See? It didn’t mean anything. He did it out of fear. Job security. Even in her head, it sounded foolish. Peter had a hand in the micro-infidelity, regardless of his motivation.
“I may not have reacted to what happened that night, but I can’t sit here and refuse to own up to my share of the blame. I could’ve turned down her invitation to the bar but I didn’t. For that, I’m sorry. I never thought I would…” His chin twitched as if to tremble but soon Peter swallowed and slicked back his curls. Good as new. “I didn’t think I’d ever be capable of hurting you in that way.”
Ryleigh’s insides balled up despite her mask of indifference.
Though it caused her great duress, she understood that in order for her and Peter to move forward and have a future, she would have to—eventually—forgive the 10-second transgression that left her skin mottled and heart racing beyond its speed limit.
She met his eyes. “I can’t talk about this anymore. Not right now, anyway.”
It was invigorating to stand her ground, to state her boundaries. Some of Ryleigh’s previous panic drained from her bloodstream and the water cooled her spiked internal temperature. A final push of relief came in the form of Peter bundling her up in his arms.
Skin fastened as one, her disdain for him faded away.
For now.
“You’re my best friend,” he said, laugh lines deepening. Euphoria claimed her body whenever she was this close to Peter, close enough to examine and admire his fine details: the tiniest tinge of gray sprouting on the left side of his hairline, the faint twin creases on his forehead, and honeyed flecks in his eyes. “I feel so lucky to have you in my life. Every day. I don’t want to mess this up with your parents.”
“My mom isn’t too horrified by us. Stay out of my pants and we should be golden.”
Ryleigh splashed his face and started swimming to shore. Tempted as she was, she did not turn and glimpse at whatever amusing reaction Peter sported.
Morning light filtered in through Ryleigh’s lashes and coaxed her into consciousness. Even in her groggy state, she registered the missing weight from the mattress long before shifting to see the empty, rumpled space where Peter had slept.
His muffled voice came from beyond the balcony’s sliding door. The beloved sound acted as an alarm clock for Ryleigh, proving more effective in reanimating her than the penetrative rays of sunlight. Rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm, she flipped her phone over on the wicker nightstand.
5:51.
Who could Peter have been talking to at this hour?
The majority of his calls were from Janet and, though it was the middle of the night in California, it was difficult to imagine anyone else ringing him up at such a time.
Ryleigh forced herself out of bed and snatched Peter’s discarded shirt en route to the balcony. Her hand slipped beneath the curtain but froze on the handle. Perhaps her intrustion on the, likely delicate, conversation was impolite.
Forget the construct of politeness.
Endlessly, he had demonstrated his inability to let her in, to allow her to help in any fashion. Asserting herself was the only way she stood a chance.
Slouched against the railing, Peter cradled his cell on his bare shoulder and flashed her a mechanical smile.
“Let me let you go, alright? Of course...we’ll talk later, yeah...love you, too.”
His phone landed on the glass table with a jarring ‘clank,’ a noise which Ryleigh hoped did not summon her parents.
He nodded at the balled-up shirt. “Since when do you complain about me being shirtless?”
Tossing it to him, she said, “I thought you might be cold out here.”
The line, simple yet sincere, affected Peter.
Maybe he thought it went undetected by her, but she had surveyed and catalogued the nuances of his behavior for months.
Muscles strained in his neck once he pulled on the shirt. One hand rubbed the fabric of his sweatpants while his gaze flitted to the table, the neighboring buildings, the vast expanse of beach below.
Ryleigh felt like someone who had not been handed a rose on The Bachelor; she had not done a sufficient job of taking care of Peter and would be sent home to wallow in her inadequacy.
He pinched his throat. “Come here.”
She walked into his open arms which soon circled her with startling strength. Despite her expectations, he did not fall apart upon the contact, he did not succumb to a storm of sobs.
A slew of questions orbited Ryleigh’s mind.
In a similar situation, she may have asked him if everything was alright or inquired as to what he and Janet had discussed. Speech evaded her. Unease compressed her larynx.
Swelling tension burst and seeped out of her pores when, at last, Peter spoke.
“My dad had a showing for a property yesterday. Horrible, from what mom says. She was there. He mixed up all kinds of information. When the couple showed up to look at the house, there were so many discrepancies between what he told them on the phone versus the actual property, they gave my parents an earful and bolted. I don’t know why she’s letting him go on with this real estate nonsense. It’s nothing but extra stress on her, you know? Stress she doesn’t need. Obviously, he’s no longer competent enough to do the job. He needs to make peace with it and move on. The bastard is lucky to be alive and he still thinks he’s got something to prove, like living isn’t enough.”
Ryleigh vowed her silent but comforting allegiance by stroking his back while he vented about the phone call. Peter had seemed pretty distraught when she joined him outside, and she surmised he planned to keep much of the call to himself. Though his recent habit of withholding had given way to concern, Ryleigh was pleased with whatever he chose to share.
Ear sealed to his chest, she listened to the steady beating within. The sun hung on the horizon like a spotlight and the steady breeze sailed through their hair and rippled their clothing.
Calm. Picturesque.
Words that would have described the moment. Cracking open either of them and peering inside would have told a different story.
“I’ve been thinking about going out there, going home,” Peter said. “I wish I could stay, not forever, just long enough to help my mom through this mess. Well, there’s no end to it, necessarily.” He sighed, then said more quietly, “You know what I mean.”
Her lips brushed his shirt as she spoke. “You should go, without question. Do you think Nora will give you the time?”
It hurt less than Ryleigh had anticipated to breathe that name. The sting it inflicted upon her chest was tolerable.
“God, I doubt it. I haven’t been with them long enough to accrue leave. I was shocked they gave me this week.” He passed a hard swallow. “I have to be there for her Ry, for my mom—I.” Another swallow, this one more dramatic, stubborn in its descent. “She stayed in the hospital with me when...she never left. Three days, she sat in a chair by that bed. When I needed her, she was there. I need to do the same. I have to—”
“Calm down. Breathe,” Ryleigh urged in a soothing voice. She gazed up at him in time to catch his stiff nod. “When we go home, you’ll talk to Nora and see if you can get the time. You’ll fly out and be with your parents for a while. Everything will work out.”
“I hope you’re right. I just want to help—I. It’s all on her shoulders. Makes me sick to even think about what she’s dealing with. On her own.”
“We’re going to get you out there,” Ryleigh tested a smile, “even if I have to talk to Nora myself.”
He laughed, “You don’t want to do that.”
“You’re right, I don’t, but I’d do it for you.”
Peter drew her in for another crushing embrace and she wished he would never let go, that they could stay forever suspended in this moment, temporarily safe from their problems.
Peter expressed interest in making everyone breakfast. In lieu of getting some extra sleep, he and Ryleigh hit up the grocery store. She thought it was a setup for an elab
orate joke until they were in the kitchen and he obviously knew what he was doing.
“It’s refreshing to see a guy who knows his way around the kitchen,” Charlotte said, shooting her husband a teasing look.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Ryleigh cut in, “this is the most cooking he’s done since we’ve met.”
Dexter had not offered so much as a ‘good morning’ since they had convened at the table. His poker face and rigid posture evoked the energy of a hardened food critic while he ate his breakfast burrito.
“So,” a hand shielded Charlotte’s mouth as she chewed through the words, “when exactly did you two become an item?”
The question was clearly meant for Peter. Had she wanted the information sooner, there had been no shortage of opportunities to ask Ryleigh. Dexter gave a theatrical eye roll at the topic and excused himself, citing a coffee top off.
Flames licked his cheeks. “The night before she left. I tracked her down and spilled my guts like a crazy, lovesick kid.”
“Sounds romantic,” Charlotte said.
“That’s one word for it,” Dexter snorted, dropping into his chair. Coffee sloshed over the lip of his mug when he set it down. “Selfish is another.”
“You’re right.” The two words from Peter stunned everyone at the table. “It was the most selfish thing I’ve ever done. I tried to let her go, but in the end, I couldn’t.”
Bracing a hand on his forehead, Dexter mumbled to Ryleigh, “You’re not bringing him home this summer, are you?”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. I’ll be too busy taking care of my dying father.”
Dexter’s complexion soon matched that of the napkin beside his plate. “Sorry about your father. Does he have much time?”
“He’s not actually dying. Not exactly. Feels like it lately, though.” He produced a singular laugh that sounded insane sidled up to the ambiguous morbidity. “Not appropriate breakfast conversation. Listen, I made this meal as a small peace offering. I know you guys aren’t over the moon about this arrangement, but I love your daughter so I’m not going anywhere. Unless she dumps me.”
His heart fluttered when Ryleigh’s eyes twinkled at him above the rim of her mug. The week was not yet halfway over and Peter was exhausted balancing his fledgling relationship with Ryleigh’s parents and the stress-infused one he now shared with his own.
Something had to give. Knowing the Bransons did not despise him would warrant some degree of relief.
Charlotte attempted to tuck a section of hair behind her ear but it fell back into place. “I think as the four of us spend more time together, we’ll get there. We have to get to know you.”
She was already accepting of him, based on what Ryleigh had told him. Charlotte was speaking not so cryptically on her husband’s behalf.
“I get that.” Peter sank lower in his chair and clasped his hands over his stomach. “All I’m asking for is the chance.”
Pointing at him, Dexter said, “I’ll give you one, and that’s generous.”
“One family vacation down,” Ryleigh joked.
He had a feeling he would not be tagging along for the next trip.
South Beach Pier was crowded, save for their destination among the aisle of battered wood slats: the fishing area. Peter had never touched a fishing pole in his life, but that had not stopped him from telling Dexter that he had gone with his father several times to Lake Tahoe.
He and Ryleigh strayed a few feet behind her parents. The heat was brutal. He imagined the sunlight passing through a magnifying glass before frying their skin.
“Is this something you guys do when you come down here?” Peter asked.
Ryleigh worked her hair into a bun as they went. “Usually, my dad goes alone. My mom and I will hit up Bayside or something. In light of our conversation this morning, she thought it would be best if we all went.”
“So you’re saying I have myself to blame?”
“Basically, yes.”
Peter watched his girlfriend pluck a cricket out of the container marked ‘live bait’ and skewer it onto a hook as if she had been brought up in the Bayou and not some ritzy Connecticut suburb.
When he attempted to bait his own hook, his alleged fishing experience was debunked. The cricket continued to slip out of place and Peter narrowly avoided slicing his thumb.
Lips clamped, Ryleigh claimed the poor cricket—who had probably already died of a heart attack. “Oh, jesus.”
She baited it in less than a blink and returned the pole.
Dexter winced as he cast his line out over the pier’s railing. “I always pictured you ending up with someone more resourceful.”
“That’s sexist,” Ryleigh sang back. “Another quarter for the jar, sir.”
“Jar?” Charlotte mocked. “We’d need a bank account by now.”
Though a ghost of a smile appeared, Dexter muttered to Peter, “Can’t take these girls anywhere.”
He envied the easygoing rapport shared by the three Bransons, a connective flow that had never been present in his family. Their disjointed flow consisted of explosive arguments that gave way to days of radio silence and, if he was lucky, an apology in the form of a Sunday edition of The New York Times from the Starbucks on Ocean Street.
“I can’t take too much offense to my lack of resourcefulness. My mother raised me, mostly.”
“Divorced?” Dexter surmised.
“No, my dad just wasn’t around much.” Peter cast his line without a hitch and relief flickered within as he took his spot along the railing with the others. “He was always working, and even when he wasn’t, he’d find something to do.”
Excuses to not be a part of my life.
Charlotte set her pole in one of the PVC resting slots and looked to Peter with furrowed brows. “What happened to your father, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Despite the sweat trickling along his spine, his body felt cold, like someone had replaced his blood with liquid nitrogen.
“He had a stroke in January.” Peter focused on the lilting waves below lest they pin him for an emotional sap. “My mom’s been handling his recovery. Her family is up in NorCal so they aren’t readily available for support, unfortunately.”
Charlotte’s face fell. “I am so sorry. That’s just awful, honey.”
Hearing someone other than his mother call him ‘honey’ was strange, though not completely unwelcome. The instant familiarity Charlotte exuded around him reminded Peter of his early interactions with Ryleigh, how she had shared an almost unnatural level of comfort with him from the start.
“My grandfather had a stroke,” Dexter said. He reeled in an empty line only to cast it out once more. The hook sank. He stared Peter in the eye. “Killed him on the spot.”
Wild surprise contorted Charlotte’s features, like she had witnessed a person run over a litter of puppies and then drive away. Ryleigh hid her shock a little better, biting the inside of her cheek and not letting her eyes remain wide for too long.
Charlotte knelt and snatched up the live bait container. She shook the chirping crickets onto Dexter’s head and shouted, “Dexter Samuel Branson! He’s opening up about his father’s health problems and that’s what you have to say? How are we supposed to get to know one another, let alone bond, when you’re spouting off these entirely insensitive responses?”
Peter took his chances and migrated to Ryleigh’s right, as far away from the matriarchal smackdown as he could manage without abandoning the group. He and Ryleigh looked on, mortified.
Nudging her arm, he whispered, “She’s really giving it to him.”
“Oh yeah.” Ryleigh laughed and returned to manning her fishing pole, pretending her parents were not engaging in some weird fight on the pier. In public. “I think it’s safe to say my mom adores you.”
Arriving in Detroit felt like the first day of a prison sentence. Ryleigh had spent a responsibility-free week with Peter—even if her parents occasionally killed the vibe—and their return to
Michigan signaled the resumption of work and school, the conflicting schedules which left them clamoring for the weekend.
Peter tucked an arm around her waist, leaving one free to scroll through the many unread emails in his work inbox. His thumb penned quick, concise responses. Some of them had Ryleigh smiling to herself, particularly, ‘What you’ve taken four paragraphs to explain to me could’ve easily been done in four sentences.’
A stinging pain seared her sternum as they lingered in baggage claim. It was a desperate ache, one which Ryleigh was no stranger to.
“Can I crash at your place tonight?” She knew he returned to the paper the next day, but she asked anyway.
The impossibility of the vacation not ending in utter chaos had her in a gambling mood.
“You know I have to work tomorrow.” While his tone may have flirted with the idea, Peter’s actions hinted at his true intent. The innocent kiss he planted on top of her head meant he would be letting her down gently. “The weekend will be here soon enough.”
Her heart crumpled like a victimized piece of paper. A small, albeit foolish, part of Ryleigh had thought Peter might make an exception, that he too wanted to sustain the happiness they had constructed over the last week.
“Hey, come on. Don’t look at me like that. I have a lot going on. Cut me a break, huh?” he said upon collecting their luggage.
‘I have a lot going on’—yet another reason Ryleigh was reluctant to spend the night in her dorm rather than his apartment. Standing there in the airport, she equated Peter to a child whom she felt ill to let out of her sight.
Alone for whatever duration, she feared what he may turn to or away from. Cigarettes. Food. The medication he had finally procured but still ignored.
“Call me if you need me. Tonight, tomorrow, whenever,” Ryleigh said once they were in his car. She drew in a deep breath that burned the back of her throat as she buckled her seatbelt before daring a look at Peter, who was already maneuvering out of the parking deck.
“No promises.”
Having Rosenfeld (Rosenfeld Duet Book 2) Page 17
