The Cruelest Stranger

by Winter Renshaw

  He closes the space between us, his hand lifting to my hip. “It’s natural to second-guess things, especially when they seem too good to be true.”

  “It does,” I say. “This thing we have. It’s like a dream sometimes, it’s that good.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  I lift my hand to his cheek, fingertips grazing his sharp jaw, and his mouth lowers onto mine. Warmth blooms through my body, and for the first time in nearly a week, the tight void in my chest is gone.

  “I love you so much, Astaire.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “You’re it for me. There’s never going to be anyone else.”

  “I love you too.” I inhale his familiar scent, dragging it into my lungs and holding it for a moment. My mouth curls at one side and my finger skims his waistband. “You want to come in for a little bit …?”

  He claims my lips once more. “For a little bit, then I’m taking you back home with me. Where you belong.”

  54

  Bennett

  “What’s she doing, Uncle Bennett?” Honor asks from the third row as George reads a paper in the driver’s seat and Astaire makes her way to Trevor’s grave. “What are all those gray things? Why are some of them bigger than the others?”

  “She’s visiting a friend,” I say.

  “A friend who lives in one of those gray things?”

  “The friend lives in Heaven, like your mother. The gray things are …” God, I’m terrible at this. If Astaire were here, she’d know exactly what to say, but she sprang this little excursion on us at the last minute. “The gray things have their names and birthdays on them, and it’s how we remember them.”

  “So her friend lives with my mom?” she asks.

  I weigh my response. “Yes.”

  “Do you think they know each other?”

  George tuts under his breath, his eyes smiling in the rearview when he glances up.

  “I imagine they do know each other by now.” I glance out the window in time to catch Astaire returning.

  She slides in beside me with a teary-eyed smile.

  I place my hand on her thigh. “Everything okay?”

  Astaire nods. “Today would’ve been his twenty-seventh birthday.”

  It’s all she says, and I don’t pry. I know what she had with Trevor was special, but I have to remember it was special in its own way. What she has with me is separate and different and special in its own way.

  “Everyone buckled in?” George asks.

  I slide my hand into Astaire’s and check the backseat to make sure Honor’s still fastened into her booster.

  “Yep, let’s head out,” I say.

  We’re spending an afternoon in the city, stopping for a few hours at the aquarium before catching a Disney matinee—two things I never dreamed I’d be doing in this lifetime.

  When we’re finished, George is dropping us off for an evening for two with dinner at Sol Bleu and a night at the Peninsula Hotel. He’ll take Honor home, where Eulalia will be waiting.

  Astaire isn’t one for over-the-top gestures, but after the week we’ve had, we need this night.

  And something tells me it’ll be one for the books …

  55

  Astaire

  “You’re so good with her,” I whisper from Honor’s doorway Sunday night. She fell asleep on the sofa after her bath, curled up against Bennett with her gray teddy bear tucked beneath one arm.

  He clicks off the lamp on her dresser and pulls her door shut without a sound, meeting me in the hallway. “I think we wore her out this weekend.”

  I yawn. “Same.”

  His fingers trace the small of my back as we head to his room—our room.

  Last night, he whisked me off for a surprise date night in the city which consisted of amazing French food, hot sex, more hot sex, a thousand-year slumber in the softest bed known to man, morning shower sex, and a room service breakfast-to-die for.

  On the way home, he asked if I’d officially move in with him.

  I told him we could make it official this summer, after our three-week trip to Marco Island—a tradition we’re going to carry on in memory of Linda.

  We stagger into bed, haphazardly curl up together, and exhale the insanity of the past week.

  Or at least I do.

  I get the feeling Bennett never lost hope, never doubted for one second that everything would work out in the end.

  “Why do you think Larissa wanted me to raise Honor?” Bennett asks through a yawn.

  “That’s random …”

  He sniffs. “I know. It’s just been on my mind.”

  “It’s not something you can just call your guy about and get an answer a week later,” I tease. “I’m sure you’re not used to that.”

  “True.”

  “You’re going to have to make peace with never knowing.” I roll toward him, resting my arm over the radiant warmth of his upper body. “But I like to think she saw something in you that you’ve never been able to see in yourself.”

  “Like what?”

  I fight a smile, knowing how insane this is going to sound. “When people look at you, they either see Bruce Wayne … or they see Batman. I think you were her Batman.”

  Bennett is still, quiet.

  And then he laughs. Laughs.

  Bennet Schoenbach … laughing.

  And in the dark, I watch him brush away a single tear.

  “My God, Astaire, that’s the funniest … saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” He pulls me against him. “But in the strangest way, it makes perfect sense.”

  I cup his face and press a kiss against his lips. “I always knew you were a giant softie on the inside, Schoenbach. Now go to sleep.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  56

  Bennett

  Three Months Later …

  “I’ll get it!” Honor’s footsteps stomp down the hallway Friday night and veer toward the door before I have a chance to stop her.

  It wouldn’t be the pizza. We only ordered it five minutes ago.

  “Are you expecting someone?” Astaire looks up from the stack of papers she’s grading and pauses Some Like it Hot.

  I shake my head, place my first edition copy of Phaedo aside before following my daughter to the door—which she’s already opened.

  “Bennett, hi.” Deidre from 6A stands on the other side of the threshold, finger-waving to me with a confused smile on her red lips. “I was just heading out for the night. You didn’t answer your phone and I hadn’t seen you in a while, so I was going to see if you wanted to join me, but it looks like you have company.”

  Her gaze falls to Honor before lifting to me again.

  “Deidre, this is my daughter,” I say.

  Honor slips her hand in mine, leaning against me. A couple of months ago she asked if she could call me “Dad.” Of course I gave her a resounding yes. She has me for life. But deep down I was certain it’d be a while until it felt natural.

  Oh, how wrong I was.

  “We’re having pizza. You wanna come in?” Honor asks. “My mom is in the other room watchin’ a boring movie but you can do a puzzle with me if you want?”

  I glance behind me, wondering if Astaire can hear any of this.

  Honor has never referred to her as her “mom” before.

  “Oh, no thank you, sweetheart. I don’t want to intrude on your … family time.” Deidre speaks to my daughter but looks at me. Her hazel gaze is glassy, her tone overcompensating for the sting of rejection I imagine she’s experiencing.

  Our hookups were never more than hookups—at least not to me. But I imagine there was always a misplaced undercurrent of hope on her end—one I chose to ignore.

  I’ve been working on being sensitive to others’ feelings lately. It helps having a girlfriend who’s an open book and a little girl who experiences every spectrum of emotion at the drop of a hat.

  “Thanks for stopping by, Deidre.” I place my hand on the door and
make a mental note to delete her number. “All the best.”

  When I head back to the living room, Honor’s already there. Knelt down in front of Astaire, she’s bouncing excitedly on her knees.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Honor just asked if she could call me Mom.” Astaire studies me. “I told her it’s something you and I would discuss later.”

  “Okay!” Unfazed, Honor returns to her puzzle on the floor. A minute later, she’s grown bored with it, opting to skip down the hall to her bedroom.

  “Would it bother you if she called me Mom?” Astaire asks when Honor’s out of earshot. “I mean, I’m fine with it if that’s what she wants … and if that’s what you want.”

  I take the seat beside her, placing her papers on the coffee table and pulling her onto my lap.

  “As far as I’m concerned, Astaire, you are her mother now.” I sweep a gossamer-soft strand hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. “You tuck her in. You read her stories. You bathe her. You bandage her scraped knees. You sing her songs. You love her father unconditionally—more than he probably deserves.”

  I manage a slow smile out of her.

  “We’re a family,” I tell her. “The three of us. This is your family. You belong here. With us.”

  “I know,” she says. She thinks I’m hounding her again about moving in. “My lease is up in June, remember?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  Astaire lifts a brow.

  “I want to make this official,” I say.

  “You once told me you thought marriage was an outdated institution …”

  “And in many ways I still feel that way—except when it comes to you.” I cup her face in my hands, taste her lips. “Call me old-fashioned, but the idea of spending the rest of my life taking care of you makes me feel things I never thought I was capable of feeling.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  I kiss her again, my mouth grazing hers. “Everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “I was numb before I knew you,” I say. “But with you, I’m alive for the first time. You make everything new and exciting and I know I sound like a greeting card right now but I don’t care because I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Astaire Carraro. And I want you to know that I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my entire life. You’re my person. You’re my reason. You’re my whole damn world.”

  Tears cloud her eyes and her palms rest against my chest. I’m sure my heart’s pounding a hundred miles an hour.

  “Marry me, Astaire Carraro.” I don’t have a ring and this proposal wasn’t planned, but I’m nothing if not an opportunist. “Spend the rest of your life with me. With us.”

  Her baby blue gaze searches mine and for a moment, I swear forever flashes before me like scenes from a movie.

  Astaire in white.

  Astaire holding a baby in her arms.

  Astaire cheering on Honor at a basketball game.

  Astaire forcing us to pose for pictures in front of some theme park castle.

  Astaire lying in bed next to me as I quote Plato and we enjoy ourselves an intense rousing argument on ancient Greek philosophy before jumping one another …

  “Yes.” She traces her fingertip along my jaw before leaning in for a kiss. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Bennett Schoenbach.”

  Epilogue

  Bennett

  Three years later …

  “How do I look?” Astaire runs her palms down the glimmering gold dress that hugs her body—and matches her soul.

  “Gorgeous,” I bounce our son, Charlie, on my hip. His Schoenbach-blue eyes light when he sees his momma. “And late. We were supposed to head downstairs ten minutes ago …”

  “Shoot, shoot, shoot.” She bends over the vanity, gliding a bullet of rose-pink lipstick over her full lips. “Is Eulalia here?”

  “She’s with Honor in the playroom.”

  Of course. Those two are inseparable. And Eulalia is practically family at this point, the closest thing to a grandmother our children will ever have.

  Astaire gathers the hem of her gown in her hands and steps into a pair of crystal-studded stilettos before grabbing her faux-fur stole.

  It’s the Elmhurst’s grand re-opening, three years in the making.

  While we hoped to have the place up and running much sooner, we also wanted to give it a full restoration, which entailed permits, roadblocks, hundreds of phone calls to experts, endless man hours sourcing miscellaneous theatre-related antiques from all over the world—amongst many other things.

  There was also the design and remodel of the storage space into the home of our dreams …

  The sale of my corporation.

  The year we spent ricocheting around the globe, anywhere the wind blew us …

  The wedding in Switzerland with Ophelia officiating …

  The birth of our son late last year …

  Now that we’re back home and settled, we’ve recently begun the home study process, hoping to foster a child or two in the near future with the intention of adopting at some point.

  “I’m so nervous.” She grins at our son, tickles the underside of his chin, and leans in for a kiss, leaving a mouth-shaped stain on his chubby cheek. “I hope everyone likes what we did.”

  “How could they not? It’s going to be like walking straight into 1921. You’ve taken a rundown theatre and turned it into a neighborhood jewel. People are going to come from all over to see this place. Now let’s go. I don’t know if you’ve looked outside lately, but the line’s already down the block …”

  Astaire runs to the window, peering down below. “Oh my God. It is.”

  We drop Charlie off with our indispensable Eulalia in the kids’ playroom and head downstairs, entering through the private entrance we had installed during the reno.

  “You ready?” I take her hand. She nods.

  The instant we get around the corner, we’re greeted with a raucous, “SURPRISE!”

  I had the manager gather the original volunteers, the ones Astaire worked with years ago, to let them in early for a private moment together.

  Astaire gasps, hands to her mouth, and then runs toward them, doling out hugs like candy at a parade.

  Over the years, we’ve learned that it doesn’t matter how small or disconnected your family of origin is because friends can be family too. Ophelia and Astaire are like sisters these days. And she’s made endless new connections all over the world, as well as a handful of mom friends from various playgroups around the city.

  I’ve been putting myself out there more as well …

  “Expanding your friendship horizons beyond Jax and your other ‘sometimes’ friends,” as she so delicately put it one evening.

  My next appointment with Dr. Rathburn is a month from today. Fortunately, I’ve had no flare-ups or signs of rejection since my last episode three years ago.

  Astaire says it’s because I’ve finally accepted love into my heart and that love heals everything.

  Regardless, life is good.

  Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for my brother. I heard through the grapevine that their adoption fell through, and I also heard Beth met someone new—some great-great-great Rothschild she met at a fundraiser they attended together. Beth may have feigned ignorance the majority of the time when it came to my brother, but she was never dense. She had to have seen the boat was sinking and she jumped ship the first chance she got.

  My mother about had a coronary when she found out I’d sold the corporation—or at least that’s what I heard from my secretary at the time. I deactivated her building access card and my staff were under strict orders to direct my mother to a dummy voicemail account I’d had the IT department set up to specifically filter her incessant messages.

  But the calls stopped eventually, and she never attempted to come by for one of her infamous impromptu face-to-face meetings.

  Rumor has it she checked herself into a “welln
ess sanctuary” for some rest and relaxation shortly after the sale was finalized, but those in the know claim she had a bit of a breakdown and has been living as a reclusive shut-in at our family’s estate.

  Can’t say that I feel bad for her. Can’t say that I’ve been bothered to care about what she’s up to these days. I’m far too busy to concern myself with insignificant matters or wretched, self-serving people.

  The only things that deserve an ounce of my time … are in this building.

  Everything else is noise.

  “It’s starting to rain,” Astaire tugs at my sleeve. “We should let them in early.”

  “Martin, unlock the doors, please,” I tell the manager.

  It was raining the day I met the kind stranger who forever changed the trajectory of my life for the better—and ever since then, I’ve always seen rain as a sign of good luck.

  SAMPLE - Hate the Game

  Chapter One

  Irie

  “I heard he’s a total dick. Is it weird that I’m turned on by that?” A freshman girl nibbles on the tip of her pen as she chats up her friend. Her long leg is crossed over the other, foot bouncing.

  “Is it weird that you’re turned on by that?” her friend spits her question back at her with a side of sass. “No. I saw the guys you hooked up with last fall. You have a type and that type is shameless asshole.”

  Amused, I fight a smirk and turn away, attempting to tune them out.

  It wasn’t all that long ago that I was in their position; a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed freshman surrounded by a plethora of hot co-eds. But I made the decision after the first month (and after being propositioned repeatedly by horny drunks and pursued by an impressively persistent quarterback with an oversized … ego), that I’d remain focused on my studies.