Heartless

C
OVER DESIGN
: Louisa Maggio

COVER MODEL: Franggy Yanez

EDITING: The Passionate Proofreader

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M
y 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.

O
nly 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.

O
nly I wasn’t expecting
to meet
him
.

U
napologetically 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.

T
here’s
something different about him; something damaged yet magical, and I’m drawn to him; pulled into his orbit.

T
here’s just one problem
.

T
he more I
get to know him, the more I’m positive the journal belonged to him . . .

. . .
a
nd the more I
find myself hoping, selfishly, that I’m wrong.

A
idy

“
Y
ou 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.”

She hands it back, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth and her nose wrinkled.

“You didn’t read the rest,” I defend the stranger. “He goes on to talk about why he thinks a man would want to take what he’s not supposed to have. Is it lust-driven? Primitive? It’s fascinating, his perspective.”

“He’s obsessed with men wanting women they can’t have.” Wren shrugs then turns to face her dresser mirror.

“No,” I argue. “He totally
gets
love, Wren. He embraces that it’s messy and complicated and imperfect, and he’s exploring that. He’s trying to figure out why he loves this woman so much and if it’s possible to let her go because being with her would hurt people he cares about.”

“I’m seriously second-guessing your decision to follow in my footsteps, little sis.” Wren unsnaps a cream blush compact and dabs some peachy-pink on the apples of her cheeks. “Sure you don’t want to go back to school to study literature? I mean, you’re digging pretty deep here. It’s just a notebook full of ramblings from some deranged guy, and you’re painting it like it’s the second coming of
Romeo and Juliet.”

“Don’t burst my romantic little bubble. I want to believe this is legit.” I clasp my hands over the front cover of the book and exhale, shoulders falling. “I have this image of him in my mind, dashing and broad-shouldered. Dark hair. Brooding stare. The kind of guy who brings you flowers for no reason and leaves love letters on your pillow and loves you with an intensity so fierce it physically hurts.”

“I love how you’re inserting your ideal man into someone else’s love story.”

“Oh, now you’re admitting it’s a love story?”

My sister rolls her eyes, fighting a smile. “Whatever.”

“I just hope they’re together now, you know? I hope they figured things out and they’re happy and that love won. Because it should. Love should always win.”

“Tell that to my ex,” Wren mutters before glancing at her phone and pressing the button to light the screen. “Shit. I’m running late. If I’m not done by three, can you pick Enzo up from St. Anthony’s?”

“Of course. Just text me and let me know.” I love picking my nephew up from school. He’s eight, so I don’t embarrass him yet, and he’s still so full of wonderment and adorable little boy smiles, and his freckled face always lights up when he sees me despite the fact that we live together twenty-six days of the month. Enzo knows when Aunt Aidy picks him up from school, we stop at the pretzel cart
and
the park on the way home. “Good luck today. Not that you need it.”

Wren slides her palms down the front of her high-waisted dress before stepping into a pair of Kelly green ballet flats. She’s highlighted and contoured to perfection, her skin dewy and her lashes on point. My sister is one of those people who look flawless no matter what, makeup or no. I like to think it’s her inner beauty that does most of the work. She can be tough on the outside sometimes, her exterior resin-like and hard to crack, but inside she’s chock full of little rays of gentle moonbeams and glittery stardust, and she’d do anything for anyone.

My phone dings from the nightstand, and I stretch across the bed to grab it. “Awesome. Just got a new appointment from the app. Twelve-thirty next Friday.”

Wren gives me an air high five and scans the room for her bag. Last year, we launched an app, Glam2Go, where local clients can schedule their own personal makeup artist to come to their home and get them all gussied up for their big event or date night or whatever they’re doing. We’re growing in sizable increments, building up a solid base of clientele with a few B-list celebrities peppered in.

It’d be nice to have something steady and consistent, but we do pretty well for ourselves. Wren tends to take the daytime appointments so she can be with Enzo outside of school hours, and I take the nights and weekends. Twice a month, Enzo stays with his dad in Brooklyn, and Wren helps me out. We’re starting to book out a couple weeks at a time now, and soon we’re going to need to hire more artists.

“Any plans today?” Wren asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“The usual.” I shrug. “Probably go to the gym. Check the blog. Plan my next tutorial. Order supplies. Maaaaaybe take a nap . . .”

“Must be rough,” she teases, tossing me a wink. Standing in the doorway, she turns back to me. “Why don’t you take that notebook back, okay? It doesn’t belong to you. Go put it back where you found it or else . . . karma.”

Last week I was strolling down Lexington Avenue on a gloomy Monday afternoon when it began to sprinkle. Within seconds, the wind picked up and the rain started pelting me in sideways sheets that wasted no time soaking through my outer layers. Within seconds, I spotted a limestone townhome up ahead and took shelter beneath its covered front steps.

It was there, while waiting for the storm to pass, that I spotted a leather-bound journal lying in the cedar mulch, between the stone steps and an overgrown boxwood. The cover was damp and the pages were starting to curl, so I swooped down and nabbed it before the elements made it any worse.

By the time the rain cleared and the sun broke through the clouds, my phone rang, and I took off down the street, yapping away to my mother about her recent Alaskan cruise, forgetting the notebook was tucked under my sweatshirt.

“Fine.” I exhale. “I’ll return it.”

“Like, today,” Wren says, finger pointed in my direction.

“Yes,
Mom
.”

Wren disappears, and within seconds I hear the click and latch of the front door as she leaves and locks up. Lying back on her bed, I hold the journal above my head and fan it open.

“
I love this woman. I love her more than I’ve ever loved anything. I love her so much it terrifies me. I’m scared of what I might do to make her mine, and I’m scared of what I might do if I were to ever lose her completely
.”

My mouth arches up in the corners. My only hope is someday I might find someone to love me half as much as this man loves this woman.

Rolling to my side, I flip to the next page, and the next, and the next, devouring each page like addictive little love-flavored potato chips.

“
Tonight, she cried into my arms. I held her because he wasn’t around to. He never is. But still, she loves him. She loves him and he doesn’t deserve her. If he did, he’d be here, holding her, picking up the pieces of her broken heart
.”

My fingers trace a few of his pen-scribbled words, and my lips well along the lower rims. I allow myself just one more page, and then I’ll make my way to Lexington Avenue, I’ll find the townhouse, and I’ll leave the notebook on the front steps.

Inhaling the leather scent once more, I turn to another section and read, “
I don’t expect anyone to understand a love that I, myself, do not understand. But here I am, desperately trying. Trying to figure out how it’s possible for the sun to rise and set in her eyes. How it’s impossible to go a full hour without thinking a single thought about this woman. How it was possible for me to exist before she came into my world. It’s only ever been her. I’ve known that since we were kids. She chose the wrong man, but it doesn’t change the fact that I still love her. And I’ll never stop.”

I page ahead, eyes glued to the words, pretending to read them for the first time all over again.

“I feel her pulling away. She says it’s wrong. She doesn’t want anyone to get hurt. But she is my life force. I need her. And without her, I won’t survive. I’ll lead a pathetic, lonely existence. I’ll never love again. And not because I won’t try. But because once you’ve tasted a love so pure, nothing else will ever compare.”

“Poor, sweet Romeo.” I rest my cheek on the worn paper and close my eyes. “I hope you found your happily ever after.”

I’m going to miss this. Reading these words. Feeling the kaleidoscope of emotions that accompany them. I’ve never been so simultaneously exalted and gutted, and at times, I find myself nearly falling in love with a complete stranger. Or the idea of him, rather. Or maybe I’m falling in love with the way he loves her.

She’s lucky, that woman, to have been loved
this
hard.

I spend the better part of the afternoon that follows getting lost in those words one last time. And when it’s over, I compose myself, lace up my sneakers, and go for a walk, journal in hand, headed toward Lexington Avenue.