He had called her Ryleigh.
Not Ry, not Branson, not white girl.
She held her shoulders high as she entered the bread room circumfused in a cloud of contentment, fantasizing about what it would be like to see her verses in print.
That weekend, Ryleigh helped Peter pack. She had packed at the dorm and her aquamarine suitcase idled by his front door, waiting to be carried off to its destination.
On each occasion he had seen Ryleigh since the kiss with Nora, he felt like he had a medicine ball for a stomach. He was not a liar, much less a cheater, but whenever he considered coming clean about the 10-second mistake everything inside of him stretched and tangled and stung. If Peter’s body had its way, he would take the incident to his grave.
His mind had other ideas.
Guilt held him prisoner day and night. It burrowed beneath his skin and fashioned itself a home, becoming an inseparable part of him. Anxious as he may have been to rid himself of the feeling, Peter was convinced confessing would not entirely relieve him of the depthless remorse.
“If I hear one more girl on campus talking about your podcast, I swear I’m going to lose it,” Ryleigh said, kneeling on the floor while she reorganized his suitcase. According to her, Peter ‘could not pack a bag properly if his life depended on it.’ Her words. “They’re all raving over your voice. You’re a regular Howard Stern.”
“Pretty sure you’re the only person in your age group who listens to Howard Stern.”
By and large, he and Ryleigh had managed to avoid talk of the podcast. Any bit of calm that had seeped into him during their little packing date had been displaced by the brief mention.
“Whatever,” she let out a small laugh, “I had no other base for comparison. I never imagined myself as a jealous girlfriend.”
Peter seized a stack of t-shirts from the dresser without so much as a glance, and dropped them into the suitcase. “Well, people learn things about themselves in relationships. Sometimes those things are unexpected. Everyone feels jealous at some point, though. I don’t think it’s something you should feel bad about.”
At times, Peter felt a creeping sense of insecurity when he imparted unsolicited wisdom on her, fearing that it came off condescending or that he was undermining her experience by imposing his own.
As if he had not spoken at all, Ryleigh held up one of the shirts and lifted a single brow. “I love you, I do, but this shirt has more holes in it than Twilight.”
He took the shirt from her and tossed it into the bag once more. “We’re going to the beach, not the goddamn Met Gala.”
That’s right. You’re going on vacation with your girlfriend—not to mention her parents who probably want to see you dead—so you better fess up now or the whole week will be miserable.
“Ryleigh, I,” Peter started. The room was silent save for his heartbeat thrashing in his ears, thundering on and on like a vengeful band playing out of time.
His jaw clenched with such fervor, his teeth may have crumbled and turned to dust.
She looked at him and though the pressure lessened and his heartbeat settled, Peter realized he could not go through with it, because her eyes reflected everything that made his life whole.
“Do you, uh, do you want some coffee? I was going to make a cup, anyway.”
Ryleigh’s face fell but it neutralized just as quickly. Avoiding his gaze, she busied herself with refolding his shorts. “Yeah, alright.”
Nausea inundated Peter as he wandered off to the kitchen to brew coffee he had no interest in drinking.
Peter and Ryleigh nestled together at their gate in Detroit Metro, luggage and half-consumed coffees at their feet.
Her concern swelled with each minute that passed. Before the sun set, her parents would know everything. Months-old lies would be unearthed. Judgment would be dealt. How could they ever trust her again?
Why, was perhaps the better question.
Inner discomfort spread to her exterior and had her shifting in her seat until Peter draped an arm around her and dispelled some of the unease.
“Ryleigh, I need to—”
His phone vibrated. He fished it from the pocket of his joggers with his free hand.
Peter lowered his voice, answering, “Hello?”
Cozying against his shoulder, Ryleigh melted into him and could not help but follow along with the mumbled conversation.
“Hey sweetie,” Janet cooed. “Your father and I just wanted to call and wish you two safe travels.”
The saccharine yet gravelly sound of his mother’s voice echoing through the receiver had Ryleigh anxious to see her own mother. She had seen her parents over Christmas break but it felt as though years rather than months had gone by since that visit. That brief return to Connecticut stirred something within her, a feeling of homesickness that had been dormant and altogether unknown as she navigated life in Ann Arbor.
She wondered if her parents would even invite her home that summer, what with the news of her romantic ties to Peter Rosenfeld brought to their attention.
“Dad’s there?”
A horrid crackling spewed through the speaker.
“You better respect that girl’s parents. You want to make a good impression, meeting them for the first time and everything.”
A good impression? Surely, the Rosenfelds knew that Peter had interacted with her parents on more than one occasion, even if few of them were pleasant.
“I’ve met them already,” he said, thumb stroking Ryleigh’s arm. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Listen, why don’t you and Heather fly out here for a little trip over the summer? Your mother’s talking my ear off about visiting with the two of you.”
“Heather and I broke up when I was in college. 15 years ago.” Peter swallowed. “Dad, you’re not making any sense.”
She hated hearing Peter’s ex-girlfriend’s name on his lips, the woman who had ripped him apart and walked away; and here Ryleigh was, dutifully picking up the pieces years later. Some of the hate leveled off when she understood it was in response to his father’s apparent confusion.
“I think I know who my own son’s girlfriend is.”
The crackling came again, soon replaced by Janet’s apologetic voice. “He’s having an off day, I guess. He seemed just fine a few minutes ago. I don’t want to worry you, honey.”
Then Ryleigh witnessed something she had never seen in all the times Peter had spoken to his mother.
His tone hardened.
“Consider me worried. How long has this been going on? And why didn’t you tell me? You think I don’t care about this, is that it?”
“There’s no use in both of us worrying—”
“I have to go. Our flight’s boarding. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow. I love you.”
He tapped the red button and shoved the phone back into his pocket. Their flight was, in fact, not boarding. Not for another half hour.
“I have to tell you something.”
Whether it was the way Peter rubbed his chest, or pulled at his collar, or the way he slumped forward and pinched the bridge of his nose, her nerves implored her that chatter would prevent him from speaking just a little longer, fully aware that whatever he had to say would not be any good.
“So do I.” She drew her feet up onto the tattered gate seat and held her ankles. “I was going to wait to tell you so it’d be a surprise but it turns out I can’t even keep a secret for a week.”
He continued to pinch his nose and closed his eyes. Ryleigh could have left and he might not have noticed until their zone was given the go-ahead to board.
“Daniel submitted some of my poems to the Quarterly. They’re running in the fall issue.”
Bleary-eyed, he glanced over at her. “That’s incredible, Ry.” But the praise was empty.
She gripped her ankles tighter and felt herself shrinking under the pressure of her fear and his distress.
“You have bad news, then.”
Had Peter he
ard her? Or had she actually shrunk and her words were nothing but unintelligible static to his ears?
“Nora kissed me.”
The phrasing struck her. He declared himself as the direct object, not the subject. Something being acted upon rather than acting.
People walked by with their Starbucks, wheeling their Samsonites and shepherding their children, oblivious to the fact that the fabric of Ryleigh’s life snagged and frayed as she sat motionless and watched the thread unravel.
“She was drunk beyond belief. It was a horrible mistake. I should’ve said no when she invited me to the bar after work but she’s my boss, you know? I fucked up and I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Ryleigh abandoned her seat without realizing she had moved at all. It was a miracle she remained steady on her feet through her spotted vision and spinning thoughts.
Nora. Kissed. Drunk.
Individual bits of the incriminating dialogue reeled in her mind as the caramel latte she had downed after going through T.S.A. threatened to make a reappearance.
She zeroed in on the bathroom across the way and bolted toward its safety, where she could puke or cry or scream in peace, ignoring Peter’s attempts to call her back over to their seats. His voice grated her ears like steel wool on an open wound. Ryleigh did not want to speak to him. She did not want to see his face.
A wish that would go ungranted since they were occupying the same space on a three-hour flight.
Ryleigh did not speak to him the entire flight.
Scratch that, she did not so much as look at him.
Peter felt like a dead man as they hunted for their bags among the crowd of passengers idling by the luggage carousel in Miami International. Though he had not expected Ryleigh to react well to the incident with Ms. Reyes, her reaction had disemboweled him. He imagined his organs trailing in a bloody but orderly line behind her as she stormed off to the bathroom. She must have taken everything, for he sat at the gate with an infinite ache of emptiness ricocheting in his chest.
Any minute, her parents would materialize and finish him off. Dexter might throw another punch his way, knock Peter off his feet and leave him unconscious on the grimy airport floor.
He had already made peace with the very real possibility that the Bransons would be opposed to his presence. After all, he had moved halfway across the country to be with their 19-year-old daughter.
Ryleigh’s aqua suitcase appeared on the carousel and she edged closer to claim it. Peter jumped ahead of her.
“It’s heavy. Let me get it,” he said.
She popped the handle and gripped the top, staring at the floor. “Um, thanks.”
Hours of her aversion had chiseled into his sanity, creating little cracks that spread slowly like a splitting windshield. He feared his mind would too cave without warning.
His eyes ping-ponged around the arrivals corridor in constant search of the Bransons. Their flight was due to arrive not long after Peter and Ryleigh’s. Amid his frantic sweep, he spotted a deli, where people walked out with coffee and items wrapped in wax paper.
“I’ll be right back.” Peter planted a kiss on Ryleigh’s oily forehead as if their four-hour standoff were not ongoing.
He forged a calm front while ordering four coffees and politely asking for a drink carrier, willing himself to believe his life was not on the brink of collapse.
Peter was too dazed to realize he had given the apron-wearing man behind the register a 20 and had, apparently, told him to keep the change.
“Grazie, grazie.” The man grinned, displaying a gold-capped canine as he tucked the money in a floral vase. His mouth curled around the o’s as he said, “Have a good evening.”
It required all of his concentration to keep his hands steady while carrying the drink tray. He did not allow himself to be affected by the travelers rushing past nor the dizziness seducing him toward the ground. Peter kept his chin high, feeling way too confident in his rumpled plane clothes, imagining a scenario in which the Bransons welcomed him with open arms and recognized him as their daughter’s boyfriend rather than some lecherous creep who was past his expiration date.
Adrenaline defeated his self-assured gait as he drew closer to Ryleigh, who was no longer alone. Charlotte and Dexter took turns embracing her and examining the slightest change in her features, the annoying yet endearing modus operandi of a parent. Peter understood that whenever he revealed himself a curtain would fall and conceal the joy surrounding their reunion.
Disaster was imminent.
They would look past their daughter and see the lanky man whom they thought they had rid her of only to find out he had never gone anywhere in the first place.
Charlotte and Ryleigh’s voices rang out in his head.
‘Are you alright, dear?’
‘Fine, yeah. I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘Where’s Zayn?’
Maybe the most humane thing to have done was to march over to the nearest ticketing counter and procure a flight to Michigan. No, Peter had been a coward in the face of Ryleigh’s love once before, and they had come too far to shy away from a familial confrontation, however dreadful.
Sweat broke out on Peter’s palms and sealed his hands to the cardboard tray as he approached the group. A faux confidence multiplied with each step, panic overshadowed by a forged smile.
“Mr. and Mrs. Branson, it’s been too long.”
Charlotte’s mouth hung slightly agape, regarding him with a degree of mysticism as if wondering whether he were an illusion.
Dexter had not changed. The same perfectly combed hair, too square shoulders, scrunched walnut brows at the height of his spectacles. The penetrative stare he bore into Peter reminded him of sitting through the dinner at the Bransons’ house that had felt more like a police interrogation.
Peter performed a half shrug and gestured to the coffees. “I thought everyone could use a caffeine boost.”
“That was thoughtful,” Charlotte said after a series of slow, deliberate blinks.
An air of muted calm washed over her, but Peter thought there may have been a small chance she would shriek and pass out in the middle of Miami International a la Catherine O’Hara.
“Thank you, Peter.” She plucked one of the to-go cups from the tray and Dexter, though reluctant, followed her lead.
His heart twitched as he glanced at Ryleigh and noticed the rose hue engulfing her entire face, both helpless while one watched the other drown.
For a while, nothing was said. They stood in a semicircle and held coffees no one bothered to taste. Peter’s chest tightened and felt like it was being ripped apart beneath his t-shirt. Extending an apology seemed to be the decent thing to do, but he feared what would transpire if he were to open his mouth at a time in which his words were so obviously unwelcome.
Ryleigh appeared on the verge of tears, dip in her chin quivering as she studied the spotlit palm trees swaying in the Miami dusk. She blinked away the vulnerability and looked to her parents in a silent demand for action.
Her father shifted his weight between his feet. Gaze flicking upward, he said, “I’m going to step outside and see if the shuttles are running. The rental car place might not be open much longer.”
“I’ll go with you,” Charlotte chimed in.
Everyone knew they were open 24 hours a day, but that did not matter. All that mattered was escaping through the automatic doors and processing the waking nightmare they had been met with in arrivals.
That much was clear in the hasty manner with which they seized their suitcases and further in their failure to acknowledge Ryleigh as they breezed through the exit.
“We will discuss this in the morning.” Her mother fixed her with a stony expression before retreating to the master.
Had it not been for Peter’s gutting bombshell, Ryleigh may have been intimidated by the warning. The brunt of her weight plummeted to her feet and made it near impossible to transport herself to the spare bedroom. Knowing Peter awaited her only worsened the slugg
ishness.
He hung up his shirts in the closet, having turned away when Ryleigh came into the room. She watched him work, magnetized by the rhythmic, efficient movement of his hands. Spots flashed in her eyes.
His hands. Had they been on Nora?
How was she to believe anything Peter said when he had done nothing but withhold information from her since turning up in Ann Arbor?
Kneeling on the cool tiled floor, she tended to her suitcase. She realized Peter withheld the majority of that information for her benefit, so as not to burden her with his plight. Her prefrontal cortex would not accept the rationalization; because even if he had had good intentions, Ryleigh was unable to suss out anything beyond deceit.
She rose too quickly and a vortex of dizziness hula-hooped around her already exhausted body. “I’m going to take a shower.”
He turned his head halfway without looking at her. “Alright.”
Ryleigh did not know why she felt the need to announce it, except that it reminded her of a time at Peter’s apartment when he snuck into the shower with her. He had washed her hair and kept telling her how beautiful she was, kissing her for what felt like hours and going on about a poem of hers he had read a dozen times.
The bathroom lights flickered on and she was startled to see the space had been renovated since her last visit, its tacky pink interior replaced by modern neutrals.
Her parents had bought the condo a decade earlier, and it had played host to its fair share of family vacations. Her 13th birthday had been spent there, and, after a great deal of begging, Andrea had tagged along. They sipped virgin piña coladas poolside, looping Robin Thicke and Miley Cyrus hits through a pair of shared earbuds. One night, her parents had stayed out late and they rented The Wolf of Wall Street without permission and stuffed their faces with coconut patties until they were sick.
A sharp contraction barbed her chest at the memory. But she and Andy both planned to spend a chunk of time at home this summer, and that provided some comfort.
Her tired skin reawakened underneath the hot water. Ryleigh’s neck was stiff from the flight, feeling as though it had been kicked with the brunt force of a steel-toed boot.
Having Rosenfeld (Rosenfeld Duet Book 2) Page 15
