Heartless (27 page)

C
alypso

“
J
esus
. Fuck.” Crew’s hand slams against the door to Emme’s nursery as I change her diaper the next morning. He’s panting, his jaw as hard as his flared nostrils. His dark hair is matted in every direction. On anyone else it’d be off-putting, but on Crew, it makes my stomach do a little somersault. “You scared the shit out of me. Don’t do that.”

“What, you thought I ran off with her?” I can’t help but laugh, though I blame it on the lack of sleep.

He rushes to her side, scooping her up. She’s in a fresh outfit, sporting a clean diaper and combed hair. I’ve never seen a baby with so much hair before. It’s downy soft, dark as coal, and it sticks up in little tufts.

“Here.” I hand Emme to Crew and squeeze past. “I’ll make a bottle and then I’m out. I’ve got to go to work.”

By the time the bottle’s ready, Crew meets me in the kitchen with a cooing Emme in his arms.

“I appreciate everything,” he says. “We’ll try and keep it down from now on.”

There’s a hint of a smile in his tone, and his sparkling blue eyes catch in the morning sunlight streaming in from the window above the sink.

“Two of a kind.” I gently tickle her little foot.

There’s a lingering stillness between us, and if I stick around any longer, I know one of us will be tempted to fill it with some kind of small talk. That’ll just lead to more conversation, and then we’ll be obligated to get to know one another and maybe even take things a step beyond cordial.

It’s not my intention at all, and I’d be better off nipping it in the bud.

“Alright. I’m out.” I give him a quick nod and brush past the two of them so quickly he doesn’t have a chance to utter another word.

I don’t know his situation. I don’t want to know it. If I get to know him better, there’s a slight chance I might like him. And if there’s anything I’ve learned in my young life, it’s that romantic relationships do nothing but weigh you down. And when they’re over, they send you packing with a whole lot of baggage.

I need to be weightless in this life.

* * *

“
Y
ou’re
bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning.” Presley pops up when I breeze through the store later that morning. “I’m kidding. You look like shit. And I say that with love.”

“I slept in a recliner last night.”

Presley laughs. “Wait, what? You don’t even own a recliner.”

“Crew does.” I trek toward my office, pulling my keys from my bag.

She bounces on the balls of her feet, slapping her palm against the counter repeatedly. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Get back here. You
cannot
just say something like that and walk away.”

I grin. It’s always fun torturing Presley like that.

“Nothing happened,” I say. “His baby was crying, and I went over to help. Ended up falling asleep in the recliner with her, that’s all.”

Her lower lip juts out as her lips pull down at the ends. “That sucks.”

“Actually, it wasn’t so bad. I hadn’t held a baby in years,” I say. “I kind of missed it.”

“Yuck.” She pretends to stick a finger down her throat.

I’m pretty sure Presley’s going to be one of those people who claim they hate babies, and the second they accidentally have one, they’re the most doting mother who ever lived. It happens. I haven’t seen it, but I’ve read about it. It comes from a place of fear. She’s projecting. I swear there’s a book about it somewhere around here.

“Where was his girlfriend?” She grabs a bottle of window cleaner and wipes down the register area, and I watch as she inhales the crystal clean scent of industrial chemicals. Presley’s weird like that. “Why wasn’t she there last night?”

“Oh.” I scrunch my brows. “I’m not sure. I didn’t ask.”

Come to think of it, I didn’t see a single item in his place that so much as suggested a woman lived there.

“I kinda think he might be single,” I say. “That’s the impression I got.”

Presley’s lips widen, stretching across her face like the Cheshire cat.

“You want him? Go for him.” I raise my hands in the air and take a step backward. It’s a grand gesture, slightly over the top. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want her to swoop in and take him all for herself. The sooner he’s off-limits, the sooner I’ll stop wondering what it’d be like to feel his lips on mine . . . which I’ve done in secret maybe seven separate times in the last twenty-four hours. “I know he’s your type.”

“No, no, no.” When Presley shakes her head, her dark hair cascades around her face in slow motion. She belongs in a Pantene commercial. “For you.”

“I don’t want him.” I scrunch my nose. I’m a terrible liar. I blame it on all those years at Shiloh Springs. We were only allowed to speak the truth, even if it hurt. Lying, there, was unnatural and considered evil, even when done to protect feelings. Out here, everyone does it constantly, though they mostly do it to protect their own feelings.

I get it.

“He’s not my cuppa, Pres. You know that.”

“No one’s your cuppa. I’m beginning to wonder if something’s broken in there. Maybe you should see a doctor for that?” She studies my face, and I know now we’re basking in a rare moment of Presley sincerity. “You don’t want to date anyone; you don’t want to get laid. You’re twenty-four and beautiful and smart and kind. It doesn’t add up.”

“It doesn’t
need
to add up.”

I pray for the phone to ring or a customer to walk in the door, something to distract her and get me out of this godforsaken conversation.

“I know a girl who’s been hurt when I see one,” she says. “Some asshole back at that Shiloh cult screwed you over, didn’t he?”

My head tilts to the left. “It wasn’t a cult, Pres. You know that. And yeah, I had my heart broken. So what?”

I’ve told her nearly everything there is to know about life back then—except the details surrounding Mathias and our failed attempts at procreating.

There’s a tight squeeze in my chest when I think of him. Come to think of it, that tightness never fully goes away. Some days it’s just stronger than others.

Presley laughs, combing her fingers through her hair and doing a little jig behind the cash register.

“I can’t believe I’ve figured it out,” she says. “All this time, you were just being guarded because you were afraid to get hurt. Duh. It’s so simple.”

Yeah, but it’s not.

“You just need to get back out there,” she says. “The only way to get over the last one is to find yourself a new one. Someone hotter. Better. More worthy of your time and energy.”

“Sure.” I head toward my office. “One of these days, right?”

“Don’t brush me off, Calypso.” Her tone scolds. “We’re having this conversation, whether you want to or not.”

I open my mouth to protest, but the phone rings before I get the chance.

Shucky darn.

Presley glares at me as she yanks the receiver from the hook. “The Tipsy Poet, Presley speaking, how may I help you this morning?”

A few long strides later and I’m in my office, door locked, freed from that conversation, if only for a little while.

* * *

A
little brown
package leans against my apartment door that night. The words “Calypso No Last Name” are scrawled across it in black Sharpie. The handwriting is undeniably masculine, and I’d generously place it in the same category as chicken scratches.

Sliding the key into my lock, I pop the door open and grab the package. A little note is taped to the outside, some kind of message scribbled on a piece of lined notebook paper folded in half.

H
ave a have
a good night’s rest on me for once.

- Crew

I
smirk
, shaking my head and pulling the lid off the package. A set of noise cancelling headphones rests next to a white noise machine and a tiny packet of ear buds. Behind it all is a silky black sleep mask.

This is the first gift I’ve received since moving here, aside from the Boss’s Day mugs Bryson and Presley get me each ear, each one intentionally uglier than the one before. Each year, they hand me the mug filled with cash from that week’s tip jar and lock me out of the store. A forced day off is my gift from them, and I love them for it.

I rifle through my box of goodies and sink into my vintage velvet sofa, a pawn shop find. It’s as uncomfortable as it is kitschy, but it’s perfect for me.

The appropriate thing to do would be to send a thank you card, but that would be a ridiculous gesture when I can just pop over next door and say hi. It’d give me a chance to check on Emme and see how their day went anyway. I’d been thinking about them all afternoon.

Both of them.

I’d love to hold her again too, smell her little baby head and breathe in the soft scent of powder and baby’s breath.

I need to say thank you.

I don’t have a choice.

It’s the right thing to do.

I’ll say thanks, I’ll ask about Emme, and then I’ll be on my way.

C
rew

N
oelle rocks
Emme in the recliner. She’s been here all afternoon watching the baby while I checked on some job sites. Two flip houses in North Vegas are near completion, and I’m considering moving into one of them myself.

Emme doesn’t need to live in this frat boy dump. Not when I can afford something nicer than this. It’s certainly served me well during my tenure, but the time has come to move on.

“How’s the house on Irvine?” she asks.

“Just waiting on floors. I might have them repaint the living room.”

“Why? You don’t like that gorgeous shade of terracotta our dear mother picked out last time she was here?”

A couple of months ago, my mother, a self-proclaimed interior design hobbyist with tastes set a decade or two behind, pleaded with me to let her help with the renovation of a four-bedroom two-story I’d just acquired. It was Christmas and I was feeling generous, so I said yes.

Never. Again.

“I might have them repaint the entire house.” I shudder when I think of the color scheme. Vibrant oranges and golden yellows and puke greens. It’s a house fit for Marcia Brady, not a twenty-four-year-old, card-slinging bachelor.

“Someone just knocked at your door.” Noelle gazes beyond my shoulder before tending to Emme again.

“It’s Calypso,” I say after checking.

“Who’s Calypso?”

“Hey . . .” I open the door and motion for her to step inside. She’s probably here to thank me for the package, which is unnecessary.

“Oh, um.” She stops when she sees my sister rocking Emme. “I didn’t realize you . . . I didn’t know there was someone . . .”

Noelle’s brows lift as she stares ahead at Calypso with a blank look on her face. If you don’t know my sister, it’d be impossible to read her. We’re a lot alike in that way.

“Is this . . . is this Emme’s mother?” Calypso asks.

Noelle’s face falls before she laughs. “No, no, no. God,
no
. I’m his sister.”

Calypso exhales and smiles, taking ginger steps toward where Noelle sits with Emme.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t sure,” she says. “I’m terrible about assuming things.”

“He hasn’t told you about Emme’s mom?” Noelle speaks to Calypso but looks at me.

“I haven’t asked. It’s none of my business.” Calypso brushes her hand across Emme’s forehead before letting her grip onto her pinky. If I knew anything about babies, I might think Emme recognizes her from last night. It’s hard to tell.

“Saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Noelle says with a sigh. “Who just abandons their baby? Drops it off like a Goodwill donation?”

Calypso rises, turning toward me, her blue eyes searching mine. She’s officially curious thanks to the incomparable Noelle Forrester.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

Noelle scrunches her nose. “Not really.”

“It’s okay,” Calypso says to my sister as our eyes lock. “If he doesn’t want to talk about it, I understand.”

“He needs to talk about it,” she says. “This shit is real, and he could use a friend right now.”

“Jesus, Noelle, you make it sound like I have no friends.” I blow a hard breath past my lips and lace my fingers behind my head.

“All your friends are skinflints and Black Jack dealers,” she says.

Mostly true.

“How’d you two meet?” Noelle’s gaze darts between both of ours.

“He came into my bookstore a couple of days ago. Bought every baby book we had,” Calypso says. “Then we realized we’re neighbors.”

“Oh.” Noelle chews her lower lip and stares off. “So you don’t know each other that well.”

“Nope.” My answer is unapologetically curt.

“I can come back another time.” Calypso points toward the door.

“Ignore Noelle,” I say. “We’re still trying to program some tact into her monkey brain.”

“I don’t mind,” she says to me before offering a smile toward my sister. “I just came by to thank you for the headphones and everything. And I wanted to make sure Emme was doing okay.”

“Headphones?” Noelle asks.

“Emme’s fine,” I say. “She stayed with my sister most of today. Getting ready to feed her a bottle and wind down for the night.”

Noelle laughs. “Look at you. Mr. Mom over there. I’m impressed, brother. Catching right on.”

“You know better than to doubt me.” I roll my eyes.

“So cocky, this one.” Noelle points at me and looks at Calypso. “Sure you want to be friends with him?”

Calypso’s expression is caught between a smirk and a polite smile.

“Noelle.” My tone is flat.

She ignores me, repositioning her body toward Calypso. “So, where are you from?”

“Oh, um.” Calypso’s fingers knit together for a second before she tucks them behind her back. “You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s a really small little community in Northern California.”

Noelle scrunches her nose. “What was it called?”

“No one ever knows when I tell them,” Calypso stalls. “There were maybe a couple of hundred of us there.”

“Oh. Was it like one of those commune things? A cooperative?” Noelle asks.

“Exactly.” Calypso’s shoulders relax and she releases a subtle breath. “A cooperative.”

“I’ve always thought it’d be neat to live like that,” Noelle says. “But only for like a week or so. Maybe a month. Or a summer. I don’t think I could do it forever.”

Calypso shrugs. “I did it for over twenty years.”

“Why’d you leave?” I interject.

Both women turn toward me in unison, as if I’m invading their conversation, but I don’t care. I’m curious about Calypso. I knew there was something different about her when we first met.

“It just wasn’t for me anymore,” she answers.

“Oh, come on,” Noelle huffs. “You don’t have to be diplomatic here. Tell us what really happened. We won’t judge. Promise.”

“Noelle,” I say.

My sister snaps her caramel gaze toward me, her brows lifted. “No one walks away from their entire life just because.”

“It’s okay,” Calypso says, worrying her lower lip. “We were a close-knit community, and it turned out some of the members there weren’t exactly as great as I thought they were, so I left.”

“You’re killing me,” Noelle laughs. “All right. Fine. I get it. You don’t know me. You shouldn’t have to spill your entire life story. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that.”

She stands up, cradling Emme, and carries her to me.

“I’m going to go,” Noelle says, “and let your friendship blossom organically and pray Crew doesn’t do anything to screw it up.”

“Great idea.” I scoop Emme from her arms.

Noelle grabs her bag and flings it over her shoulder. “Calypso, it was great meeting you. I’m going to apologize in advance for anything asshole-ish my brother might say or do in the near future. Most of the time, he doesn’t mean it.”

“Bye, Noelle,” I say, ushering her out.

Calypso grins as soon as we’re alone. “She’s a pill.”

“She’s a whole fucking box of pills.”

“I like her,” she says.

“Don’t tell her that. It’ll go to her head.”

Calypso ambles my way, her eyes on Emme. Her lavender scent fills my lungs and my fingers twitch at the thought of running my hands through her sandy blonde waves. Her hair looks soft, and it shines when it moves. I bet it feels like pure silk.

I can’t remember the last time I was able to run my fingers through a woman’s hair. Everyone here has hairspray and extensions and a million different products all working in tandem to give the illusion of healthy hair. As soon as you touch it, it crumbles like straw.

“You want to hold her?” I offer.

Calypso nods and gently takes her from me. “I love babies.”

“I see that.”

She nuzzles her nose against Emme’s cheek. “You’ll never know a purer love than this, Crew. Cherish it.”

My heart swells just long enough for me to feel uncomfortable, and I shove those emotions back down where they came from. I know they’re there. Doesn’t mean I have to feel them.

“So you really lived on a commune?” I switch the subject.

“Yeah. I did.” Her gaze rises into mine. “Do you find that hard to believe?”

I laugh. “Not at all. I just find it fascinating. Never met anyone like that.”

She carries Emme to the couch and takes a seat. I grab the recliner and swivel it around to face them.

“Did you go to school?” I ask.

“We had a private school on the grounds,” she says. “Kind of like a one-room schoolhouse. It was accredited, if you’re wondering about that.”

“Nah, I was just curious.” I clear my throat. “Did you have running water and electricity?”

Calypso laughs, startling Emme. “We weren’t Amish.”

“See, I don’t know these things. It’s why I ask.”

“Yes, we had running water. We had electricity too.”

“Did you have a leader?”

“Now you’re making it sound like a cult.” She laughs. “If you want to look at it that way, yes, we had someone who presided over the co-op. I guess you could call him a spiritual leader in a way. Everyone went to him for guidance. His family was well respected and admired.”

“Is he the one who let you down?”

Her lips part, her words suspended.

“Sorry,” I say. “You don’t have to answer.”

“I don’t like to talk about what happened,” she says, an apology infused into her tone. “It’s not something I like to revisit.”

“Understood.”

“Anyway, I should get going.”

“Really?” I scratch my brow. “You have somewhere to be?”

“I just came over to say thanks. I didn’t plan to stay long.”

“Oh. Was kind of hoping I could con you into giving Emme a bath . . .” I flash a wink and rouse a half-smile out of her. “I mean, I could read a book and all, I guess.”

“Do you have a baby bath tub?”

“I have everything.” I roll up my sleeves, cuffing them just below the elbows. It’s an old habit that almost gets me in trouble every time I go home. My parents would flip their shit if they saw the amount of ink covering my arms. After all these years, they’ve yet to question why I wear long sleeves year-round. In the desert.

Five minutes later, we’re kneeling side by side in front of the bathtub in the hall bath. A yellow baby tub shaped like a duck is filled with a couple of inches of warm water, and Calypso is soaping up a wet terrycloth washcloth.

“You start at the top.” She runs the washcloth along Emme’s head, saturating her dark hair with soapsuds. “Top to bottom. Head to toes. Make sure you get behind her ears, between the folds of her neck, under her arms . . .”

I observe and let her do her thing. “You’re so natural at this.”

“I had a lot of practice,” she says. “Childrearing is a shared responsibility back home.”

When Emme’s rinsed clean, Calypso hands me a hooded baby towel and carefully places a dripping wet baby in my arms. Tucking in the ends of the towel, she leads us back to the nursery.

“It’s easiest to dry her off here,” she says when I place Emme on her changing table. “Clean diaper. Lotion. Pajamas. I’ll make a bottle.”

I meet her in the living room as soon as Emme’s changed and dressed, and she hands me a warm bottle.

“Not so bad, huh?” she says as I rock the baby.

Emme’s eyelids drift open and shut as she fights her bedtime, hardly staying awake enough to finish her bottle.

“Baths are relaxing for babies,” she says. “You’re going to want a bedtime routine. It’s good to have them on a schedule, plus it’s comforting for them.”

Calypso sighs, her arms relaxed at her sides. She looks tired, and I almost feel bad for putting her to work tonight, but I needed her help. And I don’t think she minded.

“She’s out.” I pull a half-empty bottle from Emme’s lax lips and place it on an end table. “Easy enough.”

I lay Emme in her crib and return to the living room, where Calypso waits by the door. It’s rare that I find myself disappointed at the sight of a woman walking out my door. She’s not even gone, and already I know I’ll miss her. I don’t even know what I’ll miss about her; I just know things feel different whenever she’s around.

A little less chaotic.

“Heading out?” I try and disguise the hint of disappointment in my words.

“I assume my services are no longer necessary.” Her tired gaze drifts down the hall toward the nursery door. “If she wakes up or if you need anything, just pound on the wall.”

I laugh. “I’m not going to pound on the wall.”

“Good. I didn’t mean it,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “You can just text me like a regular person.”

Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I unlock the screen with a thumb swipe and glance up at her. “Your number?”

She rattles off ten digits, clear as day, and in she goes.

“I never give out my number,” she says. “But I’ll make an exception. For Emme.”

“Of course.” I’m drawn closer to her, and I’m not sure why, but within seconds I’m standing in front of her, calculating the distance between our lips and appreciating the way the top of her lavender-scented head fits right under my chin.

Calypso exhales, licking her lips and batting her exhausted eyes in slow motion. I should let her leave. I should let her get some rest. I shouldn’t be wondering what the most delicious parts of her perfect body might taste like, the way her soft flesh would feel beneath mine or the way her milky skin would look washed in moonlight.

I’ve only ever cared about two things until now: poker and winning.

I’m fucking amazing at both.

When I’m not playing No Limit Hold ‘Em or popping into a nearby poker tournament for a few hours of playtime, I’m breaking my back working on the latest flip house. For a few years, I’ve been a mid-stakes grinder, bringing in a cool six-figure income and funneling it into my real estate endeavors.

Money and numbers are everything. They’re fixed, void of emotions, and concrete.

My uncle taught me to count cards at thirteen. By fifteen, I was sitting around his poker table every Friday night getting richer by the chip. At eighteen, I played my first mid-stakes game, and by twenty-one, I was bringing in half a million a year and contemplating abandoning my last year of college.

“Is it true what Presley said, that you’ve never been to a casino?” I ask.