Having Rosenfeld (Rosenfeld Duet Book 2)

by Leighann Hart

  They faced one another, roosted on the stools lining the breakfast bar. A glass of shiraz sat before each of them. Ryleigh’s remained untouched; she had discovered the night at Cucina she did not care for reds. She knew eventually she would have to take a sip, if only to humor Peter.

  Every few seconds, her gaze traveled past him to the packed bag that slouched against the front door, the safety net that gave Ryleigh all the power should the impending conversation go poorly.

  Peter’s fingers flexed, curling and uncurling beside his half-empty glass. Rubbing his temples, he looked into the kitchen like it held the long-sought solution to whatever problem tormented him.

  “You’re making me nervous,” Ryleigh said at last.

  He scratched his freshly shaven cheek and let out an unsteady laugh. “Sorry.”

  Another handful of minutes ticked by with nothing said. A suspenseful breed of anticipation punctuated every molecule of oxygen floating around them until the need to breathe became too great and Peter cracked in his resolve.

  “When’s your housing contract due?”

  Logistically, there could have only been one reason why he would pose such a question, and that reason filled Ryleigh with unbidden dread. Confusion was quick to come to the aid of her alarm, running tests on its origin to which the results were inconclusive. You’re taking too long. Answer him.

  She played along. “I don’t remember, exactly. Sometime in May.”

  His palm landed on her thigh sheathed in sweater tights and Peter leaned closer, adapting the volume of his hoarse voice to accommodate the shift in proximity. “What if you didn’t turn it in?”

  “What?”

  Even the most incompetent inchworm would have gleaned the underlying proposition, but Ryleigh meant to hide behind her monosyllabic response for as long as he would allow.

  Casting aside her distaste for the wine, she brought it to her lips and took a healthy pull. She kept her focus on the glass as she returned it to the counter.

  What was happening? Ryleigh had come over for an apology, not to skip ten stages in their relationship.

  The hand on her thigh migrated to her cheek, cupping it with a familiar warmth. And while Peter looked ready to kiss her senseless, Ryleigh suspected he had more to say.

  “Move in with me.”

  It was a statement, not a question. A passionate declaration rather than a tentative inquisition. The four words mixing with the alcohol made Ryleigh’s head spin. He searched her blue eyes, awaiting the all important response to a question she could have never foreseen.

  There were a million things she could have said, a million reasons why this was an awful idea. Her love for Peter was not determined by an address. Surely, he knew that.

  And yet, Ryleigh’s twisted larynx combined with his pleading, red-rimmed eyes prevented her from vocalizing these concerns. She buckled, wanting nothing more than to alleviate the hurt etched into his features, for he wore the face of someone who knew rejection was imminent, and she would have rather died than to hurt him so.

  Ryleigh uttered the singular word that held the power to destroy them. “Okay.”

  Peter plucked at the collar of his t-shirt as he lay awake. Something he could not quite pinpoint grated his nerves, leaving them raw and shredded. Ryleigh slept soundlessly to his right, curled up in the comforter with lips scarcely parted.

  He had held her long after they made love, enamored with the idea of waking up to her breathtaking face every morning. But his bliss was swiftly crushed as Ryleigh toyed with the trail of hair along his abdomen. Something was amiss in the spirit of her finger’s movements: lazy zigzags instead of slow, concentrated circles. Maybe it was paranoia talking, but Peter could not shake it.

  Hence why he was wide-eyed at 2 a.m.

  The scene of them on the barstools played on a loop in his mind’s deserted theater. Though Ryleigh had agreed to the lofty proposal, her lack of enthusiasm evoked concern. Was it residual resentment from their fight? She did not strike him as a bearer of grudges. After all, he had apologized—albeit mildly—and that seemed to soften her resolve.

  Peter knew they were rushing things with this courageous, and perhaps entirely foolish, step in their relationship.

  To hell with the foolishness of it all. He was desperate.

  Despite the recent elimination of Daniel, he felt his foothold as a potentially permanent fixture in Ryleigh’s life threatened by the thousands of other guys swarming her on campus. Nevermind that she constantly assured Peter these boys were nothing but an annoyance; her conviction, however valued, did not quell his anxiety nor ease his insecurity.

  His need for her was terrifying, though he was helpless in light of the realization because he suffered from an incurable addiction to the way Ryleigh made him feel.

  Resigned to his wired state, Peter gently crept out of bed and headed for the kitchen, where he swiped his lighter and Newports off the top of the fridge. It was a careless hiding place, but Ryleigh had not noticed them, and if she had then she elected to say nothing. Deep down, he knew she had not seen them since she had never berated him on the subject.

  It was one of the many things Peter loved about her: she cared too much.

  His anxiety spiked as his thumb fumbled over the igniter, praying the repetitive clicking did not summon Ryleigh. Alone in the near blackness of the living room, the familiar feel of the paper wedged between his lips brought him greater comfort than caffeine, than his mother’s soothing voice. While those things did provide some comfort, they came attached to a multitude of other feelings.

  Tonight, Peter refused to feel.

  Fear and paranoia expelled from his lungs intermingled with the smoke he made certain escaped through the cracked window.

  By the third cigarette, his brain rebelled in carrying out a plot to antagonize his utter despair—or so it thought.

  Peter’s fingers twitched as he torched yet another cigarette, thoughts flowing through his defenseless psyche like foaming white water rapids. Lungs incapacitated by more than the blazing nicotine fumes, he thought and he thought.

  He thought about his parents and the burden of his father on his mother. Peter thought about how devastated his mother would be if, after all the caretaking, they lost Gideon. He thought about what he might do if his father were to pass, if he would move back to California so his mother did not have to live alone or if he would stay here with Ryleigh. He thought about the odds of her transferring universities and following him to Santa Cruz, where she might become a Banana Slug at his alma mater. He thought of the possibility that if he were to make such a move, Ryleigh might not be willing to relocate.

  With that, his efforts to suppress the hurt that rocked his body like a disease were finished.

  Even if the chance was theoretical, the idea that she would not stick with Peter in the event of such tragedy sent his heart through a wood chipper. Grief victimized his insides, twisting and pulling and clawing and tearing at the delicate systems which worked together to keep him tethered to the earth but which were no match for his uproarious suffering.

  “Peter?” a soft voice called out.

  Startled, he flicked the burning cigarette out the window as if it were a live grenade. The pack and lighter were stowed in his sweatpants pocket or else Peter would have instantaneously contracted high blood pressure.

  Ryleigh stepped into the narrow sliver of light cast from the street. “I thought I heard you crying.”

  Had he been? He raised two fingers to his cheek and inspected their glistening state in the faint light. God, he was pathetic. Heat swept over Peter’s face, obnoxious and oppressive like an open oven door.

  She dropped to her knees beside him, palms resting on her bare thighs. Her quivery smile said she wanted to help but her body language demonstrated an understanding of him needing space.

  Peter shucked all of his usual protocols aside and shocked Ryleigh by taking her into his arms, and his tears resumed on cue. He sobbed into her hair,
wondering if it had recently been washed in which case he was selfishly ruining it. The coconut in her shampoo hit him with an overbearing but welcome pungence.

  Ryleigh’s weight against him, her scent, just the fact that she cared made him realize she was his greatest comfort.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

  And at her willingness to be there for him without demanding details, Peter let himself drown knowing Ryleigh would forever wait patiently at his surface.

  Ryleigh occupied an entire four-person table in the library, crafting a study guide for humanities. Sometimes on the days classes ended by noon, Peter left the door unlocked for her and she would sneak in before his 1 p.m. alarm and snuggle up to his sleeping form. But midterms were approaching and she could not handle the distraction of his affection.

  His cardinal rule of ‘no visits during the week’ had quickly become ‘no sleepovers during the week.’ It was hard to fathom this was the same Peter who, just a year earlier, experienced immense guilt whenever they made out.

  Now they were on the precipice of moving in together.

  A terrible ache radiated in her fingers due to the vigor with which she gripped her pen. With him here, Ryleigh found it impossible to compartmentalize the various sectors of her life, especially with the unexpected cohabitation concept.

  How was she to study when all of these pressing thoughts swirled in her head? How was she to think at all?

  She craved a second opinion. Advice from someone she trusted. Ryleigh edged her phone out of her bag like a middle schooler who feared being caught and penned a text to Andrea.

  R: so...Peter asked me to move in with him this summer.

  A: wtf. don’t tell me you’re even considering it. he’s basically a stranger. how well do you really know the guy?

  R: he’s my boyfriend, Andy, he’s no stranger.

  A: whatever you say chick. you know I love you and I have your back no matter what, but this has psychotic

  written all over it.

  Following a generous eye roll she returned her phone to the bottom of her bag, feeling no better about the situation than she had five minutes ago. So much for camaraderie.

  As she turned the page in her textbook, a light knock rapped on the massive window facing the table. Ryleigh glanced at the source of the noise, annoyed to see Daniel on the other side of the impossibly clean glass. She threw up a hand as if to ask, ‘What?’ He jerked his head in the direction of the exit. Any other day, Ryleigh would have ignored him and returned to her studies.

  Luckily for Daniel, she was dying for a distraction.

  After gathering excessive study spread, she met him outside on the too-green grass. Her thumbs hooked on the straps of her backpack, feigning indifference. “Whatever this is, it better be good. I was in peak study mode.”

  Daniel pursed his full lips. If a goatee stroke had followed, he may as well have sprouted horns and a tail. He whipped his phone out of his jean pocket. “Have you seen it?”

  “Seen what?”

  He handed her the phone. A video was queued up and paused. Ryleigh’s mouth went dry when she saw Peter in the thumbnail. Guilt swarmed her upon realizing she had not tuned in to the live coverage because of their fight, nor had she asked him about it since they made up. Her eyes flickered to Daniel before pressing play.

  Everything started out fine; he was interviewing an older man in a suit. But she discerned that Peter’s mannerisms were taking on an unusual shift. Soon, he folded in half, vomiting all over the poor man’s shoes. Ryleigh shoved the phone in Daniel’s hand as her own stomach curled in response.

  “Why would you show me that?” she demanded.

  “He’s your boyfriend, I thought you would’ve seen it by now, or at least heard about it. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  Everyone’s talking about it. Despite the breathable knit of her sweater, her skin broiled beneath its fabric.

  “What?”

  “It has a quarter of a million views.” Daniel laughed, flashing the view counter in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen.

  The counter updated in real time and Ryleigh grew ill upon making the connection that a six-figure population had borne witness to her lover’s humiliation.

  She batted the phone away, unable to watch the number rise any longer, and the expensive model nearly tumbled from Daniel’s grasp. A glance through the library window revealed a group of guys had taken over her prized table. So much for studying.

  “Well, Daniel, you never fail to ruin my day. You should be proud. You really outdid yourself this time.” Ryleigh gave him an antagonistic pat on the shoulder and traversed down one of the cement paths cutting through campus. She called to him, “Maybe you could use your keen journalistic sleuthing skills to stop the spread of this.”

  “Why would I do that when I live to frustrate you?” he yelled back, walking in the opposite direction. “Besides, it’s a little late for damage control. It’s being shared like wildfire.”

  Irritating as he may have been, Daniel was right.

  It was impossible to misidentify passing mentions of the video as she trailed through streams of students on the diag’s strips of lawn. Girls declaring ‘sick’ while recoiling, and guys imitating the act of puking, all of them clutching cell phones.

  “Oh, man, he just lost it.”

  “That’s fucking digusting, dude.”

  “No, no, wait, back it up to 32 seconds.”

  Secondhand embarrassment was a shallow estimation of what Ryleigh felt as she barreled along the sidewalk, but she knew the unease associated with Peter’s viral fame would follow her long after she left campus.

  She smashed the crosswalk signal on the corner of South University and Church until her palm stung.

  Peter sat mortified in the acrylic chair as he and Ms. Reyes watched the conclusion of the botched clip. He was reluctant to meet her gaze as she readjusted the computer monitor.

  Would he be fired? No, that would be an overreaction.

  She steepled her fingers, drawing in a significant breath, as if she was at a loss for what to say. There was a competing glimmer of sympathy in her sparkling eyes, like she had already calculated the dynamics of this conversation.

  “Are you aware of the reach this has had?” Ms. Reyes arched a meticulously filled in brow. “Nearly 300,000 views.”

  His spine curled in defeat. To say he had messed up would have been putting it lightly.

  Reclining in her chair, she crossed her tanned legs. “We’ve seen an astronomical boost in engagement: website traffic, social media interaction. It’s really quite incredible.”

  She was praising him for wrecking a live broadcast?

  “However,” she started in a cool tone. Here it comes. “Amazing as the fallout has been, I can’t let this happen again, as I’m sure you understand.” This was more aligned with his expectations of their chat. Though Ms. Reyes had yet to unleash the inevitable firing, his tail was already between his legs. “I’m sorry to do this Peter…” Just say it, woman. “I’m removing you from Real Time. I’ll admit, I feel largely responsible for this. I shouldn’t have trusted your broadcasting skills implicitly. For that, I apologize.”

  Her speech felt like a cruel practical joke. Peter shifted in the chair, grappling with gratefulness and confusion over his position being spared. It was for the best, really. He had been conflicted about his involvement with the live coverage from its inception.

  “I’d like to give you another chance, on a different project.” Ms. Reyes gave a half shrug and a forgiving smile snuck onto her lilac lips. “The anchor of our podcast recently relocated, so we’ve had a jumble of staff members filling in. You’d be in a room, alone. Shouldn’t be anxiety inducing.” Flirtation edged her tone as she pressed her chest against the desk’s surface, spilling out of her low-cut dress. “Your voice is certainly suited to a podcast.”

  From one shitshow to the next.

  He should have
been used to feeling uncomfortable around Ms. Reyes, but she continued to find ways to agitate him further.

  Peter rose to leave. “Thank you for affording me another chance, Ms. Reyes. I would’ve fired myself on the spot.”

  “Please, call me Nora.” As he neared the door, she said, “I believe in you, Rosenfeld.”

  “Who does laundry this late? It’s psychotic.” Ryleigh perched on the edge of a vacant washer, bare feet dangling.

  Peter stuffed clothes into the machine beside her and punched in the quarter tray. “When do you suggest I do it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe any time except when our bodies are begging for sleep?”

  Throwing his head back, he emitted a singular laugh. “Hey, you knew I kept weird hours before we got into a relationship. You’ve lost the right to complain about it.”

  She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm. “Seriously, I’m exhausted. This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

  “You’re over here a night early. Not my fault you came on laundry day.” Why was she there? A few ideas came to mind, none of them good. Seven months into their relationship and he still defaulted to worst-case scenarios. He pinned an arm on either side of Ryleigh, kissing her cheek and nuzzling against her neck. “What’s up with that, huh? Is there a reason you’re here on a Thursday or were you missing the exceptional sex?”

  Ryleigh laughed, the light and breathy sound echoing in the empty laundry room. She pursed her lips when she regained composure. “I saw the video.”

  Wonderful.

  Playing it off, Peter shook his head. “And you came over here to share a bed with me after that?” He sighed and pulled back to see her face. “I figured it was only a matter of time before you saw it. Nora counseled me on its spread today. She’s put her blind faith in me yet again: I’m going to host their podcast. We’ll see how long it takes me to mess that up.”