The Cruelest Stranger Page 13

  Heading out, I lock his door behind me but when I turn to make my way to the elevator, I’m face to face with a vaguely familiar set of icy-blue eyes belonging to a man with coal-black hair, shiny and slicked back. He wears dark gray jeans, ripped, and suede jacket that fills my nostrils with the tang of tanned leather. A thinner, more menacing version of Bennett.

  “Bennett home?” His words are breathy, his hands tremoring as they rest on his hips. If I had to guess, this is his brother.

  The brother with whom there’s bad blood …

  Dark circles nest below his squinted eyes as he waits for my response.

  “No.” I leave it at that. If Bennett hasn’t told him he’s in the hospital, I’m sure as heck not going to.

  “I don’t suppose you know where I can find him?” His watchful gaze dips to the duffel bag hanging from my shoulder, mahogany leather with Bennett’s monogram stitched into the side in black thread.

  “I’m sorry.” I turn, continuing my journey to the elevator, when I’m joined by his footsteps.

  “Excuse me. I didn’t catch your name?”

  I stop in my tracks, but I don’t turn to face him.

  “Where are you going with my brother’s things?” He points to the duffel, his brows furrowed as if he demands an answer.

  “I need to get going …” I continue to the elevator, punching the call button and exhaling a silent prayer of gratitude when the doors part immediately. Fortunately, Bennett’s brother doesn’t climb aboard—he stares me down with a peculiar expression I couldn’t read if I tried.

  “Tell him to call Errol,” he says as the doors begin to close. “Tell him it’s extremely urgent. Please.”

  28

  Bennett

  My phone vibrates across the tray table. I yank it off the charger. “Yeah?”

  “Hey, it’s me,” my investigator says on the other end.

  “Any luck with the texts?”

  “Nah. Not yet. Still working on it. Her phone was … antiquated … so it’s taking more legwork than I anticipated, but anyway, I was calling you back on that other thing you wanted me to look into? The heart donor thing?”

  Weeks ago, when he’d given me Astaire’s background report it included a copy of her fiancé’s obituary. His death date was January seventh—the same day as my transplant. The only information I was given was that he was twenty-five and had been involved in a car accident. His name was confidential. I’ve never given much credence to coincidences before, but this one was too unnerving to ignore.

  “Do you have a name for me?”

  “I do. Now you didn’t hear this from me because I don’t want to get my source canned. Don’t go contacting the family or doing anything crazy, all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Name was Trevor Gaines. Lived here in Worthington Heights. Taught math at Caldecott Junior High. Originally from—”

  “—that’s enough. Thank you. Please let me know when you have the other information I requested.” I end the call in time to hear the rustling plastic bags and Astaire’s soft footsteps.

  She deposits my leather duffel on a guest chair in the corner before placing my food and plastic cutlery on my tray table.

  “Hope you’re hungry. Might have ordered too much …” She speaks in a comforting half-whisper, her movements fluid.

  When I sit up, she adjusts the pillows behind my back.

  I wouldn’t think to do these things for her if our situations were reversed. The fact that caring for others comes so easily to her does nothing more than highlight how wrong we are for one another.

  “Astaire.”

  She stops situating my pillows and rests a hand on my shoulder. “You need something else?”

  I’m two seconds from telling her to stop doting so much when I change my mind and offer a simple, “Thank you.”

  She waves her hand, like it’s no big deal, but it is a big deal. This means she cares about me more than she should. I should have sent an assistant for my things. Could have ordered my dinner and had it delivered. I never should have let her do this.

  The love of her life’s heart beats in my chest.

  I’ve never loved anything half as much as she probably loved him.

  This entire thing is strange and tangled …

  … which is why I can’t let it go any further.

  Especially if I’m going to need her help with Honor in the future.

  “Appreciate this, but you should go home now. Get some sleep. You have to work in the morning.” I slice into my chicken, avoiding eye contact because I can already sense the blanket of pity in her delicate gaze.

  “Wasn’t planning to stay. I know you need your sleep.” She tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. “But, um … when I was leaving your place, I ran into someone …”

  I stop chewing and glance over.

  “Errol.” A micro-wince paints her soft features.

  I take a satisfying stab at a green bean with my fork.

  “That’s your brother, isn’t it?” She takes a step closer. “He said to have you call him. Said it’s extremely urgent.”

  I chuff. “Not happening. But thank you for relaying the message.”

  “He asked if I knew where he could find you,” she says. “And he asked my name, where I was going …”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Nothing,” she’s quick to respond. “Nothing at all. I told him I had to go and I got on the elevator and left. I don’t know the history between you two or why there’s bad blood, so I—”

  “—my entire family is bad blood, Astaire. And that’s all you need to know.” I rest my fork against the side of the Styrofoam container. I’ve lost my appetite.

  “That’s a bit of an overstatement, don’t you think? You’re not bad blood.”

  The way she says it, I almost believe her.

  I want to believe her.

  “Do me a favor and take off the rose-colored glasses for once in your life.” My tone is curt, my words unfeeling. I stare at the white board on the far wall where a nurse has written her name alongside a starry-eyed smiley face—as if that’s supposed to make me happy. “You’d be better served not idealizing me.”

  Astaire’s stare is heavy, her presence paralyzed for an endless moment.

  “You’ve obviously had a rough day... and I have work in the morning … I’m going to leave so you can rest.” Her voice is broken as she gathers her things and moves for the door. Stopping to linger, she adds, “I hope you feel better soon.”

  With that, she’s gone.

  I’ve clearly upset her, shown her a side of me she likely hoped she’d never see again, but it’s for the greater good.

  Someday she’ll understand.

  29

  Astaire

  A hospital custodian mops the floor of Bennett’s room Friday afternoon.

  Another one strips his sheets, whistling an unfamiliar tune.

  I clear my throat. “Excuse me. The man that was here. Did they move him?”

  The whistling woman shrugs. “Check the nurse’s station.”

  My heartbeat whooshes in my ears as I trot down the hall and find a nurse in red scrubs hunching over a computer station. My mind runs through a hundred scenarios—some of them not so pretty. I couldn’t sleep last night, so I spent a solid hour researching heart transplants, statistics, life expectancies, complications …

  I understand now why the man is so pessimistic about his condition.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Bennett Schoenbach. He was here last night but he isn’t in his room. I was wondering if he was moved?” My gaze darts from her name badge to her computer to the coffee stain on her top.

  She peers up, lips flat, and then she types a few letters into her keyboard and squints at the screen. “Discharged. Two hours ago.”

  I thank her and make a beeline for the elevator, trekking the quarter-mile corridor to the parking garage at a complete loss for words.<
br />
  I thought about him all day today, checked my phone every opportunity I had hoping there was an update or message, and in the end, I figured he was busy or resting and we’d catch up later tonight.

  I gave him the benefit of the doubt because I was certain he’d keep me in the loop the first chance he got, because that’s what friends do.

  As far as I know, I’m the only person who knew he was admitted yesterday—so why wouldn’t he tell me he was discharged?

  It’s common courtesy.

  This combined with the way he spoke to me after I brought him his dinner last night is a slap in the face.

  By the time I get to my car, my mind is made up.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m standing at his door.

  I knock three separate times before he finally opens it. His hair is combed and shower-wet, and a crisp white t-shirt clings to his broad shoulders while navy sweats hang off his narrow hips. His complexion has a healthier tint than it did last night and the woodsy scent of aftershave wafts off his damp skin.

  “Just left the hospital.” I grip my purse strap and try to keep my voice calm. I didn’t come here to fight. “Would’ve been nice to know you’d been discharged.”

  He doesn’t invite me in, in fact, he anchors himself in the doorway, elbow resting against the jam as he peers at me with a curious expression.

  “You’re not my keeper, Astaire.”

  I bite my tongue, swallowing what I really want to say. “I thought we were friends.”

  Bennett exhales. “We are.”

  “Then please explain to me why you’ve suddenly turned back into Mr. Hyde with zero explanation?” I throw a hand in the air, sniff an incredulous laugh. “Do you get irritable when you don’t feel well? Are you anxious? Is it something I said?”

  He says nothing, which only sends my blood to a boil.

  “Please help me understand.” I clasp my hands together.

  “What’s the point?”

  “What’s … the … point?” I feed his question back, emphasizing each and every word. “I guess there is none... I just … the past couple of weeks we’d been getting along so well, having fun … you were opening up to me, confiding in me … then last night I’m gone for all of an hour and when I get back, you’re a completely different person. It’d be nice to know where this is coming from.”

  “I bet it would be … but unfortunately it still doesn’t matter.”

  “You hate being vulnerable. You hate the idea of looking weak. You’re ashamed of your family. You’ve got this ironclad façade you place between yourself and the rest of the world,” I say. “I know those things about you. I’ve known them from the start. And yet, I rushed to your side the second you texted me last night.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I fold my arms across my chest.

  “I think we’ve been getting ahead of ourselves the last couple of weeks.” He drags his fingers through his damp hair, lips pressed flat.

  “We?” I ask. “We? Bennett, you invited me on a date. You took me shopping for your niece. You invited me to your house for dinner. You texted me your hospital room number, which I took as an invitation.”

  “All right. Fine. I’ve been getting ahead of myself. Is that better?”

  Not really. “What happened in that hour that flipped a switch in you? Something spooked you.”

  “Nothing spooked me, Astaire.” He scoffs.

  How dare I insult him by suggesting he’s afraid of something …

  “You know … you’re the first actual friend I’ve had since I lost Trevor …” my voice fades, breaks, and I gather a deep breath. “I don’t know why you suddenly had a change of heart, but I think I at least deserve an explanation.”

  “You do. But you’re not getting one.”

  A million more things I want to say, a million thoughts swarm my head, but I swallow them down. There’s no point in arguing with a brick wall.

  I leave, pacing back to the elevator while trying to shove a cocktail of emotions to the deepest part of me so I don’t lose it in front of him.

  I honestly believed we were friends.

  I was even beginning to get butterflies when he looked at me. I entertained daydream fantasies I had no business entertaining. And my stomach would somersault with each text message notification.

  But he’s nothing more than that cruelhearted stranger from the bar.

  And that’s all he’ll ever be.

  “Astaire.” He says my name as I reach for the call button.

  I keep my back to him.

  “Astaire, wait.” His voice is closer now.

  The elevator chimes. The doors part. His hand hooks my elbow and he presses the “close” button.

  My ride disappears.

  “Look at me.” He turns me to face him, but my attention is fixed on the patterned carpet. “Look at me.”

  With a finger beneath my chin, he softly lifts my gaze to his.

  “You’re crying.” He traces the pad of his thumb across my cheek.

  I brush him away. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Act like you care.”

  His chest rises and falls. “But I do. I care way too fucking much.”

  He slips his hand over mine and leads me back to his apartment. A moment later, we’re seated on his sofa. He buries his face in his hands, breathing hard before sinking back in the cushions and staring toward the gray city scape beyond the wall of windows.

  Seconds feel like minutes, dripping by with each patient tick of his mantel clock.

  And then he takes my hand. “Astaire, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  My heart rattles in my chest and my hand tremors in his. Those aren’t words that normally accompany good news. The last time I heard them was the day of Linda’s cancer diagnosis. The time before that, my foster father was delivering the news that my mother had stopped trying to regain custody and I was officially a ward of the state.

  “I had my guy do some digging.” His gaze holds mine. “Turns out my heart donor … was your fiancé.”

  His words don’t register until I’ve replayed them in my head a couple more times.

  “Why?” I have a dozen questions, but that one comes out first. “Why did you check into that?”

  “Because the date in your fiancé’s obituary matched with the date of my transplant. And based on the non-identifying information I was given, things were matching up. I wanted to know.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nods, no hesitation. “Trevor Gaines. Age twenty-five. Math teacher from Worthington Heights. January seventh.”

  Tears blind my vision and I can’t wipe them away fast enough. Without saying a word, Bennett disappears into the next room, returning with a handful of tissues and taking the spot beside me again.

  I get the sense that he doesn’t handle tears well—but these are happy tears.

  He studies me, motionless, like he isn’t sure what to do, what to say.

  If I could speak, I’d tell him simply sharing this information, being here with me is more than enough.

  “Are you okay?” He waits a few minutes before asking.

  Drying my eyes, I nod again and again. And then I throw my arms around him and hug him harder than I’ve ever hugged anyone in my life. His heart beats against mine.

  Trevor’s heart.

  Bennett lets me hold him, and after a while, he holds me back too.

  Eventually, I release him. I sink back. Drag in a jagged breath. Look deep into his ice-blue gaze for the first time all over again.

  “Thank you for sharing that with me.” I take his hand.

  “You’re not upset about it?” He squints.

  “God, no. Why would I be?” I dab a crumpled tissue at the corner of my eye. “Remember when I told you that the past year has been filled with brilliantly painful yet beautiful moments?”

  He nods.

  “This is one of them.�
� My voice is a broken whisper, but I push on. “A part of Trevor—the best part of him—gets to live because of you.”

  He says nothing, and his attention flicks to the window again. I can practically hear his thoughts … he thinks I’m being too optimistic.

  Linda always told me everything happens for a reason.

  Everything.

  There’s a reason Bennett Schoenbach was put in my path that night.

  And again …

  And again.

  I move closer, lifting my hand to his chest with a bit of reluctance. “Do you mind if I …”

  With a moment of consideration, he takes my hand and presses the palm against the thin fabric of his white tee, over the steady drum of Trevor’s heart.

  Eyes closed, I focus on the soft, gentle thumps.

  “This is so surreal.” A smile claims my lips and a tear slips down my cheek. “I wish you could have met him.”

  I inhale this moment in every sense of the word, and then I remove my hand from Bennett’s chest. When I open my eyes, I find him staring.

  “How do you feel about this?” I ask. “I mean, this is crazy, right? What are the odds?”

  “It’s a wild coincidence, but that’s all it is. A coincidence.”

  I blow a puff of air between my lips. “Bennett, this is big. This is so much bigger than either of us can—”

  “Come on.” He tilts his head. “I’m glad you got to have your little moment, but let’s not go assigning some deeper meaning to it.”

  “My little moment?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  I lean forward, elbows on my knees, gathering my thoughts as I take in the assortment of decorative objects placed perfectly along his coffee table. Objects a decorator probably chose for him, objects that probably mean nothing to him because the man lives a life void of meaning of any kind, because meaning makes you feel things and feeling things terrifies him.

  “Are we back to this?” I ask. “The apathetic, condescending one-liners?”