Heartless

by R. C. Martin

  Yesterday, I had the pleasure of waking up to a very hungover boyfriend, who decided that I didn’t deserve anything more than a mumbled apology that I barely even heard. Of course, that started a fight, where he proceeded to throw in my face the two nights I slept at dad’s house and didn’t return any of his messages. I argued the point that the situation was completely different, but he wouldn’t budge on his version of the truth. Up until this morning, I wasn’t sure when the hurt feelings of our disagreement would go away—but when I climbed into bed after returning home from work, he pulled me into his arms and just held me, offering me an apology that I was too tired to question.

  This afternoon, when I was getting ready for my short, four-hour shift, he asked me if he could borrow my car. He told me he needed it to pick up the cans of paint he’d be using when he started his project tomorrow. He promised me that it would only take an hour or so, and that he’d be by in time to pick me up with no trouble.

  After all—the store is only open until five, and I was scheduled to work until eight.

  Now, it’s nearly eight thirty, and all three of my phone calls, along with my four text messages, have been met with radio silence.

  And I’m so tired.

  So tired of fighting with him.

  So tired of being disappointed by him.

  So tired of being forgotten by him.

  When tears of frustration start to blur my vision, I’m grateful that Irene isn’t here to see me cry. I told her I was sure I didn’t need a ride—that Mateo would be here any minute—that he promised.

  He fucking promised.

  I pull my phone away from my ear, cutting off the sound of Mateo’s voicemail greeting as I end the call.

  “Blaine?”

  Startled, I jump a little at the sound of my name. When I turn and see the owner of that familiar voice, my cheeks grow warm in embarrassment as I quickly wipe away my tears.

  “Michael? I mean—Governor, what are you—?”

  I shake my head, trying to gather my wits about me. Except, seeing him like he is now—in a pair of gym shorts and a sweaty t-shirt—collecting myself is not exactly the easiest thing in the world to do. If it’s even possible, he looks bigger in his casual attire—or maybe it’s the fact that there’s no bar between us at the moment.

  “Blaine, are you okay?”

  His brow is furrowed in concern as he looks down at me, and I will myself to get it together.

  “Yeah,” I reply with a sniffle. I hurriedly shove my phone into my purse before running the pads of my middle fingers underneath my eyes, rubbing away the last of my tears. “I’m okay. What are you doing here?”

  He ignores my question and asks one of his own. “Would you mind telling me why you’re crying?”

  “It’s not important,” I assure him, folding my arms across my chest.

  Feeling overexposed underneath his penetrating stare, I break eye contact with him and look down at my feet. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I suddenly feel completely out of sorts. Maybe it’s because he caught me during a low moment I hadn’t anticipated him to see. Though, that doesn’t exactly explain the warmth that spreads through my chest knowing he’s concerned about me.

  I shake my head at myself, realizing how ridiculous it is for me to even care about such a thing. He’s a decent human being, and I was crying. He’s just being kind.

  Seriously—standing this close to him is overwhelming.

  “Hey,” he mutters, taking a step closer to me.

  I suck in a quiet breath when I feel one of his fingers tap the underside of my chin. I lift my head immediately, meeting his gaze. The soft expression I see in his dark blue eyes makes my stomach tingle.

  “Whatever it is, it’s important enough to make you cry.”

  When I bite the inside of my cheek, still not sure that I want to confess my boyfriend problems, he nods his head in understanding. I’m grateful. Seeing as the issues he is called to address in his current position affect literally millions of people, I can guarantee that explaining the reason behind my tears would just be humiliating.

  “Well, do you need a ride home or something?”

  His use of the word home pulls a trigger deep inside of me, and my bottom lip starts to tremble. Against my greatest efforts, my eyes well up at the thought of home. These days, I feel like my home isn’t mine anymore. It’s not my happy place; it’s not my resting place; and tonight, when I walk through my door, I know the turbulence of the current state of my relationship with Mateo will make my sanctuary an environment I don’t even want to enter. It hurts my heart to admit it. Not simply because I’ve worked so hard to make the loft my home, but because I really thought that Mateo and I could make it our home.

  “Angel, you’re killing me right now,” Michael mumbles. I almost don’t make out his words, as he speaks them from behind his palm while he runs his hand down his face.

  “What?” I squeak out, not certain that I’ve heard him correctly.

  “I’m trying to help, I want to help, but I need you to help me help you.”

  I hesitate for a moment, still stuck on what he said before.

  Did he just call me angel?

  I draw in a deep breath, reaching up to run my fingers through my hair, and discard the question. Even if he did, I’m sure he didn’t mean it; or, at the very least, he didn’t mean anything by it. Nevertheless, I’m so caught off guard, I don’t think as I tell him, “My boyfriend was supposed to pick me up from work. He forgot or something. I don’t know. He’s not answering his phone. It’s been happening a lot lately and—god, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. It’s okay. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

  He stands a little taller, his expression seeming to lose a bit of its softness at my use of the word fine. My suspicions are proven correct when he mutters, “Right. Fine. Okay.”

  For reasons I don’t feel need explanation, I’m quick to amend my statement. “I just mean that I’ll be all right; that I’ll find my way home.” His shoulders relax a little bit. Relieved, I go on to say, “Thank you. Thank you for stopping and checking on me. You didn’t have to.” My eyes dart over to the man I see standing a few paces away from us. I recognize him as the companion that’s come to the Lounge with Michael. Given that I now know his occupation, I’m guessing he’s the governor’s full-time bodyguard.

  “How will you get home?” Michael asks, stealing back my attention.

  “Um, the Light Rail is only a couple of blocks from here. I live in Washington Park. It’s not that far.”

  “I’ll walk you.”

  My lips part open in surprise, and it takes me a second to collect enough words to form a complete sentence in response. “You don’t have to. Really. I know how to get there.”

  “Good. I don’t.” He extends his hand in front of him, signaling for me to lead the way. I hesitate for so long, he takes it upon himself to point out, “The sun is all but gone. I’m here, on foot, and I don’t mind. You shouldn’t make it a habit, walking around at night downtown on your own.”

  I bite down on my lower lip, fighting a smile before I remind him, “It’s Sunday, and it’s not even nine o’clock.”

  My amusement gives way to something else—something not at all innocent when he shakes his head and says, “Es tan terca como es hermosa.”

  I don’t have any idea what he just said, but I don’t care. The look on his face when he said it is enough for me. This time, when he extends his arm, signaling me to show him the way, I readjust my bag on my shoulder and start walking.

  Michael

  I HADN’T MEANT to call her angel, it just slipped out. Even on the verge of tears, her hazel eyes—more green today than brown—shone with a sweetness that only pulled at my heart strings even more. The term seemed fitting, even if I didn’t mean to say it aloud. Besides, it got her to open up to me a little about her situation. Now, as we walk side by side toward the nearest rail stop, I can’t silence the curiosity that fills my mind
with questions about this boyfriend of hers.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Who?”

  Smirking down at her, I clarify, “Your boyfriend.”

  “Oh. Mateo.”

  Remembering the way her eyes grow wide every time I speak to her in Spanish, I furrow my brow at the sound of his name. Knowing it’s ignorant to be presumptuous, I inquire, “Hispanic background?”

  “He’s a bit of a mutt. His dad’s Cuban, I think; but his mom is half Chicano and half Italian.”

  “Does he speak any Spanish?”

  She coughs out a humorless laugh, shaking her head at me. “No. He’s more proud of the Italian blood in his veins than the Latino blood. Though, he doesn’t speak Italian, either.”

  I hum my response, my impression of Mateo not improving with this information.

  My eyes are quick to admire her profile when she catches my attention, reaching up to tuck a bit of hair behind her ear as she softly asks, “Do you mind if we don’t talk about him?”

  “We can talk about whatever you’d like.”

  “Okay,” she murmurs.

  We walk a little in silence, and I’m afraid her preference is that we don’t talk at all. I’m beginning to miss her voice before she finally speaks again.

  “So, um, how was your weekend?”

  I furrow my brow, instantly feeling the desire to change the subject. However, wishing to stay true to my word, I reply honestly and admit, “Mediocre.” I pause for a beat and then add, “Until now.”

  She scoffs and rolls her eyes at me as she says, “Yeah—‘cause walking the abandoned barmaid to the Light Rail is so enthralling.”

  Tilting my head to the side, I study her profile in fascination. This isn’t the first time I recall her putting herself down, and it makes me wonder why such a beautiful woman would have a reason to do such a thing.

  “You shouldn’t do that.”

  “Do what?” she asks, confusion tugging her eyebrows together.

  “Talk about yourself like that. Is it so hard to believe that your conversation is anything less than enthralling?”

  She shrugs, looking away from me as she readjusts her bag on her shoulder. “You’re a pretty important man, Governor. I imagine you hold much more worth-while conversations every single day.”

  “I won’t deny that some discussions are accompanied with various degrees of significance, for that is true. However, just because you tend bar for a living doesn’t mean that whatever you have to say doesn’t hold its own value; it doesn’t mean that our conversation doesn’t have its own significant worth.”

  “Is that right?” she asks with an unbelieving smirk. “And what is our conversation worth?”

  “Well, Blaine, that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether or not, by the end of it, I can make you smile.”

  She stares up at me in shocked silence for a second before she throws her head back and laughs. I don’t know what she finds so funny, but I can’t help but chuckle right along with her. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her laugh so hard; but when I last saw it, it hadn’t been me that made the joyful sound pour from her lips. Knowing that I can take ownership this time makes the grin she bears even better.

  If I thought she looked like an angel before…

  After she’s gained control of herself, she tells me, “You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you? I’m beginning to think you had more than one tactic up your sleeve on the campaign trail—Honest Abe.”

  “Perhaps,” I reply teasingly, offering her a wink.

  “My, my, Governor Cavanaugh—are you flirting with me? I read the other day that elections for your office aren’t for another year or so. Don’t use all your ammo on me. Pretty sure you’ve already got my vote.”

  My smile slips as her question filters through my mind, and I miss most of what she’s just said. I’m too busy wondering if there’s any truth to her jest to come up with an appropriate quip in response.

  What is it they say about jokes? They’re always rooted in a foundation of truth.

  I don’t realize that we’ve arrived at her stop until she places a hand on my arm. Her touch is cool, but I’m certain the goosebumps that spread across my skin have little to do with the temperature of her fingertips.

  “Hey,” she murmurs, catching my attention.

  I look down at her hand, trying to remember if she’s ever touched me before. It seems a silly thing to question, as I don’t think I’d forget a touch like hers—but I don’t get a chance to dwell on it. She removes her hand from me almost immediately. I then watch as a blush creeps into her cheeks.

  Shaking her head at me, her eyes grow wide in panic as she insists, “I was just teasing about the flirting. I—I’m sorry. That was a really inappropriate joke. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay,” I interrupt her, wishing to put her at ease. I berate myself for the forced smile I give her while clasping my hands behind my back. For reasons I can’t explain, I think it best that she remains out of reach.

  I stare at her for longer than what seems normal, the silence stretching on between us growing uncomfortable and strained. Somewhere in my brain, I know that it’s my turn to speak, but I’m too busy trying to process how we managed to get here. Not here, at the rail stop—but here, where our playful banter has somehow escalated to the level where it may be misunderstood. Or, perhaps, not misunderstood at all. Yet, what really leaves me speechless is the disturbing reality that there’s a part of me that gets a thrill from the awkward limbo we’ve managed to stumble into.

  “Shit,” she whispers under her breath. Dipping her head, she hides her face from me as she rakes her fingers through her hair again.

  I’m barely cognizant of my actions when I extend my arm across the distance that separates us and use my finger to tap on the underside of her chin, much like I did earlier. Her head snaps up, her gaze instantly finding mine, and the fraudulent smile I wore a moment ago transforms into a genuine one as I read her plea for forgiveness in her expression.

  “Undoubtedly enthralling—and worth every minute spared.”

  When she bites the inside of her cheek, in an attempt to hide her smile, I wish I could rub the side of her face with the pad of my thumb and get her to give me what I’ve craved from her since day one. Taking a step closer, I know I’m about to cross an invisible line as I contemplate giving action to my thoughts. Before I have a chance to make another move, the sound of an approaching train distracts us both.

  Each of us shift our focus toward the vehicle that will now carry her home, watching as it slows to a stop behind her.

  Looking up at me once more, her shoulders rise and fall with a sigh I cannot interpret.

  “Um, so, I guess this is goodnight,” she stammers, taking a step away from me.

  “It appears that way.”

  We stand staring at each other as the train comes to a full halt. There aren’t but a few people on the platform, and it’s not long before she’s the only one left. Accepting the grace of perfect timing, I dip my chin in a final farewell and back away from her even more.

  “Goodnight, Blaine.”

  Without a word, she spins around and hops onto the train. The doors shut behind her not even a second later. Before she speeds off, she lifts her hand in a small wave. I watch her go, feeling equal parts relieved and disappointed. Rather than entertaining the question of what the hell just happened, I turn toward where I know Clay is standing. Silently, he starts to jog back in the direction from which we came. I catch up with him, allowing him to guide me home—to my wife.

  Blaine

  BY THE TIME I get home, Mateo and his negligence are the last things on my mind. All I can think about are the fifteen minutes that I spent with Michael. The way he touched me. The way he laughed with me. The way he stared at me. Maybe it was just the natural light of the setting sun playing tricks on me. Or maybe it was my stupid heart, trying to latch onto someone who acted like the
y gave a shit about whether or not I made it home safely after work. Whatever it was, those blue eyes trained on me had never been so captivating.

  Then I went and acted like a complete idiot!

  The look on his face when I said that joke made me feel so stupid, and small, and childish. Except, when he spoke, it was as if he wasn’t sure—like he was contemplating whether or not what I said was inappropriately funny or inappropriately accurate. As I walk up the stairs to my loft, I can’t help but wonder what might have happened had the train come a minute later. He looked like he wanted to say or do something, but then he didn’t get the chance.

  Or maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe he just felt sorry for me. I was practically crying on the side of the road when he found me.

  Even as I think the words, there’s a hope that exists inside me—a hope that dares to dream that I have it all wrong. That it wasn’t pity he felt, but attraction. That it wasn’t human kindness that he was bestowing on me, but something more reckless than that. Something deeper. Something heavier. Something resembling the feelings that have my mind racing as I enter the loft, not even the slightest bit concerned with where Mateo might be.

  My head is so muddled, I don’t realize what I’m doing until the counter is covered in boxes, bags, and containers of familiar ingredients. Deciding that my heart is what brought me to this place, I don’t question it. I’m feeling anxious, and doing something familiar, something that always brings back comforting memories, it seems exactly what the moment is calling for. I pull my hair up into a little messy bun on top of my head and then wash my hands, double checking the counter to make sure I have everything that I need.

  Honey Nut Chex. Wheat Chex. Pretzels. Cashews. Pecans halves. Almonds. Peanuts. One egg. Butter pecan maple syrup. Ground cinnamon. Chipotle powder. Chili powder. Salt. Cumin. Cayenne pepper.

  I’ve had the recipe for the Foster Girls’ Mix memorized since I was nine years old. That’s when mom and I perfected it. There’s no sense in counting the number of batches we made as I was growing up—or the batches I’ve made since we lost her. That said, it doesn’t take any time for me to get lost in the motions. I pre-heat the oven before I take out my baking pan, spraying it down with oil and covering it in parchment paper. After I mix together the cereal, the nuts, and the pretzels in a large bowl, I grab a smaller bowl to mix the wet ingredients and spices together. I then drizzle the syrup mix over the dry ingredients, stirring it until everything is coated. By the time I’ve spread the combined ingredients evenly over my baking sheet, the oven is ready, and I pop them inside.