up all that alcohol.”

  The sight of cake covered in mountains of frosting makes me want to hurl. I’m one of those rare breeds of dog who like cake but hate frosting. I begin to scrape it off, but I’m still not sure if I want to actually eat it. I haven’t had much of an appetite since Fab picked me up earlier.

  Cousin Ashley digs into her slice, watching me all the while.

  “What?” I try to glare at her, but I’m not sure what shape my face has morphed into. Whatever my expression is, she clearly finds it funny because she’s laughing. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Eh, you kind of do.” She nods her head, like she’s agreeing with herself. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. Didn’t bring a date. Not in the mood to shadow my mom around like a shy kindergartener. Certainly don’t want to sit in a corner and stare at the wall.”

  “Because those were the only alternatives?” I slur, forking a slice of cake. Lifting it to my nose, I take a whiff. It smells like sweet almonds and vanilla. Taking a bite, I decide it’s not so bad.

  “So what’s your deal anyway?” she asks, leaning closer and speaking above the music. “I’ve been watching you all night. You’re just sulking. You don’t want to be here, I can tell.”

  I shrug. “It’s complicated.”

  Cousin Ashley slaps the table and jolts forward. “You’re in love with Joey, aren’t you?”

  Flicking my gaze at her, I shake my head. “Nope.”

  She slinks down, brows furrowed like she’s thinking. “Did you go through a recent breakup? Going to a wedding after you’ve just had your heart broken is sheer torture. Trust me, I’ve been there before.”

  I shake my head, pushing another bite of cake into my mouth. When I glance down, I see that my plate is now empty, and I have no recollection of eating this entire piece.

  Sighing, I shove the empty plate away, lean back in my seat, and fold my arms. I watch as Cousin Ashley finishes her cake and sips her beer and texts someone on her phone simultaneously . . . which reminds me to check my phone for the millionth time tonight.

  No missed calls. No messages. Nothing.

  Sliding out from the table, I glance at the bar and try to determine if I can make it there without hurting myself – or anyone else. I just want one more drink. Then I’ll bid the happy couple goodnight and find Fabrizio and get the hell out of here.

  “Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going?” Cousin Ashley chases after me, her wild curls bouncing as she runs in heels.

  I ignore her. It’s nothing personal, it’s just that I don’t need a minder, and I’m not in the mood to be some bored wedding guest’s personal entertainment tonight.

  Perching on a bar stool a moment later, I lift my hand and flag down the barkeep again. His lips form a hard line, like he disapproves but knows he’s not paid to judge, so he lifts a finger to indicate he’ll be with me soon.

  “Seriously, stop.” Cousin Ashley hooks her arm into mine. “Enough. You’re good. One more of those and you’re going to be on the floor, and you’re about what, two-ten? Two-twenty? Well over six feet tall. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to drag you to safety.”

  “Ashley!” Connie appears from out of nowhere, arms open wide as she embraces her niece. “It’s so good to see you, sweetheart. Your mom tells me you moved here for grad school last month? How are you liking Jersey so far? You know if you ever need a home cooked meal, just pop over. We’d love to have you . . .”

  Rising from the seat, I forgo another drink for the time being and head outside to get some fresh air. The January wind glides across my warm skin, cutting through this cheap rental suit jacket, but it hardly bothers me. Walking around the building, I find a dark alley away from the smokers congregating out front and slip my phone from my pocket. The screen blurs in and out, my vision not doing me any favors, but I manage to pull up Daphne’s number.

  I know I shouldn’t call her again, but it’s ten o’clock on a Saturday night. There’s no way she’s at the hospital. There’s no way she hasn’t seen my missed call. The message I left earlier simply asked her to let me know that she made it back safely. How hard is it to return a call? Shoot a text?

  Dragging my hands through my hair, it dawns on me.

  “My ex is back home . . . I haven’t seen him in over a year, and he’s going to be there, and I’m kind of freaking out.”

  Motherfucker.

  That’s it.

  That’s why she’s ignoring me.

  She’s with her ex . . . the one who broke her heart . . . the one she clearly still has a thing for.

  Fuck. Me.

  “Hey, there you are.” Cousin Ashley appears from around the corner, her arms folded and her breath like clouds. “I was looking for you.”

  24

  Daphne

  “You look well-rested, Daphne.” Mom pours two cups of coffee Sunday morning and hands me one. “You’re glowing!”

  I don’t tell her it’s this new concealer I bought when I was in Seaview. It covers ev-er-y-thing . . . freckles . . . dark spots . . . zits . . . evidence of sleepless nights.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I take a seat in the breakfast nook overlooking the backyard. The treehouse my father built nearly twenty years ago has seen better days. Some of the boards are weathered and sagging, but I like to think it’s the memories that keep it standing tall. “I can’t believe the treehouse is still going strong.”

  “I don’t know about strong.” Mom chuckles, lifting her cup to her lips but not yet taking a sip. “The better you care for things, the longer they last. You know how your father is. The more grandkids we get, the more he keeps lacquering that thing up every chance he gets. Weatherproofing and water sealing it. The whole shebang.”

  “Where is Dad, anyway?” I ask. “He’s usually up before everyone else.”

  “He went to grab coffee with Zane and Weston this morning then they were going to move some furniture at Delilah’s before heading to the hospital.” She speaks slowly and takes a sip, her careful gaze moving toward me. “You know, that Weston, he’s such a sweet man. Your father really likes him a lot, and that says something because your father doesn’t always like everyone.”

  I lift my brows, exhaling. My stomach twists. I know where this conversation is headed, and I’m not sure I want to take it in that direction.

  “Baby Noah looks so much like Zane,” I say, changing the subject. “He’s, like, twenty-five percent Delilah, seventy-five percent Zane.”

  “He’s a beautiful little boy,” Mom agrees, smiling fondly as she stares outside. It’s as if she’s imagining her grandkids playing in the very same treehouse her children once knew. “Delilah said you and Weston spent some time together last night. How did that go?”

/>   My gaze flicks her way. I’m sure she’s asking from the perspective of a concerned mother. She saw the tears. She knows how crushed I was when it didn’t work out.

  “I really don’t want to talk about Weston,” I say, shoulders tight and eyes averted. “I’m sorry.”

  Mom’s hand lands across her chest. “I didn’t mean to pry about Weston, Daphne. I know that’s a sore subject for you. I was just asking . . .”

  “No, I know.” I lift my coffee mug, blowing a cool breath across the surface and watching the ripples.

  “Did something happen?” she asks. “With that young man you drove across the country with?”

  My gaze lands on hers, settling on the same baby blue irises that match mine fleck-for-fleck.

  “Nothing happened with him. I’m going to hit the shower.” I rise, pushing my chair in and taking my cup to the sink. “Then I’m heading over to the hospital in about an hour.”

  Mom watches me, her expression equally concerned and confused. It’s too early in the morning for a weighty conversation, and besides, there’s nothing to talk about. Cristiano was a guy that made me think maybe he was different. Maybe he wasn’t like the rest. But it turns out he was exactly like the rest.

  He never mentioned Joey was a girl. He never mentioned he was attending the wedding of the girl who broke his heart. In fact, getting any kind of information out of him was like pulling teeth. He was a closed book unless I pried, which tells me he had no interest in getting to know me.

  I should’ve known.

  All he wanted was to fuck me.

  Lucky him. He got what he wanted. Twice.

  And now I just want to move on.

  Climbing the stairs to the second level, I stop in my room to grab some clothes before making my way to the shower. Passing my phone, I notice I have a missed call and that they’ve left a message. It’s the same New Jersey area code as Cristian’s number, but it’s a completely different prefix.

  My stomach knots, and I’m torn between listening to the voicemail and letting it go. But in a fog of early morning fatigue and hindered self-restraint, I allow my curiosity to get the better of me.