Heartless (2 page)

A
idy

I
t was this one
. I’m sure of it.

942 Lexington Avenue.

I recognize the Texas limestone façade and the black awning above the steps with the slight tear at one corner.

The breeze rustles the leafy trees that line the sidewalk, and up ahead a woman dressed in a white pantsuit walks a fluffy Pomeranian as she gabs on her phone. A bicycle messenger flies through the streets, darting between parked cabs, and up ahead a garbage truck makes its way through the neighborhood.

In many ways, it’s just an ordinary Monday with people going about their business, minding their own, doing their thing. With my fingers clutched around the leather notebook, I find myself suddenly self-conscious. If someone were to see me walk past this townhome, deposit a book on the steps, and keep going like it’s no big deal, they’d probably think I’m some crazy lady who wandered over here from Crazytown.

But I have to do it.

I don’t have a choice.

The windows of the townhome are dark, contrasting against the pale stone of the building’s front. Stopping at the base of the steps, I inhale sharply and find myself fixating on the black front door before me.

Behind that door, quite possibly, lies the owner of this book.

The writer of these words.

The unintentional breaker of my heart.

A whole other world exists on the other side of that door.

One with a man who loved a woman so fiercely it consumed him.

It broke him.

It ruined him for anyone else.

Saying a silent goodbye, I bend at the knees and leave the book on the bottom step. It won’t be missed there. The owner of this townhome will definitely see it. Rising, I shove my hands in the pockets of my gray sweats and turn toward Central Park because I’m in desperate need of a head-clearing jog today.

“Hey.” A man’s voice booms from somewhere behind me. “Hey, you.”

I nonchalantly angle my head, peering from the corner of my eyes to see who’s yelling at whom. It’s a constant occurrence in this city. People are always yelling at each other for this reason or that. Most of the time I tune it out because it’s never directed toward me, but when I find myself locked in the gaze of a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a thick, dark beard covering half his face, I stop in my tracks.

“Lady,” he calls out.

It doesn’t register right away that he’s trying to grab my attention. It takes a moment. All I see are thick muscled shoulders wrapped in one of those baseball t-shirts, the kind that are white with navy sleeves that go three-fourths of the way down. The top of his hair is cut long and brushed straight back, filled with some kind of product that gives it an eternal state of shiny wetness, and the hair on the sides of his head is trimmed short. Despite the fact that his face is half-covered by facial hair, I can tell from here that his jawline is strong. The man’s brows are dark and angled in as he stares me down with a gaze so intense I can’t think straight.

“Me?” I mouth, finger pointed at my chest.

He nods, taking long strides in my direction. The man stops at the bottom of the stairs, swooping down to grab the notebook before continuing toward me with determined strides.

I follow his every move, noting the way his posture stays rigid as he walks, the way his eyes never stop squinting at me, and the way his lips hold a straight line. He directs the book toward me, all but shoving it at me.

“I don’t want this,” he says. “I don’t know what it is, but I don’t want it. Don’t leave shit at my door.”

If this is the man, he clearly didn’t get the girl because if he did, he wouldn’t look so inherently angry.

“I found this outside your place last week,” I say, keeping my tone delicate as my heart breaks for the man who quite possibly never had his happily ever after. “It was raining, and it was getting wet. I didn’t want it to get ruined. Meant to bring it back sooner, but I’m never on this side of town.”

The man is still holding the book toward me, but now he glances down, brows pointed in as he studies it.

“I’ve never seen this before in my life,” he says.

My shoulders deflate, and I hesitate before reaching to accept the notebook. “Do you have any idea who it might belong to? I found it right outside your place, lying in the mulch by the bushes, like it had fallen off
your
steps . . .”

He gives me an incredulous glare, his lips twisting into an unpleasant smile. “Seriously? You actually expect me to believe all this?”

I tuck my chin, wincing. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“Do you know how many people walk past here leaving crazy shit on my doorstep? Shit they want me to sign, naked pics, letters with phone numbers . . .”

I release a soft, uneasy laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m
so
confused.”

“I don’t give autographs,” he says. “Not anymore. You’ll have to check eBay.”

“I don’t want your autograph,” I say, purposely leaving out the part where I tell him I have abso-freaking-lutely no clue who he is.

“Then what is this? Because it looks like one of those stupid little autograph books to me.” He pulls the notebook closer, fanning the pages and sighing. “Jesus, what is this? Your diary? Look, I’m flattered, but I have no desire to read about your little fantasies. Maybe you think you’re in love with me, I don’t know, but all the shit you’ve written in here? Not going to happen.”

My jaw hangs and my head tilts to the side as my smile fades. All the nervous energy circulating through me dissipates, and my fingertips tingle with red-hot heat in the seconds that pass before I snatch the journal out of his hands.

“If this is how you treat your fans,” I say, “then you’re heartless.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he huffs, his eyes holding mine. “So you admit you’re a fan.”

Jaw set, I reply calmly through gritted teeth and press the book against my chest. “Like I said, I didn’t write this. I found it in front of your steps, and I was returning it.”

He lets out a cruel chuckle, his hands hooked on his narrow waist. The man towers over me with a good eight inches and his long, muscled legs are wrapped in low-slung jeans.

Tucking the notebook under my arm, I feel an angry burn in my face, my tongue on fire with everything I want to say to him. “And by the way, you may think I’m here for an autograph, but I honestly have no clue who the hell you are, so fuck you.”

I turn to leave, feeling exhilarated yet fuming at the same time. The number of times I’ve said the words “fuck” and “you” together in a setting beyond my bedroom door I can count on one hand. Growing up in small town Red Fern, Missouri, we weren’t raised to speak to anyone that way. Problems were solved over a slice of banana bread at the kitchen table and sealed with a hug and kiss. Kincaid women didn’t solve their problems with nasty words and chipped shoulders, we rose above them with dignity, always taking the high road.

But today? I’m taking the low road because that man, that jerk, deserves it, whoever he is.

“Fucking asshole,” I mutter under my breath as I round the corner, moving quickly because I can’t get away fast enough. My hands tremble with anger, and I’m slightly out of breath.

But at least I have the notebook, and given the fact that I’m never going to know its rightful owner, I suppose that makes it officially mine.

Forever.

And I suppose that also means I’ll never get a chance to see the face of the man behind the words, and I’ll never know if he was able to be with his one and only.

Tucking the book under my arm, I head to the park for my run, and after that I’ll head home to Wren and Enzo, to the least asshole-ish people I know.

Good riddance, crazy guy.

Ain’t nobody got time for that.

A
idy

“
M
aybe you had
the wrong townhome?” Wren suggests as she stirs a boiling pot of macaroni noodles.

“Nah,” I say, sitting across from Enzo at the kitchen table. He’s rifling through his superhero backpack in desperate search of a permission slip he was supposed to have signed last week. “I’m ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine percent sure I had the right place.”

“It’s possible someone was walking by and it fell out of their bag,” Wren says. The timer from the microwave dings, and she places a metal colander in the sink. Draining the pot of pasta, she turns to Enzo. “Find it yet, buddy?”

“No, Mom. But I know it was in here. Mrs. Caldecott says we have to have it turned in by tomorrow or we can’t go to the Museum of Natural History.” My nephew frowns, shaking his head, and I’m reminded that bad days are all relative.

I spent the rest of the afternoon ticked off about the bearded giant with the piercing stare and the broad shoulders. Not even a three-mile jog could snap me out of it. I let him ruin my afternoon, and for what? A year from now, I doubt I’ll even remember what he looked like.

No.

Wait.

That’s not true.

I can’t forget a man who looks like
that
.

He’s brooding gorgeousness like I’ve never seen, and truth be told, I haven’t been able to get his face out of my mind all day.

“Surely she could’ve sent home another. It’s the last week of school for crying out loud. You’d think she could cut the kid some slack,” Wren says, clucking her tongue. “I’ve just about had it with Mrs. Caldecott. She’s always trying to teach these kids life lessons, but that’s what parents are for, you know? Teach them math and English and science and leave the rest to us.”

“I disagree, sister dear. I’m of the ‘it takes a village’ camp,” I call out, knowing I can never change my control freak sister’s ways. She’s already planning to infiltrate the PTA at Enzo’s school next year because she’s dissatisfied with their homework policy. Yes. My sister is
that
mom, but she always means well. “Buddy, let me help you.”

Enzo hands me his backpack, which has an unnecessary abundance of zippers and compartments. I reach down to the bottom, which feels like a bottomless black hole, and retrieve a crumpled piece of paper.

“I’ll just write one by hand,” Wren says, returning the macaroni to the stove and dumping in the powdered orange cheese. “If it’s not good enough, I’ll march into Principal Watkins’ office and–”

“Hold on there, Mama Bear.” I unfold the crumpled sheet, which Mrs. Caldecott clearly printed on goldenrod paper to make it easier to find amongst the piles of paper she sends home with the kids on a daily basis. “Found it.”

Enzo does a happy little jump in his seat and rips it out of my hand before flying across the kitchen to hand it to Wren.

“Calm down, buddy.” Wren runs her fingers through his hair, grinning, and steps away from the stove to retrieve a pen from the junk drawer. The first one doesn’t work. Neither does the second. Muttering under her breath, she finally pulls out a black Sharpie and signs the slip. “Put this in the front pocket of your bag. From now on, I want all of the really important papers to go in the very front, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mom.” Enzo does exactly as he’s told. He’s a good kid, equal parts nerd and sports enthusiast. He’s busy and active, and sometimes forgetful, but he’s our Enzo, and we wouldn’t have him any other way.

“Shit,” Wren whispers from the kitchen. I look over to see her scraping stuck-on macaroni noodles off the bottom of the pan.

“What’d you do?” I ask.

“I put the pot back on the stove, but I didn’t shut off the burner.” She lifts her wooden spoon, showing me Exhibit A: a spoonful of black-as-night macaroni stuck together in one hard clump. The kitchen smells like burnt flour. “At least I didn’t waste any milk or butter on this mess.”

“So what’s for dinner now, huh, Mom?” I tease.

“Pizza!” Enzo pipes up, clearly not upset in the slightest that his boxed macaroni dinner met an untimely demise. “Can we go to Chauncey’s?”

Wren and I exchange looks as she sits the hot pot in the sink and fills it with warm, soapy water.

“Aren’t you tired of Chauncey’s?” she asks.

“No,” Enzo says, matter-of-fact.

“You’re going to get sick of it one of these days,” I say. “Especially if Chauncey’s going to be your new stepdad. You guys will be eating pizza every single night for the rest of your lives.”

Enzo smiles, nodding and rubbing his belly, and Wren groans. She and Chauncey have been engaged six months now, planning their December wedding with the patience of two saints who are happily in love but are in no hurry to rush down the altar.

Chauncey’s a good guy. So good, in fact, he won’t even live with Wren. Says his tradition-loving Irish-Catholic mother would have a conniption fit, so they’re waiting until it’s legal. With golden-red hair and hooded brown eyes and a soft-spoken, gentle way about him, Chauncey is night and day from Enzo’s dad, Lorenzo, which as Wren’s sister makes me exceedingly happy. Enzo deserves some stability in his life, and Wren deserves a guy who will appreciate how truly magnificent she is as a human being.

Wren turns to me, one brow raised. “You want to go out for pizza?”

Slumping over the kitchen table, my head in my hands, I glance up at her. My stomach rumbles, and pizza sounds good, but Chauncey’s pizzeria is all the way uptown, and I was just there a few hours ago. Steering clear of Lexington sounds like a good idea to me. But then again . . . free pizza.

“I don’t feel like walking or taking the train. Can we cab it?” I ask, the soles of my feet aching from making the miles-long journey and subsequent exercise in worn-out sneakers earlier. I’m due for a new pair, but I’ve been too swamped with work and new clients to take the time to do some proper shoe shopping.

Wren shrugs. “Yeah. Sure. Enzo, go get your shoes on.”

* * *

C
hauncey’s pizzeria
is situated halfway between Midtown and the Upper East Side. From the outside, it looks like an Irish Pub, complete with an emerald green awning with Finnegan’s Pizzeria scrolled across it in gold lettering. Irish bagpipe music plays on a loop inside, and the menu consists of the most ridiculous pizza offerings like Bram’s Corned Beef and Cabbage, Quinn’s Potato Leek and Bacon, and Mrs. O’Flannery’s Shepherd’s Pie.

He said when he first opened this place, fusion restaurants were all the rage, and he’d never seen an Irish-Italian fusion done quite like this before, so he took a chance. And he got lucky. Because this place is never
not
busy.

“Hey babe.” Chauncey comes out from the back room dressed in khaki slacks and a gray button down. He wraps his arms around Wren, his face lit like the Griswold’s house at Christmastime. He never kisses her in front of Enzo out of respect, which is yet another thing I love about Chauncey. “What a surprise. My favorite girl. My favorite guy.”

He reaches down, ruffling Enzo’s thick, dark mop.

“And my favorite future sister-in-law,” he adds, giving me a wink.

“Your
only
future sister-in-law.” I’ve heard this joke a million times, and for some reason it never gets old to him, so I punch his arm playfully and do my part because he’s Chauncey and he means well.

“Saved you guys a table in the back.” He motions for us to follow him, and I spot a “reserved” sign at the edge of our favorite booth in the corner. “Best seat in the house.”

We slide into the booth, the green, waxy seats still wet from their fresh wipe down, and I grab a drink menu from behind a parmesan shaker.

“You’re drinking tonight?” Wren asks.

“Is that a problem?” I arch an eyebrow.

“It’s just not like you to drink on a Monday night,” she says.

“Still a little rattled from that asshole earlier,” I say.

“Why’d you let him get to you? Screw him.” Wren’s face pinches.

“I told myself I wouldn’t,” I say, flipping through the drink selection. “I know people like him aren’t worth it. It’s just like, when you try to do something nice for somebody and they’re a giant ass, it’s hard to shake that off.”

“Nothing you can do about it. Can’t control the way other people act, Aidy. All that matters is you had good intentions.”

“Damn right, I did.”

“What happened?” Chauncey asks.

“You know that journal she found last week?” Wren says, pointing at me but looking at her fiancé. “She went to return it today and the guy was a total you-know-what. Said he’d never seen it in his life. Accused her of stalking him and wanting an autograph.”

Chauncey laughs. “Probably some Internet-famous, delusional jerkwad. City’s full of ‘em. Don’t let it ruin your day, Aidy.”

“Can we get pepperoni?” Enzo asks Chauncey.

“Would you like your very own Enzo-sized pepperoni pizza?” Chauncey asks.

My nephew nods, wagging his tongue like a dog.

“You girls want the usual?” Chauncey asks.

“Yes, sir,” I say, pointing to the drink menu. “And bring me an Irish Rose, pretty please with sugar on top?”

Chauncey leaves, flagging down a server to handle our orders, and then returns to the back, disappearing behind two swinging doors.

“He’s a hard worker, that guy.” I say to Wren.

She smiles, head tilted as she spins a red pepper shaker in front of her. “He’s a good guy. I think I’ll keep him. Enzo, should I keep Chauncey?”

Enzo nods enthusiastically.

“Hey, you never told me how your interview went with that reality star.” I reach across the table and tap the top of her hand.

She shrugs, lips flat. “It was okay. She was a bit of a snot. One of those who think they’re more famous than they are, you know?”

“Aren’t they all like that?”

“She had me take off her makeup and redo it,” Wren says. “It took a good fifteen minutes to get everything off. I mean, her face was spackled with caked-on makeup. When I took it off, honestly, I hardly recognized her. Most of the time, these women look so much better natural, you know? But it’s like she became a completely different person. She got quiet. Wouldn’t look at her reflection in the mirror until I’d at least covered up her acne scars, and then she sort of exhaled and joked that makeup artists are the poor man’s plastic surgeon.”

“That’s a compliment, right?”

Wren rolls her eyes. “Backhanded.”

“You think you’ll get the job?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. I didn’t leave there feeling like she was that impressed.”

“What kind of look did you give her?”

“Something natural and tasteful, but still camera-ready,” she says. “I contoured her nose and cheekbones, gave her a bright red lip, and went easy on the eyes. We did strip lashes, the toned-down ones. I thought she looked fresh and vibrant. She just sort of stared at herself in the mirror and asked her assistant to show me out.”

“She kicked you out?”

“No, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t bad. It was just . . . weird.”

“You don’t want to work with someone like that anyway.”

She huffs, glancing up at me from her side of the table. “I’m a single mom. I’ll work for anyone if they can afford my rates and pay me on time.”

Poor Wren. Lorenzo does a lot of freelance work in the entertainment industry, working mostly in TV show production, and often times his child support payments are late. When work is slow for Lorenzo, Wren feels the pinch and Enzo suffers. It’s partly why I moved in with her a few years back when the two of them split up. Manhattan’s cost of living is exorbitant, and she wanted to live in a nice neighborhood close to St. Anthony’s so Enzo wouldn’t be far from school. We found an updated three-bedroom apartment about four blocks away and pooled our money together for the deposit.

We’ve made it work since then, and we haven’t been without our lean months, but it’s been worth it.

“Mom! Mom!” Enzo tugs on his mom’s arm, pulling her out of our conversation.

“What is it, buddy?” she asks.

Enzo seems trapped in a rare instance of speechlessness, his eyes focused on something behind me, clear across the crowded restaurant.

“It’s . . . it’s . . .” Enzo’s jaw hangs and then the corners of his mouth inch up. His maple brown eyes are lit, glowing. “That’s . . . Alessio Amato, one of the greatest starting pitchers in the history of major league baseball.”

He speaks slowly, as if he’s entranced, and he hasn’t removed his gaze from that corner of the room for one second.

“Can I get his autograph, Mom?” His hands meet in prayer position and he bounces in his seat.

“Who is this again?” Wren speaks my mind. She and I have never cared much for sports, and the first time we’d ever been to a ball game was when she and Lorenzo first started dating. He was a huge Yankees fan and dragged her to every home game for an entire season one year. I tagged along once. To be nice. But Enzo definitely gets his baseball-loving genes from Lorenzo’s side of the family.

“Alessio Amato,” Enzo says, slight impatience in his tone. “Everybody calls him Ace.”

“Are you speaking English?” I tease.