Heartless (44 page)

C
alypso

“
S
o that was an interesting day
.” I climb into bed with Crew, patting organic moisturizer over my face. On the way back from Lake Tahoe, we stopped at some roadside beauty shop Noelle raved about. Everything was homemade, right there in the shop, right before our eyes.

I think everyone agreed that pulling to the side of the road to pop in there was the highlight of our day. No one was insulted. No one cried.

“Yeah.” He’s been quiet since we left. I haven’t pried much. I figure he’ll talk when he’s ready.

I click off the lamp on my side of the bed and scoot down. His warmth beckons me, and I slide right into his arms. The TV’s on in the background. He stares at it, but I don’t think he’s paying much attention.

Crew’s hand slides down my belly and stops.

“You think it’s possible to love something you’ve never met?” he asks.

“Absolutely.”

“I love this baby,” he says. “It’s part of me, you know? Part of you. I want to protect it, help it grow. Do everything better than my parents did.”

“Our parents were great teachers, weren’t they?” I say. “Teaching us everything we
shouldn’t
do.”

“Emme loves you,” he says.

I love her too.

I’ve just been scared to admit it. She’s not mine. Not legally. Not genetically. It’s dangerous to love a child you have no right to love.

“Emme doesn’t know what love is,” I say.

“I see it when she looks at you. Her face lights up.”

“She gets the same way about pureed mango.”

He laughs. “I mean it. Don’t discredit it. I can tell. She loves you.”

I place my cheek on his chest.

“Do you love her?” he asks.

Of course I do.

“Yes,” I say a half-minute later. “I love Emme.”

“You want to be her mom?”

His question comes out of left field. A rush of cool shock floods my veins.

“Legally,” he adds. “You’d be her legal mom. I want Emme to have a mom. She deserves one. She deserves a mom like you.”

I’m honored.

And terrified.

“I meant what I said today,” he says. “To my father.”

“The part about being a family?” Yeah. I know.

“No,” he says. “When I said I was going to marry you someday.”

My body freezes, and my heart gallops.

“I thought you didn’t think about the future?” I deflect. “I thought you took things one day at a time.”

“I do,” he says. “But sometimes you have to break your own rules if you want to win.”

“What are you winning?”

“A smoking hot wife, a mom for Emme.” Crew rolls me on top of him, threading his hands into mine. “A fucking amazing life.”

“What if I’m not the marrying kind?”

“I’m not either,” he says. “But I want to marry
you
, Calypso. Maybe it’s crazy. Maybe we should take some time, get to know each other better. But where’s the fun in that? Neither one of us have ever lived by the rules anyway.”

His hands leave mine. He cradles my hips in his hands, and I lean forward to kiss his perfect lips.

“I want to give you my last name,” he says. “You need roots, Calypso. Everyone does.”

This man barely knows me, and yet he always seems to know exactly what I need. For a moment, I wonder if there’s anyone else out there better suited for me than Crew. My gut gives me a resounding “no.” Magic 8 Ball would probably say,
“Very doubtful.”

“We can do this the easy way,” he says. “I can marry you barefoot and pregnant on the Vegas strip, with Elvis at the helm. Or we can hop in the truck, drive the country and find a pretty mountain. Say our vows. You can wear flowers in your hair. Either way, I want you barefoot and pregnant because fuck tradition.”

Yes. Fuck tradition.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll marry you, Crew Forrester.”

I kiss Crew. I kiss my future husband, the father of the miracle growing inside me, and for the first time in my life, I’m drowning in love and peace.

Genuine
love and peace.

C
rew

O
ne year later
…

E
mme toddles
by and squats down beside her brother, Noah, who lies on a blanket in the grass, happily gnawing on his fist as Calypso rifles through a diaper bag. Emme gives Noah a slobbery kiss and then turns to us. We smile and clap and make a big deal of her being nice to her little brother, because that’s what all the books say to do. She’s too young to understand, but we know it’s hard for her to share the spotlight sometimes.

“Can you grab a diaper from inside the RV?” Calypso asks me. “There are no more left in here.”

I head inside our temporary home. We’re on the road for four weeks. Our first stop is Colorado Springs. We found a little campsite south of town and parked for the day. It’s spring, but it’s warm enough to enjoy some sunshine. We all needed the fresh air.

A wrinkled picture of Calypso and me with “Elvis” is taped next to the speedometer. Makes me smile every time I see it.

I return with a diaper and Calypso changes our son. I watch from my folding chair as she runs her fingers through the sandy blond wisps of baby hair on top of his head when she’s done. She brushes her nose against his, smiles, and then kisses the little dimple on his chin that mirrors mine.

Life is good.

No.

Scratch that.

Life is fucking amazing.

“You can go write if you’d like,” I say. “I’ll sit with the kids.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not.”

Calypso scoops Noah and places him in my arms. Emme toddles around, picking up random sticks and pinecones and throwing them.

My wife disappears into the RV and comes out with a laptop, notebook, and cup of coffee, and sets up camp at a picnic table under a nearby shade tree. She’s working on her novel. On a whim, she submitted a manuscript to an agent, who found her a publisher, and they wanted more. Turns out you don’t need a bona fide high school diploma to cash in on your dreams after all.

She’s officially under contract for a three-book series, and she hasn’t once mentioned Havenhurst. If she did, I’d tell her everything happens for a reason. But I think she already knows that.

“Emme, don’t put that in your mouth.” I rise from the chair and swat a chipped pinecone from her slimy hand.

Calypso looks up from her laptop and laughs.

Tomorrow we hit the road again. No destination in mind. We’re just driving wherever the wind blows us.

The day we said our vows, we made a promise to each other.

We’re taking things one day at a time, and we’re never looking back.

So far, so good.

I don’t think about the future much. I try to be here, to be present for my wife and kids. But every once in a while, I try to picture Calypso with gray hair. Emme in college. Noah behind the wheel of a car.

It makes me smile because I see it so clearly.

And I can’t fucking wait.

But right now, I could live in this moment for the rest of my life and die the happiest man who ever lived.

I slink back in my seat with Noah sleeping on my chest. A clean breeze kisses my face. The gentle clicking of my wife’s fingers on a keyboard mix with the chirping of birds above the trees, and Emme giggles.

I finally won the ultimate jackpot.

C
hapter
One

M
aren

I
should have said no
.

This entire thing was Saige’s idea, and despite the fact that we’ve been best friends for a solid decade now, I honestly thought she was kidding when she insisted on throwing me a divorce party.

Nope.

Saige was one-hundred percent serious.

So here I am, cozied up in the corner of the chicest bar in Seattle at the ridiculously posh Hotel Noir, seconds from blowing out the candles on my . . . divorce cake.

My only request was that Saige not treat this like a bachelorette party. No party buses. No penis straws. No strippers. Just a nice evening with my girls, some cake, and the best champagne money can buy.

“Blow the candles! What are you waiting for?” Saige squeals into my left ear, raising her champagne glass and grinning wide. Rain slicks the dark, tinted windows behind her, and a rumble of thunder can be heard above the gentle lounge music piped from ceiling-mounted speakers. “
Whoo
! Fuck Nathan!”

Glancing down at the three-tiered vanilla bean cake with gold dust fondant and one flickering, sparkler candle, my eyes land on the words, “Fuck Nathan.”

“It was either ‘Fuck Nathan’ or ‘Happy Divorce,’” Saige says.

“Or you could’ve left it blank.” Our mutual friend, Tiffin, crosses her legs and leans closer, lifting her flute to her mouth and shrugging.

“What’s the fun in that?” Saige swats her away. “Blow out he damn candles, Maren. It’s over. Bye-bye, cheating asshole. Onwards and upwards.”

Brushing my dark hair off my shoulders, I pull in a deep breath and lean forward, lips pursed and blow, extinguishing the radiant light my first try. Tiffin, Lucia, Saige, Marissa, and Gia table clap and cheer and lift their glasses.

I know these women. We’ve attended birthing classes together and bake sales and PTA meetings. We’ve gone on double dates with our spouses and hosted sleepovers and backyard campouts together. Our kids are friends, and some of us are neighbors, past and present. But all that matters, in this moment, is that they’ve seen me at my best and they stuck with me through the worst.

“Thanks, girls.” I press my hands over my heart, my heart still hiccupping when I graze my left ring finger and find it bare. Too many times, I’ve caught myself thinking that I lost it. That I took it off while doing the dishes. And then I remember. A person doesn’t wear something for thirteen years and quickly adapt to the way it feels when it’s gone. It takes time to get used to things like cooking for one less person and sleeping in a bed alone and inheriting the ‘
his’
side of the walk-in master closet. “It means the world to me that you’re all here.”

I pull my shoulders back and hold my head high. Tonight’s not about feeling sorry for myself. Tonight’s about moving forward. Shutting the book on a failed marriage. Welcoming the future with open arms. Embracing my new reality one day at a time.

“We love you, babe.” Gia lifts her glass again and gives me a wink. “We’re not celebrating your divorce; we’re celebrating your
freedom
. Remember that.”

I take a seat at the end of the half-circle booth we share. Everything in this hotel bar is dark as midnight, and ambient sconces provides just enough light for us to maneuver around. People pass by, mostly suits and businessmen, and they all look like shadows. Had I told Saige to pick the most depressing bar in downtown Seattle, she’d have nailed it.

“What’s wrong, sweets?” Saige hooks her arm around my shoulders, and I’m engulfed in a cloud of Moet and Chandon and expensive perfume.

“Nothing at all.” I force a weak smile and take a sip from my flute.

Saige squints, tilting her head. “You’re lying.”

Exhaling, I say, “I’m just tired. Dash let Beck watch a scary movie last night and Beck had nightmares and I was up all night and-“

“Sh, sh, sh.” Saige cups her hand over my mouth. “You’re not
Mommy
here. You’re Maren. And tonight, you’re a newly minted debutant divorcee with a killer ass and a one-track mind.”

I pull her salty palm from my lips. “I’m not sure about the one-track mind thing, but I have been doing lots of squats lately, so thanks for noticing.”

Saige rolls her eyes. “Stop being so
Maren
.”

“
So Maren
?” I echo, a single brow arched.

“Yeah,” she says. “Stop being so modest and prim and proper and perfect. Let your hair down. Get a little crazy. Have some fun.”

Saige scans the bar, though I’m not sure how she can see a thing in here because I sure as hell can’t.

“Him,” she says, leaning in and pointing to what appears to be a man sitting at the edge of the bar. I can make out a hint of a profile but that’s about it. “You should screw him tonight.”

Laughing, I take another drink. “It doesn’t work that way.
I
don’t work that way.”

“There you go.” Saige tilts her head backward. “Stop being Maren for two point five seconds of your perfect little life and just trust me. That guy over there is smoking hot. Believe me, he was the first thing I saw when I walked in here tonight. He’s been sitting in that same spot for the last half hour, and he keeps glancing over here looking at you, but you’re too stuck inside your head to notice what’s happening around you. This could be the beginning of a very mutually satisfying arrangement.”

“You’re getting
way
ahead of yourself.”

I steal a glance his way, but he’s facing forward, elbows resting on the bar, minding his own.

Saige is delusional.

Clearly.

Taking another sip, I leave my stare fixed on him a bit longer, hoping my eyes adjust in the dark so I can make out a semblance of a profile. The longer I gaze, the clearer his outline becomes. Even from here, I see he’s attractive. He looks to be tall, his knees brushing against the underside of the bar and his broad shoulders filling a dark suit coat. His dark hair is clean cut and groomed. The man looks like every other suit-donning professional businessman in here, and yet he’s the only one drinking alone.

“Why don’t you walk by?” Saige brushes her shoulder against mine. “Or better yet, why don’t you go order another drink. Stand next to him. Say hello. Smile. Deposit the bait. Set the trap. And then wait.”

Laughing through my nose, I shake my head. “I can’t. He’ll see through me. That sounds super obvious.”

“Who cares? It’s just for one night.” Saige stomps her heel. “You need to hook up with someone. You need to experience a penis that isn’t attached to a philandering manwhore for once in your life.”

Glancing down into my empty champagne glass, I exhale and nod. Nathan was my first everything. First love. First boyfriend. First fiancé. First husband.

First breaker of my heart.

And while I’m not one to sit around feeling sorry for myself or waxing poetic over our glory days, I’m in no condition to go from humble housewife to roaring sexpot all because I blew out a candle on a divorce cake.

“I know you mean well.” I place my hand on Saige’s shoulder. “But I just . . . can’t.”

Saige pouts, and then she gets that gleam in her eye. She’s horrible at taking “no” for an answer, and I know this from experience. Last year, her husband told her she couldn’t book a trip to Paris, so she brought Paris to Seattle courtesy of his Black Amex and by way of Chanel, Dior, and a thousand-dollar cake shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

She clasps her hands together. “Please, please, please?”

“Begging doesn’t work with my kids. You think it’s going to work with you?” I scoff.

Maren’s baby blues hold steady in mine, and I catch Tiffin cutting into the cake beside me. These women got all dolled up and came dressed in their finest, braving the Seattle rain for
me
. Saige took the time to order this cake and throw this party for
me
. It’d be incredibly rude if I sat here like a boring old bump on a log.

I glance over at the suit at the bar once more, only this time he is looking my way.

Holy shit.

My eyes snap away from his, and I’m grateful that the darkness hides the warmth burning in my cheeks.

“He looked over here, didn’t he?” Saige’s lips twist into a satisfied smile. “I fucking told you.”

“Stop.” I bat her away. She’s gloating, and it’s annoying.

“Go,” she says, her voice stern like mine when I tell one of my boys to pick up their Legos or take the trash out for the twentieth time. “Go to him.
Now
.”

My fingers wrap around the stem of my empty glass, and my heart races so hard in my chest I could very well pass out if I don’t take a moment. The mere thought of strutting over there and putting something on the table - that I’ve never put on anyone’s table but Nathan’s – is downright terrifying.

I’m not
that
woman.

Not that there’s anything wrong with being
that
woman.

I just wouldn’t know how to properly
be
her.

I wouldn’t do her justice.

Saige chews her bottom lip, staring hard at my ensemble.

“What?” I ask, staring down at my outfit. A white blouse is tucked into a black, high-wasted pencil skirt, and my look is finished with a pair of patent leather stilettos. The outfit was from a job interview I had a couple hours ago with a local temp agency, but I had enough foresight to throw the pumps in the back of my car before heading over here.

“Wait.” Saige reaches for my blouse and unbuttons the top two buttons. “Much better.”

Tapping my ass, she all but pushes me away, and I hear some of the girls cheering and laughing behind me.

I don’t have a choice.

I have to do this.

My throat constricts, and I’m not sure I could swallow if I tried, so I clear my throat and take the first step in my journey, chuckling to myself when I think about how cheesy and symbolic this moment is.

The neckline of my blouse is wide open, and my breasts are basically on display for the first time in a long time. Adding a slight sway in my hips when I walk, I lick my lips and hold my head high, eyes focused on the prize and fist tight around the warm glass I’ve been gripping the last ten minutes.

Everything happens in slow motion, and all the sounds fade away. The clinking of glasses. The laughter of businessmen. The soft lull of the cocktail waitresses making their rounds and taking orders.

My knees wobble with each step that brings me nearer, but I won’t stop. I didn’t come this fair just to-

Oh, shit.

He’s young.

He’s very, very attractive. Ridiculously, over the top good-looking.

But he’s young.

Stopping in my tracks and spinning on the ball of my stiletto-covered foot, I make my way back to the table. My veins run hot and the room is spinning, and I’m equal parts embarrassed and relieved, but I just . . . can’t.

“What? Why’d you come back?” Saige crosses her arms over her chest. “What the hell, Maren?”

Glancing around the table, I’m met with disappointed looks.

“He’s really young,” I say, injecting a laugh.

“How young? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?” Saige’s brows are angled in and her lips are pressed flat, which is never a good thing.

I shrug. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. I just took one look and realized that I’m way too old to be picking up twenty-something guys at a bar and hightailed it back here.”

Saige groans, banging her balled fist against her forehead. “Maren. You’re thirty-fucking-five. Even if he’s twenty-five, you’re still not old enough to be his mother, so who the hell cares? And even if you were old enough to be his mother . . . who the hell cares?”

“I wouldn’t even know what to talk to him about. We’d probably have nothing in common,” I say. “And he probably uses one of those cheesy dating apps and overshares everything on social media and has ridiculously high standards when it comes to women because Millennials are so damn entitled.”

Saige places her hands on my shoulders. “Maren, I love you, but I
really
don’t like you right now.”

I laugh. “What? Why?”

“You were going over there to check him out and possibly say hello and to hopefully get the ball rolling for some sexytimes tonight,” she says, “not to interview him to be your next husband.”

“I don’t know about y’all, but I’m amused,” Marissa says in her Texas-transplant accent. “Tequila shots?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tiffin says. “I’ll come with.”

The two of them slide out of the booth and head toward the bar, leaving Gia and Lucia chit-chatting amongst themselves and me to deal with Saige’s wrath.

“You didn’t even introduce yourself. You took one look at him, judged him, and then you scurried back here like you were above him,” she says.

“What?” I clasp my hand over my heart. “I’m not above him. Jesus, Saige. If anything
he’s
out of
my
league. He’s beautiful. I’m just not what he’s looking for. I promise you that.”

“But you don’t
know
.”

“Oh, but I do.”

A guy like him has probably never seen cellulite and C-section scars in his life, and I’m quite positive the last person he wants to screw is some thirty-something ex-housewife slash single mom slash divorcee-with-baggage slash born-again-virgin.

“Go back over there,” Saige insists, chin tucked into her chest and posture squared with mine.

“No.”

“Maren.”

“
No
,” I say, this time with more grit.

“You need this,” she says. “I know you. You’re going to leave here tonight and hole up in that big empty house of yours and be the devoted mother that you’ve always been. And that’s fine. But one of these days you’re going to wish you’d have gotten back out there when you had the chance.”

I bite my lip and look away.

“You’re hot,” she continues. “And you’re single. And you need to get laid just as much as the next person. I’m not sure where this lack of confidence thing is coming from but I sure as hell know it’s not you.”

“It’s not that I’m not confident. I’m sensible,” I say. “You don’t try to sell a Lincoln to someone who’s shopping for a Lexus. It’s a waste of time and energy.”