Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  Pulling in a deep breath, I slide the phone off my dresser and press my thumb over the play button.

  25

  Cristiano

  “Ah, shit.” My head throbs, and I don’t have to open my eyes to know I’m not in my own home. Or in my own bed. The sheets feel different. Satin, I think. And they smell like someone else’s fabric softener, not the cheap shit I normally use.

  Shifting beneath the covers, I feel the cool drag of smooth fabric over my bare legs.

  Bare. Legs.

  Reaching down, I breathe a sigh of relief when I feel my boxers. Still, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

  I sit up and force my eyes open. There’s a white dresser covered in clothes and perfume bottles in the corner, and the comforter is purple and speckled in tiny flowers. It smells like a chick in here.

  What the fuck did I do last night?

  Or, rather, who the fuck did I do?

  The sound of running water pulls my attention toward a door to my left. It’s closed, but light escapes underneath the bottom. This girl, whoever I went home with last night, is in the shower right now.

  Fuck.

  Climbing out of bed, I scan the messy, clothes-covered floor for pieces of my tux. I spot a black cummerbund and a white button down, but I have no fucking clue where my pants are.

  “Looking for these?” Cousin Ashley appears from her bathroom door with my pants in her hand, fully-clothed and hair wrapped in a towel. A toothbrush sticks out from the corner of her mouth.

  “Yeah.”

  She tosses them to me, and I waste no time slipping them back on.

  This is embarrassing, but I have to ask because I have no recollection of most of last night. “Did we . . . ?”

  I don’t think I did.

  I don’t think I would, not with my mind set on Daphne . . . and even if I was that kind of guy, I’m pretty sure I had a major case of whiskey dick last night.

  She yanks the toothbrush from her mouth, tosses her head back, and laughs. “No. No. No. We did not have sex – if that’s what you’re asking.”

  She prances to her kitchen, rinsing the brush off under the faucet and tapping it on the stainless steel sink.

  “Although you did spend the better part of last night absolutely convinced that I was hitting on you,” she says, hand on hip. “Let the record show that I was not hitting on you.”

  I zip my fly and take a seat on her sofa, wondering where the fuck my phone is. This girl has books and clothes everywhere.

  “Your phone is on the charger over here,” she says. “You look like you’re looking for something, so I can only imagine it’s your phone. I had to pry it out of your hands last night after you passed out because the battery died and I figured you’d need it in the morning. I charged it for you. You’re welcome.”

  “Thanks.” I rise, moving toward the kitchen to grab it off her charger. No missed calls. No texts. “Want to tell me why I’m here?”

  Ashley moves to the fridge, grabbing two waters, and hands one to me. “You were drunk off your ass. Your brother left with some girl. You had no way to get home, and I couldn’t, in good conscience, leave you like that, so I took you home.”

  She moves toward the bedroom.

  “Which reminds me, I need to strip the bed. My boyfriend would freak if he came home and the sheets smelled like you,” she says casually. “You’re lucky he’s traveling for work. Anyway, I let you have the bed last night because you kept rolling off the couch. I was afraid you were going to hit your head on the coffee table, and well, I’m not exactly in a position to get sued for medical damages, so I took the couch . . .”

  She comes out a few minutes later with an armful of bedding and drops it in front of a closet containing a stackable washer and dryer.

  “So who’s this Daphne girl?” Ashley rests a hand on one hip and wears a smirk when she returns to the kitchen. “God, you wouldn’t shut up about her last night. All night long, it was Daphne this and Daphne that and Daphne’s so perfect for me and I’ll never find anyone else like Daphne . . .”

  She mocks my voice, making me sound whinier than I know I am.

  I chuff. “I was drunk. I’m sure I said a lot of shit I didn’t mean.”

  “So you didn’t mean anything you said about her last night?”

  “I don’t even know what I said about her last night.”

  “You said she’s beautiful and funny and genuine. That you could see yourself traveling the world with her by your side. That you haven’t been able to get her out of your head since you met her. That you want nothing more than to see her again. And then you cried into your pizza at two AM like a drunk sorority girl. It seemed like the proper ending to a hot mess kind of night.” Ashley plops down in a leather recliner next to me, resting her chin on her hand. “You have some issues, Cristiano. And I don’t say that to be mean or judgmental or whatever, but I think you need to work through some stuff.”

  “I was just overreacting to something,” I huff. “I’m over it now.”

  “Mm hm.”

  “Didn’t even think about Daphne until you brought her up this morning,” I lie.

  “Right.” Ashley sighs, leaning back. “Anyway, I took the liberty of finding her number in your phone. I figured you’d need a ride home. I left her a message earlier telling her where to find you and to pick you up by ten because I’m leaving for work and you need to be gone by then. Granted, I know Joey can vouch for you, but honestly, we’re still strangers and I don’t want some random, hungover guy hanging out at my place while I’m gone.”

  “Tell me you’re joking.”

  Her face is void of expression. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  Dragging my hands down my face, I take a deep breath. “What did you say, Ashley?”

  She smirks, glancing up at the ceiling. “Well, let me think. I basically told her that some guy named Cristiano is in love with her and that he needs a ride home and if she loves him too, she can find him at 45 Cherry Street, Apartment 7, in Montclair.”

  “You did not.”

  “I did.”

  “I’m not in love with her. I barely fucking know her.”

  Ashley’s brows lift and she fights a smile. “Yeah, whatever you say, el capitan.”

  “I really wish you hadn’t called her.” Leaning back in the sofa, I think about what I must look like. What I must smell like. I want to see her, but I don’t want to see her when I’ve got remnants of last night all over me.

  “Why are you just sitting there?” Ashley asks. “Get off your ass and get in the shower. Just don’t use any of Drew’s things. I don’t want him coming home later wondering why the bathroom smells like his shower gel.”

  “What, he doesn’t trust you?”

  Ashley shrugs. “He’s got a possessive streak a mile wide. The mere thought of sharing me with another man sends him over the edge.”

  “That’s too bad.” I clear my throat. “It’s too bad he’s possessive, I mean.”

  Her lips inch up at the sides and her dark eyes light. “Eh. I think it’s hot. I’m fucked up like that, I guess. Don’t judge me.”

  Shaking my head, I lift myself off the couch and make my way to the bathroom.

  26

  Daphne

  I’ve listened to the voicemail at least four times now.

  “Hi Daphne. My name is Ashley. You don’t know me, but I have your friend, Cristiano here,” she says. “Anyway, I met him at my cousin’s wedding last night. He was hanging out by the bar the whole time, drowning his sorrows. Saddest guy you ever saw. Long story short, he got smashed out of his mind and I took him home and let him crash here. Talked my ear off about you for hours. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but I’m pretty sure he’s in love with you. Or obsessed with you. One of the two. Anyhoo, he’s at my place now, and I have to leave for work in a couple hours. If you want to pick him up, he’s at 45 Cherry Street, Apartment 7, in Montclair, New Jersey. I’m not sure where you live. Hell, maybe
you live in Alaska or something. But if you want to see him, that’s where he is. And if you don’t want to see him, can’t say that I blame you because he’s kind of a hot mess . . . okay . . . guess if you’re not here by ten, I’ll tell him to call an uBer.”

  Sinking into the edge of my bed, I let my phone drop to the covers. A Technicolor rainbow of emotions washes over me. The fact that he was talking to someone about me gives me a sliver of hope. But why was he drinking? Was he upset about Joey’s wedding? And did he only ruminate about me because it was too late for him and Joey?

  My phone vibrates softly against my comforter, sending a hitch to my breath. Reaching down, I flip the screen over and see a strange number calling. I don’t recognize the area code, and I’m not sure who’d be calling me at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning, but I decide to answer.

  “Hello?” I ask.

  “May I speak to Daphne Rosewood?” a man’s voice responds on the other end.

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “Daphne, this is Kurt Greenleaf, professor at Seaview College of Fine Arts,” he says, the familiarity of his voice returning. “Sorry to call you on a Sunday, but I’m getting ready to fly out of the country, and I wanted to reach out to you before I left. Do you have a moment?”

  Pulling my legs onto the bed, I wrap my arms around them and drag in a deep breath. “Yes, I have a moment.”

  “The hiring committee has met,” he says, his voice just as stoic as I remember. I can picture him so clearly, seated in the center of the table at my interview. He didn’t smile once. And he asked all the hard questions. I was pretty sure when we were done that this man hated me for reasons unknown. “And we’d like to offer you an assistant professor position teaching our introductory drawing classes.”

  My hand flies to my mouth, and I feel it arch beneath my palm as I grin wide.

  “Thank you,” I manage to sputter. “Thank you so much. I accept. And I’m honored.”

  “Good, good,” he says. “The college is closed for winter break right now, but my assistant, Tina, will be in contact with you first thing Monday. Spring semester starts in three weeks, but we’d like for you to spend two weeks in Paris mentoring under Professor Halbrook. He’s teaching at our sister school, Paris Collège des Beaux-arts. Halbrook developed our drawing major, and you’ll be taking over his classes, so we’d like for you to spend some one-on-one time with him before you start. Are you able to travel overseas, Daphne? You have a passport?”

  “Yes,” I nod. “And I’m very familiar with Paris.”

  “All right then. Like I said, Tina will get a hold of you tomorrow. She’ll likely have a mountain of paperwork for you to complete, and we’ll have you on the next plane to Paris,” he says. “I’d like to apologize for the timing of all of this. We weren’t anticipating this vacancy. It’s not common practice to do everything on such short notice, but we appreciate your flexibility, and we sincerely look forward to having you on board, Ms. Rosewood.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I can’t tell you how excited I am.”

  My entire body buzzes to life the second I end the call. With trembling hands and a smile that takes up my entire face, I run downstairs to tell my mom the news. She squeals and wraps me in her arms, and we do a little happy dance. And in that sliver of a moment, I temporarily forget about Cristiano.

  I forget about the voicemail.

  I forget he needs a ride.

  I forget that he poured his heart out to some stranger last night in a way that gave her the impression he had some sort of feelings for me.

  “Okay,” I say, stepping away from my mom. “We can celebrate later. I’m going to get ready so I can head over to the hospital and love on that baby some more.”

  “Yes, go,” Mom says, smiling proud. “We’ll celebrate tonight.”

  Tromping back upstairs, there’s a twist in my belly. An ache. A curious sadness. My thoughts return to Cristiano again, drowning in the what-if and what-might-have-been. Part of me wants to believe I was wrong about him. Part of me wants to give him a chance to explain. But the rest of me, the overwhelming majority of me, is on high alert because truth is, he lied by omitting the facts.

  I won’t get hurt again. And I knew from the moment I laid eyes on Cristiano Amato that he was a heartbreaker.

  Stripping out of my clothes, I run the shower and step in, letting the hot water saturate my hair and drip down my body in slow, grazing streams. Within minutes, I’ve washed away the day, and I’m sure of only two things:

  It’s a new year.

  And I need a fresh start.

  27

  Cristiano

  “I don’t think she’s coming.” Ashley peeks out of her living room curtain, peering into the parking lot below. “Sorry.”

  I fire off a text to Fabrizio. First I’m going to ask him to pick me up, then I’m going to rip him a new one for ditching me. He was my fucking ride last night.

  “I knew she wouldn’t,” I say. My phone buzzes in my hand. Fabrizio writes back saying he’ll be here in an hour.

  “So what happened with you and this girl?” Ashley pries, arms folded and head cocked. “I mean, you rambled on and on about how wonderful she was, but not once did you tell me why she wasn’t speaking to you.”

  Raking my hand along my tightened jaw, I stare at the wall in front of me. “Don’t know.”

  “Sure you do,” Ashley says. “I’m sure you said something or did something. Think.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “I met her last Tuesday. Honestly, I don’t even know this girl. I was just drunk last night. And seeing Joey get married and how happy she looked . . . it made me think about Daphne.”

  “Really? You don’t know her that well? You sure seemed like you did.”

  “We were in a car for three straight days. We did a lot of talking. Or she did. She talks a lot. And asks a lot of questions. Guess we got to know each other pretty well. But whatever.” I rise, wishing I was wearing anything other than a tuxedo right now. I hate these fucking penguin suits. “It’s over. She wants nothing to do with me. Life goes on.”

  Ashley’s mouth bunches at the corner. “You’ll meet someone else someday. I’m sure the perfect girl is out there waiting for you to find her.”

  I laugh through my nose. For a time this past week, I was convinced Daphne was the perfect girl for me.

  “Yeah, something like that,” I say.

  She moves to the kitchen, grabbing her purse and jingling her keys. “I have to go to work now . . . I was going to kick you out. Make you wait outside. But since your ride isn’t here yet, I guess you can hang out. Just lock the door on your way out. And don’t steal anything or my boyfriend will literally kick your ass.”

  Smirking, I promise her, “I won’t touch a damn thing, Ashley.”

  She looks at me through the corner of her eye, her mouth drawing into a slow smile. “All right. You take care, okay? Chin up and all that.”

  In an instant, she’s gone. And I’m alone with nothing but the thoughts that fill my pounding head.

  “Ow! What’d you do that for?” Fabrizio rubs the spot on his arm where I’ve just punched him, and I slam his car door shut.

  “That’s for ditching me last night. Some fucking brother you are.”

  He pulls out of Ashley’s parking lot like a bat out of hell, nearly side-swiping someone’s Ford, and I blame Matteo because Matteo’s the one who taught him how to drive.

  “Dude,” Fab says, “if you would’ve seen the girl I went home with . . . you’d totally understand.”

  “Grow the fuck up,” I snap, resisting the urge to smack the back of his head. He’s lucky he’s driving right now.

  “But you went home with someone, right? You hook up with that girl with the purple hair?” Fab grins wide, like he’s on the verge of high-fiving me.

  “No,” I scoff. “That was Joey’s cousin. She has a boyfriend. And I did not hook up with her.”

  “Mm hm,” he says, as if he doesn’t believe
me. “Right, right.”

  “Just fucking drive.”

  “What the hell is your problem?” Fabrizio asks, coming to a hard stop at a red light. “Is this because Joey got married?”

  “No,” I spit, face pinched. “Has nothing to do with her.”

  “Is this about that road trip girl?”

  I don’t answer. Glancing out the passenger window, I spot a billboard advertising a new international airline with direct flights out of Newark Liberty International Airport, and my next move becomes clear.

  I’ve got to get out of here.

  “So just like that? You’re home for a hot minute and now you’re jetting off again?” My mom takes a seat on the edge of my bed. I’m leaning against the headboard, laptop across my legs and credit card in hand as I book my flight to Rome.

  Figured I’d crash on a few couches and make my way from Italy to Greece to France to Germany and everywhere in between. Two weeks of eating, sleeping, and drinking my way through Europe should get me back on track. Back in the right mindset.

  “Why are you always leaving?” Mom’s mouth pulls down in the corner, her voice tinged with a slight Italian accent that always feels like home to me. “Just once, I’d like for you to stay a while. I worry about you, you know. Traveling all over the world all the time, sometimes going days or weeks without checking in. It’s dangerous.”

  “Mom,” I chuff. “It’s fine. This is what I do.”

  “Sometimes I think you’re doing more running than traveling,” she says with a sigh, her dark brows arched in concern. “What are you running away from this time, Cristiano? All these years, I figured it was Joey. You took the accident harder than anyone. Even harder than Joey. She forgave you, you know? But I don’t think you ever forgave yourself. So you stayed away. Even when it hurt her, you stayed away.”

  I close the lid of my laptop and cross my arms. “I never meant to hurt her. It was just hard coming home.”