Her parents’ insistence on Zayn’s inclusion in their vacation had put a ticking clock on an already miserable situation. Cue amends being made with Peter much sooner than she was ready to make them and a possibly awkward forthcoming interaction with the Times’ receptionist.
A silver nameplate identified the tie-dye shirt and chartreuse blazer wearing woman as Delia Sampson.
Despite her engagement, Delia slipped on a halo of kindness. She glanced up through her curled lashes. “Hey, doll. What can I help you with?”
“Do you know if Peter Rosenfeld’s on the desk?”
“He might be recording. I can try his extension.” Seizing the landline, she punched in numbers on the clunky machine. She covered the receiver and asked, “What did you say your name was?”
Her first instinct was to give a different name. Why would Peter have wanted to see her after the cruelty she had imposed upon him? Setting that crucial factor aside, the idea scored a solid zero on the believability scale.
She was the Cindy Lou Who to his Grinch. No one else would have been there to pay him a visit.
“Ryleigh.”
Peter must have answered, because she said, “There’s a Ryleigh here to see you.” Delia hung up and narrowed her eyes, suggesting a degree of doubt in her postulation of, “Girlfriend?”
Ryleigh nodded through the growing heat of her cheeks. Invasive roots of dread planted deep within her, waiting for a slew of questions or an inevitable comment about their obvious age difference.
For once, neither came.
“How long have you guys been together?” A sly smile brightened Delia’s face like rays of sunlight. “I don’t mean to pry, I just can’t imagine Peter in a relationship.”
“The timeline is up for debate.” Ryleigh tugged on the hem of her sweater and tried to mask her features but she knew she glowed with the brilliant light of love. “You’d get a different answer from both of us.”
Her innocent glow morphed into a blowtorch as Peter approached on the opposing side of the glass double doors. His half-lidded eyes and wandering gaze gave Ryleigh sufficient reason to worry, as if she were inconveniencing him beyond measure.
Passing by Delia and Ryleigh, he jerked his head in the direction of the hallway. Ryleigh followed upon offering a parting wave of thanks to the receptionist.
Their shoes squeaking on the freshly mopped floor filled the otherwise silent trek. Breaths caught in her chest to combat the ammonium hydroxide and uncertainty.
Peter made certain the hallway was deserted before urging, “Make it quick. I’m swamped in there.”
The dismissive way he addressed Ryleigh stung.
Boy, could he maintain a grudge. Then again, this should have come as no surprise. This was the same man who had held onto the remnants of a toxic relationship for the better part of 14 years.
Resentment was Peter’s oldest companion.
Ryleigh was not afraid to go toe to toe with him. He was her lover, her best friend. It was fruitless to be anxious about this conversation, yet those feelings tarried in her psyche like unwelcome houseguests.
“I may not like that you’re smoking again, but I was sober enough to know I overreacted. I was stressed and I took it out on you. For that, I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for the horrendous things I said.” Her saliva thickened in its descent as she swallowed. “I should’ve been honest with you that night, in your apartment. The truth is, I don’t think I’m ready for that level of commitment.”
Peter softened and Ryleigh’s legs turned to noodles. “Don’t let me pressure you into anything. Ever. I need to know you can stand on your own two feet in this relationship.” His hand adopted a relaxed grip on his hip. “Whatever comes our way, we should be able to discuss it, like adults. I care deeply about your feelings and opinions. You have to know that.”
She nodded, swallowing with more ease. “Of course” was all she managed to say.
The Florida dilemma.
Fantastic timing, as usual.
Her dangling fingers went cold. Appealing as it sounded, showing up to Miami empty-handed and spinning a web of lies to her parents about why her fictitious boyfriend was a no-show was not an option.
“Are you able to take time off?” Ryleigh asked, failing to put off a casual vibe—which was much harder to manifest since she was sure her face had turned an unsightly shade of green.
“Well, yeah.” A smirk tugged at his lips. “It’s probably frowned upon since I haven’t been here long, but…” Peter fiddled with something in the pocket of his slacks, a nervous tic she adored. She hoped it was anything but a pack of cigarettes. “Why do you ask?”
Oh, you know, no big deal. It’s just that my parents invited my college-aged boyfriend who doesn’t actually exist to join us for vacation and oh man are they going to lose it when they realize we’re together.
“I may have gotten us into a bit of a situation that spans the entirety of spring break.”
He produced a grin that stretched his cheeks and alighted his eyes and her stomach fluttered at the rare yet familiar sight.
“Whatever it is, I’m in.” Any trace of his bitter act dissipated when he embraced her, pulling Ryleigh tight against his frame, and her heart delighted at its fullness. A faint hint of smoke broke through the cloud of Peter’s cologne. She could not bring herself to reprimand him. The moment was too perfect. He whispered into the crown of her head, one of her favorite sensations, “I’m totally not busy right now. I just wanted to make you feel like shit.”
Ryleigh lodged her tongue between her molars but it only made her smile more apparent. “You’re the worst.”
By a quarter past midnight, Peter was usually unlacing his shoes with a cup of coffee brewing in the background, not in an upscale bar having drinks with his boss.
Though, routine had largely become a thing of the past since relocating to Ann Arbor.
Ms. Reyes worked on her third whiskey while Peter struggled to keep pace; not that he had to, but it was hard to shut down the feeling of having something to prove in the presence of your superior.
Talk of the podcast had been brief enough to serve its purpose as a vehicle to get him to agree to the outing, which was what he had expected. The analytics were slightly higher than projected and it was performing well among the college demographic. Ms. Reyes chalked it up to ‘a pleasant side effect’ of the video buzz and blah, blah, blah. And while Peter could have excused himself once that segment of conversation ended, walking out of the bar proved undesirable.
After all, Ryleigh would not be there to mock his argyle socks upon taking off his shoes, or to fight for real estate at the lone sink as they brushed their teeth, or to pull close and fall asleep wrapped in her scent and the warmth of her skin.
Tomorrow, she would be there. But tomorrow seemed to be weeks, months, years out of reach with who knew how many glasses of wine in Peter’s system.
As if peering into his mind, Ms. Reyes asked, “Is your girlfriend expecting you?”
“No, we uh.” He paused and fought to remember what words were, how they could be strung together to express a thought. “We don’t live together.”
“Ah.”
“I asked her to move in. She’s not ready.”
“If what you have works, why change things? It’s like with marriage.” Ms. Reyes traced the lip of her tumbler and, for the first time that night, looked away from Peter and out of the bar’s imposing windows. The champagne in her eyes dulled to a flat beige. “Why do people get married? Because it’s the next step? Because it’s the right thing to do?”
“Because of love, I’d hope,” Peter ventured. Upon catching the bartender’s attention, he mimed a request for the check.
Going home to an empty apartment was a harmless alternative to sticking around and listening to Ms. Reyes’ drunken philosophy on relationships.
“Daniel was a few years old when Victor proposed.” She turned to him, expressionless but eyes swollen with tears. “Poor man thoug
ht he owed it to me, I suppose. We had problems, even then. I think Victor saw marriage as this magical cure-all for us, a convenient way to make things new again when, really, it just made everything worse.”
Peter had experienced no greater sense of relief than when his check and bank card slid across the bar. He signed with haste and offered a placating, “Marriage isn’t for everyone.”
“No,” Ms. Reyes scoffed and slammed back the remnants of her drinks, “it certainly isn’t. Are you off, then?”
“I’m exhausted.” Liar.
A manicured hand landed on Peter’s knee and a lock of golden-toned brown hair fell over one side of her face as she leaned into him. “Stay. Please.”
He gently removed her hand, fixing her with a soft yet stern look. “Nora, you’ve had a lot to drink. We both have.”
Lips pressed against his. Lips that lacked Ryleigh’s fullness. Lips that did not taste like sugar and vanilla and home but rather an afterburn of hard liquor and the tang of citrus lip gloss.
His ex-girlfriend had cheated on him their entire relationship and now, in the span of 10 motionless seconds, he had become the cheater.
“Jesus Christ.” Peter scrubbed a hand across his forehead as he stared into his empty glass. He needed to get Ms. Reyes out of there, so he could get home, clear his head, and forget the whole thing had happened. “Leave your car in the garage overnight. I’ll get you an Uber.”
“Rosenfeld, that really isn’t neces—”
“Like hell it isn’t. You’re one glass of whiskey away from thinking you can take on Conor McGregor.”
She laughed and it diffused some of the tension, though most of it resided like an immovable layer of sediment at the bottom of Peter’s heart.
“Seriously, though, I can’t, in good conscience, let you get on the interstate like this.”
Where was that good conscience when you let her suck your face off, huh?
Before long, a car with a purple, illuminated dash pulled up along the curb outside of the bar and Ms. Reyes stumbled a bit in her heels as she abandoned the barstool.
“Thanks for this. It’s been a while.”
“Since what?” he called after her, much too drunk for cryptic messages.
Her steps slowed. Without turning around, she said, “Since someone cared.”
Peter hated himself for the pang of sympathy that line struck but damn could he relate.
Every table in Le Croûton was occupied; patrons ranged from elderly couples who had overdressed for the mild weather to groups of college kids who were too enamored with their laptops and phones to acknowledge one another. A pair of familiar faces were present among the dinner rush. Min-ji and Daniel were cozied at a corner table, which normally sat six, a show of force that oozed rich kid privilege.
Ryleigh fought to keep her annoyance in check while carrying food to their table. The bowls of tomato bisque sloshed in response to each ginger movement, cresting near the edge as her grip on the tray faltered.
A comic sigh of relief surfaced when Ryleigh handed over their food. Daniel’s lips had a holographic sheen, transferred to him during the nauseating number of kisses he and Min-ji had exchanged since setting foot in the cafe.
“Thanks, roomie.” Min-ji wiggled her fingers in a dismissive ‘too-da-loo’ fashion. Unbelievable. Ryleigh ripped the numbered placard out of its holder and averted her eyes as Min-ji fed Daniel a sliver of toasted baguette.
“Keep the PDA to a minimum, guys. C’mon,” Ryleigh snipped before trekking to the front of the restaurant, where the universe decided she had not shouldered enough strife during her shift.
A disgruntled Ezra awaited her once she was behind the counter.
“Grave robber,” he mumbled in passing.
Balancing two hefty trays with his twig-like arms, he swept off toward the dining room. Though she often found his salty comments amusing, they occasionally stung and Ryleigh had learned to ignore them.
“Of course we’re slammed on my last day,” Kayla said, emerging from the kitchen. Her hair was secured in a low ponytail, a rose gold pin reining in her too-long, side-swept bangs. “Ivan swears he had nothing to do with it.”
“I can’t believe you’re leaving me here with Herskowitz.” Ryleigh leaned against the polished counter, thankful but suspicious at the momentary lull in customers. “I’m happy for you and Ivan, though. Everyone’s going to miss you, but no one more than me.”
“We’ll still hang out. I’ll be damned if I let you spend the summer frolicking around with your velour tracksuit-wearing roommate and Mr. Hair Gel.”
“Something tells me they’ll be keeping each other company during the summer.” Ryleigh glanced at their table, unsurprised to find they still resembled a two-headed human, much to the chagrin of the other diners. She had to force herself to look away and sprayed down a row of placard holders to stay busy. “We’re going to Florida for spring break.”
“Why don’t you sound excited?”
“My parents are going, too.” She scrubbed and scrubbed the metal, somehow convinced she could make it gleam even more. “They still don’t know. About us.”
Kayla fanned herself and laughed as if she had been told the funniest joke of all time. “They’re going to be in for the shock of their lives.”
“Tell me about it.”
Casting a disdainful glare, Ezra rejoined them behind the counter. “Whatever it is the two of you are discussing, it can wait.” He whirled his pointer finger around, which seemed to serve no purpose other than making him look like a certified idiot. “In case you guys haven’t noticed, it’s nuts in here. Let’s focus, alright?”
Kayla cocked her head in a defiant angle. “Last I checked, you aren’t our manager, Herskowitz.”
With a slight sneer, he said, “No, I guess not, because then you’d be fucking me.”
Oh shit. Ryleigh could not prevent her eyes from widening at the outlandish remark.
Kayla stepped close to Ezra, his mask of cockiness peeled away layer by layer with each step. Leaning in enough for her sweet breath to tickle his acne-laden cheek, she said, “You wouldn’t know how to handle me, four eyes.”
And with that, he retreated into the kitchen, pink-faced and silent.
“Okay, that was amazing.” Kayla responded to the compliment by brushing off her shoulders.
Ivan appeared in his signature red ascot, clutching the tacky—and possibly pointless—clipboard he was never seen without.
“Branson, I need you to switch over to bread. We’re backed up on to-go orders.” The affectionate glance he stole at Kayla weakened his attempt to be demanding.
“You’re the boss.” Ryleigh gave Kayla a knowing wink as she padded down the hall.
“Branson,” someone other than Ivan called. A voice whose immediate recognition pumped her full of dread.
Fists tight, she spun around and said, “It’s a wonder your face is intact after that performance over there.”
“Very funny,” Daniel said. He plucked at his henley, grimacing. “Is it hot in here?”
“An industrial grade oven constantly set at 425 tends to have that effect, yes.”
He glanced around at the framed pictures of French towns and villages adorning the hallway, the same ones the customers passed en route to the restroom, the ones Ryleigh had once had to explain to an older customer—during three separate visits—were not for sale.
While she had half a mind to wander off to her station and leave Daniel standing there like a glimmering disco ball with his swollen, shimmery lips, something unpleasant lurked in the fact that he had sought her out.
Ryleigh tapped her watchless wrist. “I’m on the clock, Reyes, so unless you plan on paying my wages for the rest of the day, you need to make this quick.”
Beads of sweat trickled along Daniel’s temple. He continued to focus on anything but her, as if his location was foreign and his own two feet had not carried him there.
“Alright, if you’re not going to tal
k, I will. Where should we begin? Let’s see. I don’t appreciate that one day, you’re leaving my roommate for dead at a rager, and the next you have your tongue down her throat in my workplace.”
“I messed up, okay? I know that. I didn’t mean to leave her alone for so long, but I was trying to…” His head tilted toward the ceiling and he let out a dramatic huff. “I was—I was looking for you. But then you freaked out and took it the wrong way, and I never got to tell you what I had intended to.”
“Which was?”
“That I did something without your permission. That I’ve felt shitty about since it happened. That’s why I wanted to come clean to you at the party. Clear my conscience and all that.”
The too vague admittance spiked her cortisol levels and piqued her interest. Thoughts freezing, Ryleigh studied the ground between them. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you remember when I found your poetry journal in anthro? Well, I xeroxed some of the pages.”
“Okay, that’s creepy, but I’m not sure if it’s worthy of a confession.”
Daniel scratched his goatee and blurted, “I posed as you on the application and submitted them to the Quarterly. I know it’s a crazy thing to have done. The few days I had your journal, I couldn’t stop reading it, and I couldn’t help but think other people might feel the same way.”
“Everything in that book was personal.”
“There comes a time when you have to stop being selfish with your art and share it with the world. You’re talented, Ryleigh, not everyone can say that about themself. When the acceptance came in, they wanted to know why I didn’t include some scholarship from this New England poet in the bio. Who gets a scholarship for poetry?”
“Acceptance?”
His voice softened, sounding like a proud parent rather than a teen leveling with a peer. “You’re going to be in print, Sylvia Plath. Fall issue.”
“I don’t know if I should thank you or strangle you.”
“You’ll figure it out. Anyway, congratulations, Ryleigh.” A small smile warmed Daniel’s face before he retreated through the hall.
Having Rosenfeld (Rosenfeld Duet Book 2) Page 14
