The Cruelest Stranger

by Renshaw, Winter

  No, not something.

  Someone.

  Bennett.

  I swear I feel the color draining from my face in real time as his penetrating glower intersects with mine, and I force myself to look away, fussing with the cloth napkin in my lap and clearing my throat. The blouse wrapping my upper body might as well be a sauna, my skin prickling with heat beneath the silky fabric, but I resist the urge to fidget or fan myself.

  “You okay?” Garrett asks.

  I reach for my wine, mustering a convincing smile. “Yeah. I’m good. Sorry. Thought I saw someone I knew.”

  Garrett turns around, glancing toward the bar, but Bennett’s back is facing us now and he’s settled in between a handful of other patrons, blending well. Returning his attention to his menu, he says something about the steak, but I can’t focus on his words.

  “I’m sorry—would you excuse me for just a second?” I scoot out of the booth and follow the restroom signs to the back of the restaurant, and when I’m out of Garrett’s sight, I lean against the wall, arms folded, and wait.

  Twenty seconds pass, maybe thirty, when Bennett appears from around the corner.

  “I knew it,” I say.

  “You knew what?”

  “You followed me here.”

  He huffs, hands resting at his hips. “Don’t flatter yourself, Astaire.”

  He’s definitely read the email …

  “Then explain what you’re doing here.” I cross my arms tighter. I hate the way he says my name.

  “You do realize this is a public restaurant.”

  “Okay, then just admit that you’re following me.”

  His gaze narrows and he wears a twisted half-smile. I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or messing with me. “I’m not following you—though maybe someone should.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re a con artist.” He doesn’t blink, as if he’s merely stating a fact. “A predator.”

  “Excuse me, what?” I choke on my words. Never in my life have I been called anything remotely in the vein of predator.

  “You find rich men and you find ways to insert yourself into their life for reasons I can only assume have to do with financial gain.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I’m on a blind date right now and—”

  “Right. A date with a guy who happens to be wearing a twenty-thousand-dollar timepiece. Have you told him your sob story yet? About your terrible childhood and your fake dead fiancé?”

  I try to respond but the words get stuck. My vision blurs. Heavy tears slide down my cheeks before I have a chance to swipe them away.

  “Move,” I say when I realize he’s blocking the door to the ladies’ room.

  “Astaire.”

  “Move.” So help me, if this asshole doesn’t get out of the way, I’m bowling him over.

  Bennett steps aside, his lip twisting like he’s about to say something, but I disappear inside before he gets the chance. The overwhelming pong of industrial bathroom cleaner and cinnamon potpourri assaults my lungs, providing a much-needed sensory distraction that steers me out of my tearful state.

  I’ll be damned if I let him ruin this night.

  I yank a paper towel from the dispenser and clean up my mascara before reapplying some lip balm, washing my hands, and taking a handful of deep breaths.

  When I emerge, the bastard is gone.

  Thank God.

  But when I return to my table … so is my date.

  16

  Bennett

  I swipe my keycard against the lock on the penthouse elevator and wait for the doors to part.

  I’m not sorry for what I did tonight—for warning that sad bastard in the tired Prada suit that the woman he was enjoying his lovely evening with was nothing more than an angel-faced hustler.

  At first he didn’t want to believe me … until I introduced myself—last name first, of course. I’m not afraid to namedrop myself when the situation calls for it. I was tasteful about the entire thing though, kept my voice down, shared my concerns with him ‘bro to bro.’

  When I was finished, the sorry sap couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He shot up, swiped his jacket off the hook, tossed a wrinkled hundred onto the table, and booked it out of there.

  I got the hell out of Dodge too.

  No point in sticking around for a teary encore of her last Oscar-winning performance by the ladies’ room.

  God, she’s good.

  Truly.

  She almost had me convinced that she was authentic Saturday night. The conversation flowed. She held her own. Couldn’t take her eyes off me.

  I’m convinced the sole reason she pulled the brakes on her little operation was because she knew after I’d read her email, the jig would be up, there would be no lucrative payday, and her efforts would’ve been in vain.

  I toss my jacket over the back of a chair and drop my keys and wallet on the counter before heading into a darkened living room lit by the night sky filtering in through the naked windows.

  It was pure chance tonight that I spotted her inside Fino.

  I was walking back from my cardiologist appointment when I happened to glance over and spot my little Anonymous Stranger sipping red wine and laughing with a tall, dark, and extremely rich-looking gentleman who had nothing but kaleidoscope eyes for our sweet Astaire.

  He reminded me so much of myself a few days ago—minus the kaleidoscope eyes, of course, and I had to do my due diligence and warn the poor guy.

  Checking the time, I head back to my room, change out of the day’s clothes and into sweats and a t-shirt, and settle into my bed.

  Tomorrow I’m interviewing nannies for Honor—something I never thought I’d be doing in a million years. Margaux was supposed to send me all of their resumes along with a schedule before she left for the day, so I grab my phone and pull up my work email.

  Sure enough, she sent everything at 4:58 PM—two minutes to spare. I’m about to select her message when I notice something above it—an email hot off the presses and sent a mere three minutes ago.

  Smirking, I feed my curiosity.

  TO: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp

  FROM: AnonStranger@Rockmail

  SUBJECT: RE: re: re: re: Condolences

  Bennett,

  If you want to be miserable—fine. That’s your prerogative. But it doesn’t give you the right to go around destroying everyone else’s happiness. I’m not sure why you think I’m some kind of scammer or that I would have any reason to lie to you. I’ve never asked you for a thing. I’ve only ever shown you kindness, compassion, and sympathy. Perhaps those are foreign to you. Perhaps you’re so miserly and habitually dejected that those things are a language you couldn’t possibly begin to understand.

  The things I did … sending you those emails … came from a good place, even if you refuse to believe that. And running into you last weekend was purely coincidental—not that you can say the same about tonight.

  Maybe I should have spoken up last Saturday—and believe me, I wanted to many times—but I was enjoying my time with you. You made me laugh, you made me feel alive again for the first time since losing Trevor, and I was clinging onto that feeling until you put your hand on my knee—then I realized that I couldn’t possibly let it go any further, couldn’t bring myself to add insult to injury by going home with you, because you were going to read my email sooner or later.

  So I saw myself out of that situation because it was the right thing to do, and clearly, it was for the best because you are the WORST kind of human being.

  You are beyond irredeemable.

  Please, if for some insane reason you happen upon me again, do us both a favor and walk the other way. I promise to do the same.

  Best wishes—

  Astaire

  Sitting up in bed, I click on the lamp beside me and fire off a response.

  TO: AnonStranger@Rockmail

  FROM: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachC
orp

  SUBJECT: RE: re: re: re: re: Condolences

  Astaire,

  Best wishes? Seriously? What kind of uninspiring mind fuckery is that? I thought you were a professional manipulator? Surely you can come up with something more original than best-fucking-wishes.

  But I digress.

  On the extremely off-chance that you aren’t a gold-digging con-woman, then you owe me an enormous apology as well as an even bigger thank-you.

  I’m sure you’re wondering why, so allow me to explain. When I took it upon myself to approach your date to let him know with exactly whom he was dealing, I strolled up to him from behind—where it just so happened I was able to catch a glimpse of the dick pic he was in the process of sending to another woman.

  It’s an image I would pay an ungodly amount of money to un-see, but seeing how we’re lightyears away from that kind of technology, I’ll have to hope and pray that one day the visual of his five-inch uncut ‘gem’ will be wiped clean from my memory. Perhaps someday, I’ll be able to eat button mushrooms again without that nauseating graphic flashing through my mind.

  Until then, like I said … you should thank me.

  Also, while we’re on the subject of your date, I feel it’s only appropriate to point out the fact that you clearly have a type—only tonight’s doppelgänger was a bit of an insult to the rest of us tall, dark, successful, and impossibly handsome types because it was in talking to the poor bastard that I was able to glean that the twenty-thousand-dollar watch on his wrist was, indeed, a fake.

  Perhaps you’re thinking, “But Bennett, I don’t care if his watch was real or fake, we were having a lovely time and that’s all that matters.” To which I would say, “Authenticity is everything. Believe people when they show you who they are and not when they tell you who they are.”

  Anyway, you’re welcome, Astaire.

  Yours in advice (nothing more, nothing less),

  Bennett

  I hit ‘send’ and toss my phone aside.

  My body bakes beneath the covers, my legs restless and aching to move. I fling the covers down, pace my room, and head down the hall to pour myself a Lagavulin, something to help me ease back into a relaxed state—if that’s even possible at this point.

  I’m not sure what the hell my problem is.

  I’m not normally this wordy, at least not when it comes to women. I find the less you say, the more impactful the message, but it seems like whenever I’m dealing with her, I can’t shut off. Uncontrollable word vomit. Every-fucking-where.

  I’m sipping my nightcap when I keep picturing her teary-eyed face, the way she said “move” through gritted teeth before disappearing into the bathroom. Half of me firmly believes all of this is a ruse. An expertly-crafted ruse.

  The other half of me is beginning to wonder …

  And that other half is also fixating on the fact that she went out on a date with a cheap imitation vanilla version of me—a version of me that made her smile ear-to-ear, bigger than she smiled last Saturday when I gave her shit for being the ray-of-fucking-sunshine that she is.

  Trudging back to my room, I swipe my phone off the bed and refresh my email.

  TO: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp

  FROM: AnonStranger@Rockmail

  SUBJECT: RE: re: re: re: re: re: Condolences

  Bennett,

  I had a bunch of things typed out but I deleted them.

  My adoptive mother had this saying: hurt people hurt people. You’re clearly hurting—and maybe hurting me makes you hurt less.

  I don’t want to be a couple of misunderstood strangers fighting on the Internet.

  Something tells me we’re both better than that.

  If you need a friend, someone to talk to—here’s my number: 555-667-8265.

  Sincerely,

  Astaire

  I close out of my email, darken my phone screen, and turn off the light.

  Reverse psychology doesn’t work on me.

  I don’t need a friend.

  And I sure as hell don’t need her.

  17

  Astaire

  “Hi there.” I pass Jane in the hallway Friday afternoon. She gives me a smile and a nod but doesn’t say another word—which is what she’s been doing for a full week now.

  I can only imagine what Bennett said to her nephew to make him bolt out of Fino, which means I can only imagine what she thinks of me now …

  It’s been eight days since I sent Bennett my phone number, and I haven’t received so much as a confirmation email or text of any kind—not that I expected him to take me up on that offer. Someone like him isn’t going to say, “Gosh, you know what? You’re right. I’m unhappy and I sure could use a friend!”

  Men like that don’t do vulnerability.

  They’re insulted by help, affronted by the assumption that they’re lacking in any way, emotional or otherwise.

  But I haven’t a single regret, and I’ve slept like a baby every night since. The email I almost sent in place of that one was nasty and bitter and frankly, written from a dark place inside of me I never knew existed.

  I couldn’t bring myself to send it. They weren’t things I’d ever say to anyone to their face, so typing them in an email seemed cheap and low.

  Heading to the teacher’s lounge to run off a few copies before my kids come in from afternoon recess, I slide my phone from my back pocket while I wait for the antiquated machine to collate and staple. Only the second my screen comes to life, I’m greeted with a text from an unfamiliar local number and the words: CALL ME.

  Stomach twisting, I realize this could be a number of people … but in my heart of hearts, I have a feeling I know exactly who it is.

  And he’ll just have to wait.

  18

  Bennett

  “About damn time,” I answer when she calls me at a quarter past six Friday night. I mark my page in Plato’s Republic and rest it beside my whiskey.

  “Bennett?” Astaire’s voice is a confused brand of sugar-sweet on the other end. “I thought that was you …”

  “I’m going to text you my address. Come over at eight.” Texting someone to have them call you so you can tell them you’re going to text them seems infuriatingly convoluted—but I wanted to make sure we were on the same page, wanted her to know my invitation is serious, and I wanted to guarantee my invite wouldn’t be ignored.

  And maybe I wanted to hear her voice.

  “I have plans.” She pauses, followed by a short exhalation.

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “I don’t understand what this is about.”

  “You will.” I rotate my tumbler on the coaster and take a sip, staring into the fiery inferno that is my limestone-wrapped fireplace. “When you get here.”

  With that, I hang up. I’m certain her curiosity is unbearable after a week of radio silence, but I had my reasons—reasons I’ll be sure to share with her when she comes.

  Because she is coming.

  * * *

  “Are you going to tell me why you invited me over?” Astaire stands in my doorway, a thin veil of floral-and-musk perfume emanating off her cloud-colored jacket as she grips her purse strap.

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re adorable when you’re trying to be serious? Come in.” I move out of the way and watch as she steps into my foyer, the expansive space almost swallowing her whole as her ballerina flats pad soft against the shiny travertine tile.

  Turning to me, she tilts her head. My gaze lands on her full mouth, which is barely shiny enough to tell me she slicked on a coat of lip balm before she came here.

  This woman is a beautiful mess of contradictions—all of which I intend to use in my favor tonight.

  “You said you didn’t want to be just a couple of strangers arguing on the Internet.” I take her jacket. “So I thought we should argue in person.”

  “Seriously? You invited me to your place so we could … argue … in person?”

  “Amongst other things.” I p
lace her jacket in my coat closet but she retains her purse as if it’s her lifeline, as if I’m a crazed serial killer and she’s prepared to whip out a can of expired mace she’s been carrying around for years. “May I offer you a drink?”

  I point down the hall and head for the bar.

  She follows, keeping a careful distance.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have champagne so I won’t be able to make those cocktails you were so smitten with the other weekend.” I peruse my collection of imported hard liquors. “But I’ve got just about anything else your little heart desires.”

  “Water would be great. Thank you.”

  I turn to her. “Don’t insult me, Astaire. I’ve invited you into my home and I’ve offered to make you a drink, and I don’t do that for just anyone.”

  “I won’t be staying long. I just came by because I thought you needed … something.”

  Why, yes. I do need something …

  I fix myself a whiskey sour, stirring with my finger before licking the excess. And then I grab her a bottle of Evian from the bar fridge under the counter. She accepts the water but leaves it capped, and then she follows me into the living room where she takes a seat on the cognac Chesterfield across from the fireplace.

  “I owe you an apology,” I say.

  Her brows lift and she brushes a glossy blonde wave off her shoulder, sitting straighter, ears practically perked like a Welsh Corgi.

  “I had someone do some digging,” I go on. “Your story checks out. All of it. And I’m sorry for your losses.”

  Her nose scrunches. “And you couldn’t have emailed me this apology?”

  “First of all, it’s proper etiquette. Second of all, I didn’t want the message to get lost in translation.” I take a sip to hide my smirk. I shouldn’t be laughing. My apology is sincere, but that deer-in-the-headlights look she’s giving me is an amusing distraction of endearing proportions.

  Astaire stands, her bag still tucked under her arm.