Heartless

by R. C. Martin

  I jerk my head back in surprise, suddenly feeling irritated. “I’ve tried talking to you. Over and over again! How can you stand there and think otherwise? That—this—it’s part of the problem. You don’t listen. You don’t hear me. And let’s not get into how many times you’ve flat out forgotten me.”

  “Fuck, Blaine, are you going to hold that over my head forever? How many times do I have to tell you I’m sorry?”

  I brush my fingers across my cheeks, wiping away my tears, surprised that the hurt I felt a minute ago has given way to something else. Now I’m angry.

  “I’m sick and tired of hearing you tell me that you’re sorry. I don’t want you to tell me that you’re sorry. I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to stop doing things that require an apology.”

  “What kind of fairytale expectations are those? Huh? Nobody’s perfect. You think if you kick me out, you’ll find someone who is? Well, you’re wrong.”

  “I’m not asking for perfection. I’ve never wanted that from you,” I argue, folding my arms across my chest.

  “Then what do you want, Blaine?”

  Unexpectedly, my answer comes in the form of a memory. I close my eyes, and I’m in the middle of a baseball diamond. Only, Michael isn’t with me—not yet. I’m on the pitcher’s mound by myself, and I see everything, and it’s beautiful.

  Opening my eyes slowly, I look up at Mateo and whisper, “Everything. I want everything.”

  He looks at me incredulously, and I can tell that my words mean nothing to him. He’s listening but he doesn’t hear me. There’s a disconnect, one that I can no longer ignore. As I stare back at him, I see that he’s pissed, but that’s all. I don’t recognize an ounce of desperation is his brown eyes. There’s no pain or longing. There’s no violent storm in the middle of a dark blue ocean. It’s in the midst of my epiphany that I decide it’s time I told the whole truth.

  “I kissed someone last night.”

  “Excuse me?” he practically growls.

  “I’m not proud of it, but it happened. I didn’t do it to hurt you or get back at you—I just wanted to feel good, and it felt good.”

  “You wanted to feel good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Are you trying to tell me that I don’t satisfy you? My dick isn’t good enough for you now?” Taking a step toward me, he mutters, “I know an orgasm when I feel one, baby, and I’m pretty sure I satisfy you just fine.”

  “This is not about sex,” I argue, pushing him away from me.

  “No?” he challenges, taking hold of my hips. He pulls me against him and touches his forehead to mine. “You let some other fucker put his dick in you and you’re going to stand here and tell me this isn’t about sex?”

  “I didn’t sleep with him, Mateo—we only kissed.”

  “Great. Fine. If it was only a kiss, then we can fix this. It’s supposed to be you and me, Blaine. I’m here,” he grunts before pressing his lips against mine. “Right here.”

  My tears return when he pries my mouth open with his tongue. His kiss is hard and aggressive. It’s possessive and not the least bit persuasive. I kiss him back not because I want him, but because he deserves this goodbye. The truth is, I can’t taste his love. I can’t feel it. I can’t find it in order to get lost in it. I don’t know how I got used to this. I don’t remember when we stopped being us. All I can think about is how different it felt when I kissed Michael.

  Thinking about how he stole my breath with one brush of his lips—it causes me to break away from Mateo. I push myself out of his arms and cover my mouth with my hand, swallowing my guilt. Between my shame, my heartache, and my frustration, I can hardly stand to be in my own head. This whole thing feels so fucked up, and yet I know that it’s the right thing to do.

  Taking another step back, I grab my purse and loop the straps over my shoulder as I meet Mateo’s cold stare. “I’m going to step out for a while. Will you please just go?”

  He shakes his head, scowling as he mumbles, “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

  A sob rises in my throat as regret joins my solemn party of emotions. Backing my way to the door, I wish that this had gone differently. I know that he deserves more, that we both deserve more, but this is all I have to give.

  “I’m—I’m sorry. I really did love you. I just—can’t anymore. I’m sorry.”

  Without second guessing myself, I head straight for the door and don’t look back. I hear him yell son of a bitch when I press my back against the barrier that now stands between us, and my heart sinks even lower. I can hardly wrap my head around what just happened. It feels surreal. In this moment, absolution is the last thing that I can grab hold of, my hands marred with a loss I know not how to comprehend.

  As I start toward the steps, headed back to my car, I reach for my phone. Before I can bring up my list of contacts, a call comes through. I stop my descent immediately, staring at The Governor as my ringtone echoes in the stairwell. I want so badly to answer and to hear his voice, but I can’t. Not right now. Not after what just happened.

  God—I’m such a bitch.

  I let the call ring through to my voicemail as I hurry to my car. Once inside, I pull up my contacts and find the one I was originally after. Mommy’s Pearl answers on the second ring.

  “Hello, darling. How are you?”

  I blow out a tearful sigh before I tell her, “I broke up with Mateo. I made a mess. A really big mess.”

  “I’ll meet you in thirty minutes.”

  She hangs up without a goodbye, but I don’t complain. Like always, Simone is headed to our spot without hesitation. She’s constantly there for me, exactly when I need her.

  Michael

  “THANK YOU FOR your time, Governor, it was a pleasure having you on today’s show.”

  “The pleasure was mine.”

  I hang up the phone and Heidi smiles at me from where she sits on the other side of my desk. Standing just enough to reach for the file in front of me and hand me another, she says, “One down, one to go.”

  I nod, flipping my wrist to check the time before looking down at the notes that were prepared for me. In her poised, practice manner, Heidi briefs me about what I can expect on my next radio interview, scheduled for ten minutes from now. Try as I might, I’m only half listening while I mentally sort through the rest of my day. After my upcoming call, I have a cabinet meeting, which will take me into the late afternoon, followed by another meeting with the mayor of Denver.

  Coming to the conclusion that now is probably the only window of time I have until the day is over, I glance at my watch once more, interrupting Heidi as I murmur, “I’m sorry to cut you off, but I need a moment. Five minutes. I have a personal phone call to make.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she replies, hopping out of her seat in an instant. “Five minutes. I’ll be back.”

  I watch her take her leave and then draw in a deep breath as she closes the door behind her. Pulling my personal phone from my pocket, I don’t waste any time bringing up Blaine’s number. I haven’t heard from her since Saturday, when she kissed my cheek in farewell. I tried to call her Sunday but got no answer. I told myself not to read into it—but that was three days ago. Now her silence makes me wonder if she’s changed her mind about us; if she’s having second thoughts, or maybe she’s feeling guilty after our evening together. Whatever it is, I need to hear her say the words.

  When my first call rings through to voicemail, I shake my head and call back again. I want to believe that the feeling in my gut is worry over her well-being. I want to believe that she wouldn’t ignore me on purpose, not after our time together. I don’t want to admit that I’m starting to feel desperate. What happened on that ball field was not one-sided. I know that I can’t be the only one thinking about that kiss and craving another. I can’t be the only one who misses the sound of her voice, and the way her face lights up when she giggles. I can’t be the only one going crazy.

  I don’t leave a voicemail when she doesn’t pick up fo
r the second time. Instead, I pull up Veronica’s number and hit dial. When she doesn’t answer, I’m relieved—so much so that I don’t have room to feel ashamed of myself for what I’m about to do.

  “Vee, it’s me. I wanted to let you know that I’m going to be late tonight. Don’t hold dinner, I’ll eat out. I hope to be home around eight or so. Love you.” The words fall out of my mouth without thought, and my speech falters for a moment. Sure that I don’t have time to think about what those words mean these days, I conclude my message with a goodbye and hang up.

  UPON ENTERING THE Prohibition Lounge, I don’t bypass the hostess and make my way to the bar. Switching up my routine, I ask for a table for two—requesting a seat with a view of the bar, in case I want to check the score from tonight’s game.

  “Sir?” Clay questions me quietly as we’re escorted to our table.

  “You’ll be my dinner companion tonight. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, sir. Not at all.”

  While I know it probably irks him to have his back to the room, Clay doesn’t protest when I take the booth-side seat against the wall. He’s a smart man, and I doubt he’s ignorant of why we are here, or that the score of tonight’s game is the last thing on my mind as I focus my attention across the room.

  I go unnoticed, a circumstance that doesn’t bother me. It gives me an opportunity to try and get a read on her. Since the moment that I met her, I’ve been able to see her. That is who she is. She doesn’t hide from the world—at least not very well. Tonight, I can see that while her smile may be genuine, it is not whole.

  It isn’t until after our dinner orders are taken that I pull out my phone and send my first text. I’m not even certain that she’ll answer. I’m sure it’s against the rules to text while she’s behind the bar, but it’s worth a shot. It takes her nearly five minutes to even check her device, but my concerns in regards to her desires are put to rest when she unknowingly gives me her back, facing the register as she types out her reply.

  Have you changed your mind?

  No. Shit, Michael, I’m sorry. Sunday was…horrible timing. This afternoon, you called while I was still sleeping.

  Still sleeping? At two in the afternoon?

  She steps away from the register before reading my reply, but I know when she feels her phone alert her to my text from inside of her pocket. Her smile hitches a little higher as she tends to a customer, causing a smile of my own to play at my lips. I patiently wait for her answer, which comes after she mixes two drinks and closes out someone’s tab.

  Don’t judge. I work until 2am. Besides, I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately. Anyway, I’m sorry. I haven’t changed my mind.

  …I miss you.

  My chest swells as I read her text twice. When I glance back up at her, I find her still situated at the register, waiting for my response. Knowing she won’t be able to linger long, I’m quick to send her my reply.

  I need to see you.

  Me too. Schedule sucks this week. Here late every night until Friday. Covering a shift Saturday. Traded my Sunday, though.

  She shoves her phone into the pack pocket of her slacks the same time that our dinner arrives. I frown down at my plate, counting the days until Sunday. Practically speaking, I don’t see how any sooner would be possible. Nevertheless, I feel impatient at the thought of waiting. That’s what she does to me. I haven’t felt this anxious about being with a woman in what feels like a lifetime. Even simply being in the same room as her has calmed my nerves.

  I laugh to myself, realizing how crazy that makes me sound.

  Looking across the table, I watch Clay cut into his steak before I ask, “Would this constitute as stalking?”

  He jerks his gaze up at me, his face impassive. His eyes speak of his alarm, until he realizes I’m joking. He then quirks an eyebrow at me and mutters, “In my experience, sir, there’s a fine line between stalking and pursuing. I’ll keep you abreast if I feel as though you’ve crossed into dangerous territory.”

  All teasing aside, I let my smile fade away as I offer him a nod, silently expressing my gratitude—not just for his comment, but for his discretion. Acknowledging that I owe him more than a thank you, we spend the rest of our meal in conversation. Clay has a history of being private and professional, but a cordial companion at all times. We don’t discuss anything personal, keeping to sports and the news, our rapport as comfortable as always. Then, all too soon, our empty plates are cleared from the table and we’re served with the check.

  It isn’t until our waitress goes to process my payment that I reach for my phone again to send Blaine another message.

  Sunday. My office. The Capitol will be a ghost town.

  Just tell me when.

  5pm. Front doors.

  Okay.

  After I’ve settled the bill, I send one last text, hoping she’ll see it before I leave.

  I missed you, too. Had to see you. The crab cake isn’t quite the same without your company.

  I wait a moment after pushing send before I stand and start for the door. When I reach the threshold, I chance a glance over my shoulder, and look right into her eyes. The shy smile she gives me makes tonight’s dinner bill completely worth it. Then, five minutes later, when I’m halfway to the mansion, my phone alerts me to one final message.

  Is it Sunday, yet?

  Blaine

  I TRY NOT TO look suspicious as hell as I climb the steps leading to the Capitol—but I’m nervous, it’s Sunday, and I know I don’t belong here anymore today than I did the first time I came. While Michael assured me there wouldn’t be a bunch of important people roaming the halls in suits, that didn’t stop me from upping my dress game a little. The short, white summer dress I’m wearing has a pink rose floral pattern printed on it. It’s strapless, and the ruched bodice hugs my torso before the skirt drapes comfortably around my narrow hips. I paired it with a denim jean jacket and my white Keds.

  Okay, so, not exactly business casual—but I work at a high-end bar with a strict dress code. It’s the best I could do.

  When I reach the second flight of stairs in front of the building, I see Clay sitting at the top. My stomach knots up at the sight of him, his presence reminding me that I’m only moments away from being with Michael again. It’s been a week since we last got to spend any time together, but it feels like much longer. The last several days have been long and draining, and I’ve been looking forward to this evening since we set the date.

  Before I have a chance to hurry up the steps, Clay stands and hurries down them. “Ms. Foster, follow me please.”

  I do as I’m told without question and follow him to an alternate entrance. It doesn’t take much for me to guess why he’s sneaking me in some private, back doorway, and my nerves go up a notch at the thought of being caught. Even with the silence that trails after us, my heart beats faster, and I try not to breathe—not wanting to make a sound until we step foot into a familiar room.

  The reception area outside of Michael’s office is only lit from the little bit of sun that shines through the window. The absence of the overhead light reminds me, once again, that we really are alone in here, and I have nothing to worry about. When Clay comes to a stop in front of me, he turns and motions for me to proceed. The nerves in my stomach turn into something else. Knowing Michael is only a few feet away has my heart racing for entirely different reasons.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as I walk past Clay, heading toward the governor’s office.

  I find him pacing the floor, which makes me smile for some reason. It’s cute, seeing him frazzled. Michael Cavanaugh is a man of power and political prowess. He exudes a confidence that he’s earned—not just because he’s worked so hard to get to where he is today, or because he’s an elected official that basically makes him the president of Colorado, but also because he’s a man who has walked this earth for almost forty years. Yet, his anxiousness over this moment reminds me that regardless of how far apart we are on the spectrum of life, an
d in spite of the fact that this is new and undefined—whatever this is—we’re in it together.

  Taking advantage of this opportunity to give him a proper look, I don’t cross the threshold as I drag my eyes up and down the man who has been occupying my dreams. He’s wearing a navy blue button-up shirt and a pair of black jeans. His shirt is untucked, the collar undone, and the sleeves are rolled up his forearms. Fully aware that I’ve only really ever seen him in dress shirts or a t-shirt, I must conclude that there’s something about the way his button-ups hug his muscles that makes me weak at the knees.

  When I close the door behind me, the click that sounds as the latch slides home causes Michael to stop and look my way. My stomach clenches as his gaze collides with mine, and I’m overwhelmed with the slight sense of absolution that lifts a weight I’ve been wrestling with all week. Being here with Michael, the desire I have to run into his arms right now, it’s proof that breaking up with Mateo was the right thing to do. Even if what’s going on between us ends up being a huge cluster-fuck, I want it—I want him more than the relationship I let go.

  Neither of us speaks for what seems like an eternity, both of us appreciating the other from afar. Then, skipping over hello, Michael’s hushed, raspy voice commands, “Come here,” and I don’t hesitate.

  Dropping my bag into one of the chairs in front of his desk along the way, I walk straight into his chest. He wraps me in his arms as if I belong there, forcing me on my tiptoes as he lifts me up for a kiss. I don’t hold back, resting my arms across his broad shoulders while I tangle my tongue with his. If I thought for one second that our first kiss was some epic, one-time only occurrence—this kiss proves me wrong.