HeartlessBy: Winter Renshaw
My obsession was born of innocence and good intentions, and it began the day I spotted a handwritten journal lying in the bushes outside a townhouse on Lexington Avenue. It was raining sideways that morning, and my intention was to return it the next day; safe and dry.
Only I kept it.
I kept it, and I read it.
A week later, overwhelmed with guilt and curiosity and harboring secrets that didn’t belong to me, I tried to return it.
Only I wasn’t expecting to meet him.
Unapologetically heartless and enigmatically sexy, he claims he knows nothing about the journal I found outside his place, but the reticent glint in his blue-green gaze tells me otherwise.
There’s something different about him; something damaged yet magical, and I’m drawn to him; pulled into his orbit.
There’s just one problem.
The more I get to know him, the more I’m positive the journal belonged to him . . .
. . . and the more I find myself hoping, selfishly, that I’m wrong.
“You have to give it back.” Wren gifts me the kind of disapproving glare only a big sister could give, and then turns to face her dresser mirror. “Jesus, Aidy, it’s been a week now.”
“We don’t know if he’s looking for it.” I press the tobacco-hued notebook against my chest, greedily dragging its leather-and-aftershave scent deep into my lungs.
“You don’t even know if it belongs to a man.” She squeezes a dime-sized dollop of sunscreen onto her fingertips before emulsifying it between her palms.
“The handwriting,” I say, sitting cross-legged on the edge of her bed. “It’s definitely a man. No question. And this thing is full of ramblings on love. He writes about women in a way that only a man could.”
“So now you’re Adelaide G. Kincaid, literature expert?”
Flipping through the weathered pages of a stranger’s notebook, I pull up a bookmarked page and trace my fingers across the jet-black ink that fills each line.
Clearing my throat, I begin to read aloud, “Tears fell into her champagne glass as she leaned over the balcony railing. She was alone, the way she tended to be these days. That woman was beauty and sadness, glitter in her hair, tears in her eyes, and lips wrongfully un-kissed as the rest of the world rang in the new year.”
“That’s depressing.” Wren squeezes a dab of concealer on the back of her hand and grabs a small brush. Over the next twenty minutes, she’s going to morph herself into an honorary Kardashian before dashing out the door to head to a job interview with some reality show actress from L.A. looking to hire a go-to Manhattan makeup artist. L.A. makeup and New York makeup are two different breeds of dogs, and part of being an in-demand artist in a city full of talented competitors is knowing when to look the part.
“It’s not depressing. It’s bittersweet.” I fan through the pages, breathing in the paper-scented air that dusts my face. “And romantic.”
“That guy is obsessed with that girl,” Wren says, “in a way that’s completely unhealthy.”
“It’s a beautifully tragic love story, Wren. He’s in love with a woman he can never be with, and this entire journal is like him professing his love for her and documenting all their stolen moments,” I sigh, thumbing through the pages to find another excerpt. “I stole a glance from her that night. But she stole my heart. It was a prelude to a lover’s war neither of us would win.”
“Creepy,” Wren sing-songs.
I find another passage, determined to prove my point, “Tonight we almost kissed. Almost. I took her soft hands in mine and felt a pull as our lips held in limbo, separated by mere inches and an unspoken if-only.”
“Give me that.” Wren swipes the journal from my hands and flips it open to a random page. “Tonight, I watched my neighbor fuck his maid against the floor-to-ceiling glass of his penthouse bar. Her breasts bounced with each thrust as they rained reckless inhibition over the snow-covered city street below, his hand cupping the underside of her jaw as he whispered in her ear words only the two of them will ever know.”