The Cruelest Stranger

by Winter Renshaw

  Bennett laughs through his nose.

  “Did you have any traditions in your family?” I ask.

  “None.”

  “Nothing? Really?”

  “Nothing like that,” he says. His voice is colored in melancholy and his eyes are glassy, though I don’t think he realizes it.

  Peeling the blanket from our laps, I climb onto his lap and cup his face in my hands. “We’ll have to start some of our own then.”

  I kiss him, inhaling his woodsy scent.

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where to begin,” he says.

  I kiss him again. “That’s where I come in …”

  His hands hook my hips, pulling me against him as his hardness grows. There’s hunger, greed in the way his mouth crushes mine, and my fingers tangle through his thick hair.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispers, lips grazing mine. Hands sliding beneath my ass, he lifts me from the sofa and carries me to his room where we make love like we’ve got all the time in the world—each of us silently aware that tomorrow is never a promise.

  32

  Bennett

  “What are you doing here?” Astaire’s face is lit as I walk into her darkened classroom Monday afternoon. She’d mentioned before that the kids go to lunch from 11 AM to 11:25 AM with a twenty-minute recess afterward, and I was in the area, so the timing worked.

  “I was at the bookstore down the road.” I place a giftwrapped book on her desk—an old favorite filled with Marcus Aurelius’ philosophy. “Thought I’d try to catch you for a few minutes.”

  “Thank you.” She places her hand on the book but leaves it wrapped. “You keeping busy today?”

  “Trying.”

  “You haven’t been to the office, have you?” she asks.

  I sniff. “Of course not.”

  Rising, she comes around her desk and wraps me in one of her trademark soft hugs. I’m realizing more and more that everything—and everyone—she touches, she treats as though it’s fragile, the only one of its kind.

  My hands cinch her waist. I pull her into me and steal a kiss. “You coming over tonight?”

  She fights a smile. “How are you not sick of me yet? We spent the entire weekend together …”

  “I’ve been asking myself that exact question all day,” I say. “But the offer stands.”

  “I’ll be there.” She kisses me, quick, and steps away as a bell chimes over the speakers. “My kids are coming back from recess. Thanks for the gift. I’ll see you tonight.”

  I return to my waiting car and tell George to take me home.

  33

  Astaire

  “Excuse me …”

  I’m at the grocery store Monday evening, grabbing a few things for dinner before heading to Bennett’s, when there’s a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I try not to choke on the sharp inhalation that overtakes me when I realize I’m face to face with Bennett’s brother, Errol.

  There’s a woman beside him. Tall and lean, angled features, glossy chestnut hair, nude lips, a fringe of thick, coal-black lashes. Chic in every sense of the word.

  “You’re Bennett’s friend, aren’t you?” he asks. “I believe we met the other night.”

  I grip my shopping basket tight, with both hands.

  “I’m Errol, Bennett’s brother.” He extends a slender hand. I meet it with my own, but only out of politeness. “This is my wife, Beth.”

  I don’t know much about Errol, and if I were to see him on the street, I’d chalk him up to be a regular guy. Hipster vibes. Well-traveled. Beth could be an Instagram influencer with her healthy figure and naturally agreeable features. But Bennett’s words play in the back of my mind … he specifically said he didn’t want Honor going to his mother or brother under any circumstances.

  “And you are?” Errol asks.

  “Astaire.” I offer my name only because I’m completely caught off guard, cornered in the back of the produce section. “It was nice seeing you again.”

  I try to leave, but they’re essentially blocking me in.

  “Are you two dating?” Beth asks.

  “I … beg your … pardon?” I trip over my words. Not only did her question come out of the left field, but I wouldn’t know how to answer that if I tried. We’ve gone on a couple of dates. We’ve been hanging out a bit. But we haven’t talked about labels or exclusivity yet.

  “Errol said he saw you leaving Bennett’s place the other night with his bag,” she says with a casual shrug. “I just assumed.”

  “You’re always assuming, aren’t you, babe?” Errol chuckles, one hand dipped in his tight jeans pocket.

  “Errol and I recently moved back to Worthington Heights,” Beth says. “We’re taking a break from our travels and starting a family … would be great if the four of us could have dinner sometime? It’s been forever since Bennett had a girlfriend, and it’s never any fun being the third wheel …”

  She slips her arm into her husband’s and gives him a wrinkle-nosed smile.

  “Beth,” Errol says. “You’re putting the poor woman on the spot.”

  Beth places her hand on my arm. “I’m so sorry. I do that. I get way ahead of myself. I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable. I just … we don’t get to spend much time with Bennett these days, and it’d be nice to have an excuse to catch up.”

  Errol leans closer to his wife.

  “Let it go.” His eyes drag the length of me, his stare pointed and judge-y. “For all we know, they’re just … casual.”

  I can read between the lines.

  He thinks I’m Bennett’s booty call.

  “I’m sorry. I should get going.” I clear my throat and step toward them, so close they have no other choice but to move out of the way, and I waste no time finding the next available checkout lane.

  There’s something strange about those two.

  Five minutes later, I’m loading two sacks of groceries into my backseat, checking over my shoulder to ensure they’re not about to corner me in the parking lot, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

  Exhaling, I slide into my car, lock the doors, and head to Bennett’s, checking my rearview far too many times along the way.

  “You’ll never guess who I just ran into.” I unload the groceries, lining up the produce next to Bennett’s sink.

  He lifts a brow and shrugs. “Who?”

  “Your brother and his wife.”

  Bennett frowns. “Where?”

  “At the grocery store … they cornered me by the heirloom tomatoes. It was the weirdest thing. Errol introduced them and then Beth started in about the four of us doing some double date and then your brother told her to let it go and then looked at me like I’m some side piece of yours and—”

  “Please tell me you told them no.”

  I rinse a tomato and pat it dry with a nearby towel. “Of course. Just odd that I’d run into him a second time in a week, you know? What are the odds.”

  He’s quiet for a beat. “I know they just moved back to Worthington Heights, but yeah. It’s definitely strange.”

  “Is he … following me?” I rinse a green pepper next. “You talk about him like he’s this villainous monster … and the way he looks at me …”

  Bennett makes his way around the marble island, coming up behind me and slipping his arms around my stomach. Pressing his mouth against the side of my neck, he kisses me. And then he says, “I’ll deal with him.”

  While his promise is reassuring, it’s also disconcerting that he didn’t exactly deny that his brother could be following me.

  “I’d like to know, though,” I say. “Is he dangerous?”

  “I told you, Astaire.” He kisses my neck once more. “I’ll deal with him.”

  A moment later, he unpacks the second bag of groceries, and I retrieve a paring knife from the cutlery drawer. Honor comes this weekend, and we’ve only a few more nights like this … alone … and I want to enjoy every last minute of them.

  I’m going to miss o
ur solo time together, but I’m certain if we focus on the positive, all the excitement and goodness happening in our midst, things can only get better from here.

  How could they not?

  34

  Bennett

  I’m halfway out the door Tuesday when I get a text from my investigator: CHECK YOUR EMAIL. ASAP.

  A quick glance at my watch tells me I’m on the verge of running late. Astaire asked me to meet her at this old theatre she volunteers at. She wanted to give me a private tour because it’s one of her favorite places in the world—her sanctuary, as she called it.

  She told me not to get my hopes up, that it isn’t anything fancy, but what it lacked in showmanship, it more than made up for with its rich history.

  I tap my email icon on the elevator ride to the lobby and wait for my inbox to refresh. A minute later, I’m sliding into the backseat of my SUV as George heads for Astaire’s part of town.

  I manage to locate his email sandwiched between a company-wide email announcing donuts in the conference room and a few spam items my filter didn’t catch.

  There are more attachments than I can count, so I start with the first.

  Text message transcripts.

  Pages upon pages.

  All of them sent between Larissa and Errol, all of them going back years—to the moment I gave her this phone, in fact. She was twenty then, which means she would have been about a year away from becoming pregnant with Errol’s child. The years prior to that are unaccounted for, but judging by what I’m reading here, whatever the hell this is … was nothing new.

  Tension sears through my shoulders and my jaw clenches as I scan random messages.

  LARISSA: HEY!! I’M IN TOWN!! CAN I SEE YOU?

  ERROL: ONLY IF YOU DO THAT THING WITH YOUR TONGUE AGAIN …

  Further down the page …

  ERROL: BETH’S OUT OF TOWN THIS WEEKEND. YOU UP FOR ANOTHER MARATHON? BET WE CAN BREAK THE LAST RECORD.

  LARISSA: I HAVE TO WORK. :-(

  ERROL: I’LL PAY YOU.

  LARISSA: HOW MUCH …?

  ERROL: FIFTY BUCKS A FUCK. SEVENTY-FIVE IF I CAN HIT IT RAW …

  LARISSA: I’M NOT ON THE PILL ANYMORE.

  ERROL: WTF NOT?

  LARISSA: $$$

  I swipe to the next page.

  ERROL: SEND ME SOME NEW PICS. I’M BORED WITH THE OLD ONES.

  LARISSA: CAN’T RIGHT NOW. MAYBE LATER?

  ERROL:???

  LARISSA: SORRY.

  ERROL: CAN YOU CALL ME? YOU KNOW I LOVE IT WHEN YOU TALK DIRTY TO ME.

  LARISSA: NOT RIGHT NOW. LATER?

  ERROL: WTF IS YOUR PROBLEM LATELY?

  ERROL: FIND ANOTHER SORRY ASS TO FILL ALL YOUR BIG BROTHER FANTASIES?

  ERROL: YOU KNOW IT’S ONLY HOT WHEN IT’S YOU AND ME BECAUSE WE DON’T HAVE TO PRETEND IT’S FUCKED UP. IT’S ALREADY FUCKED UP …

  ERROL: COME ON, LAR. I’M DYING HERE. IT’S BEEN TWO MONTHS. I CAN PRETEND SHE’S YOU ALL I WANT BUT IT’S NOT THE SAME.

  LARISSA: I’M AT WORK RIGHT NOW. PLEASE STOP TEXTING.

  ERROL: WHAT TIME ARE YOU OFF?

  ERROL:???

  LARISSA: 8

  ERROL: I’M BOOKING A ROOM FOR US. I’LL TEXT YOU THE NUMBER LATER.

  LARISSA: I DON’T THINK WE SHOULD DO THIS ANYMORE …

  ERROL: WTF NOT?

  LARISSA: I’M PREGNANT.

  ERROL: YEAH. OKAY. WHATEVER. LOL.

  LARISSA: [PHOTO]

  ERROL: I’M ACTUALLY SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE THAT’S YOUR POSITIVE PREGNANCY TEST AND NOT SOME PIC YOU STOLE OFF GOOGLE IMAGES?

  LARISSA: YES…

  ERROL: IT’S NOT MINE.

  LARISSA: YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE I’VE SLEPT WITH THIS YEAR.

  ERROL: THIS YEAR?! AM I SUPPOSED TO FEEL SPECIAL? GOD, YOU’RE SUCH A FUCKING SLUT.

  ERROL: THE KID COULD BE ANYBODY’S.

  LARISSA: YOU WANTED TO FUCK ME RAW LAST TIME, REMEMBER? AND YOU PROMISED YOU’D PULL OUT AND YOU DIDN’T …

  ERROL: GET RID OF IT.

  LARISSA: NEVER.

  ERROL: PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE NOT SERIOUS.

  LARISSA: IF YOU’RE NOT GOING TO HELP ME, JUST SAY SO. I’LL HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO GO TO OUR MOTHER FOR HELP …

  ERROL: YEAH, RIGHT. YOU’RE NOT THAT IDIOTIC.

  ERROL:???

  ERROL: YOU STILL THERE?

  ERROL: WHAT, SO NOW YOU’RE JUST GOING TO IGNORE ME?

  ERROL: LARISSA.

  ERROL: SERIOUSLY, DON’T GO TO OUR MOTHER. SHE’LL MAKE THIS TEN TIMES WORSE FOR YOU.

  ERROL: LARISSA …

  George brings the SUV to a crawling stop outside Astaire’s theatre. I swallow the burn of bile rising up the back of my throat. I’m not even sure if I can bring myself to read the other hundreds of pages worth of text messages, but something tells me they’re all the same.

  It’s impossible to know how long he’d been grooming her.

  “We’re here, Mr. Schoenbach.” George shifts into park.

  Astaire waves to me from the sidewalk, bundled in her snow-colored scarf and gloves, bouncing on the balls of her sneakers like she’s about to give me a private tour of her own personal Disneyland.

  I slide my phone away—for now, and then I force the dirty, disgusting messages to the back of my mind.

  I’m going to enjoy my time with her.

  And when I’m done, I’m going to ruin that fucking bastard.

  35

  Astaire

  “Hey!” I throw my arms around him, and he greets me with a distracted peck on the cheek. “You ready?”

  I jangle the keys and take him by the hand, leading him through the main doors and stopping at the mahogany ticket booth.

  “That’s the original ticket booth from 1921.” I point. He nods. He’s only here to humor me, I know, but I’m going to try to keep things light and interesting. Sometimes I have to remind myself that not everyone is a theatre junkie …

  “This carpet.” I point to the floor. “Not original, but it is a replica. We have it professionally steam-cleaned once a month but it’s getting to the point where it probably can’t handle more than a few more cleanings …”

  Next, I take him to the bar—an Art Deco-style number straight out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

  “The bar itself is original, as you can see from all the nicks and scratches that have been filled in over the years, but the black marble top was added a few years ago for durability purposes and the stools are new as well.”

  Again he nods. Feigns interest.

  “I’m sorry. This must be extremely boring for you.” I wince. “We don’t have to keep going. You want to grab a bite somewhere?”

  “No, no.” He squeeze my hand. “It’s not boring.”

  “You’re not into this at all. I can tell. And that’s okay.”

  “Astaire, please. Keep going. Continue the tour,” he gives me another kiss—an equally distracted peck, only this one lands on my lips.

  Is he trying to make me feel better?

  I lead him through the lobby. “The wallpaper there? Hand-painted by a local Chicago artist from the twenties—Geraldine Halliday. She was huge back then. Known for using real gold leaf and spending hours upon hours obsessively mixing the perfect ‘deco’ green. Anyway, as you can see, it’s pretty faded and it’s certainly seen better days, but owners can’t bring themselves to tear it down because it’s practically a priceless work of art. Plus, you know, it’d take away from the whole preservation thing they have going on here. They only like to replace things when absolutely necessary. If something can be restored, they restore it.”

  His gaze drips down the geometric wallpaper, lingers on the patterned replica carpet, and scans the empty space.

  “Oh, I have to show you the famous chairs …” I pull him down a different hallway, to a glass lit display showcasing two ordinary-looking theatre chairs. “When this theatre opened in 1921, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford happened to be in town. At the time, they were the biggest Hollywood power c
ouple of the age. Think Brad and Angelina but in the Roaring Twenties. Anyway, they came here opening night to catch the premier of Charlie Chaplin’s The Idle Class, found a couple of seats in the back, and tried to enjoy the show unnoticed. But word got out and people definitely noticed. They didn’t get to finish the show, but the owners managed to reach out to them the next day. Invited them back for a private screening. They had the whole place to themselves. Afterwards, the owners took the chairs out of the general seating area and essentially had them enshrined. As far as anyone knows, not a soul has sat in either of those chairs since that day.”

  He drags his hand along his chin. “I don’t know who any of those people are, but that sounds fascinating.”

  “Psh.” I elbow his side. “You don’t know them yet … but stick with me long enough and you will.”

  Most people who arrange private tours of the Elmhurst usually geek out over the Fairbanks-Pickford display—and it’s usually our piece de la resistance, best saved for last.

  “Okay, so now we’ve got the balcony, backstage …” I ramble aloud. “Dressing rooms …”

  “I thought this was a movie theatre?”

  “It functions as both. We have a stage and we also have a screen that comes down. Though I don’t think they’ve shown a movie here in twenty years. They weren’t able to update the projection equipment. Not enough funds. So now the place mostly rents out for speaking engagements, wedding receptions, private events. It’s sad, but I guess it’s better than letting it sit around and crumble.”

  “I suppose.”

  “If I had all the money in the world, I’d restore this place to its full former glory, and then I’d host weekly screenings of the classics. Can you imagine watching Citizen Kane or Key Largo in a place like this? Exactly the way it was enjoyed a lifetime ago? A true theatre experience …” I lead him to the dressing rooms next. They’re dark and crowded, not as glamorous as most people expect when they come here, but still an essential part of this establishment.