Peter’s first evening back at the paper was not as chaotic as he had envisioned. Save for his fingers, stiff after a week’s break from typing, life at the paper resumed its natural order. Alicia had taken the liberty of organizing missed messages and assignments that had been given to him without his consent. Although she was a grand irritant, she had turned out to be a decent deskmate.
He was struggling to string together the right words for a story on the Wolverines’ summer conditioning schedule when Ms. Reyes swept through the main room. She held her head high and moved with purpose in her heels. Deserting the keyboard, he turned to Alicia.
“Reyes seems awfully chipper.”
Vivacious interest bloomed on his coworker’s face and Peter thought he might come to regret his sudden interest in inter-office gossip.
Alicia rested her forearm on the desk and leaned forward, braced to reveal a scandalous secret. “The divorce is off. She’s back with Victor.”
“No kidding?”
“The whole situation is whack, if you ask me.” Alicia swiveled to face her computer monitor. She stirred her mostly melted frozen coffee and used the straw to scoop up a dollop of whipped cream. “They spent hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees, only to not go through with it.”
“Love makes you do crazy shit.”
Releasing a crack of a smile, Peter thought of his brief but fraught history with Ryleigh’s parents, and how their relationship was inching in a positive direction—even if the progress was glacial, it was progress nonetheless.
“How was your vacay?”
Peter fought the urge to cringe. He was accustomed to Alicia’s lingo by now, and there was something homey about it; she spoke like the hordes of tanned, bleached-hair girls with whom he had gone to school. “It went about as well as any vacation with your significant other’s parents can go.”
The evening passed much the same, drafting and reviewing pieces, and comments between Peter and Alicia transpired on occasion. He glanced at the framed photo beside his monitor from Ryleigh’s graduation and contemplated swapping it with one he had taken on the trip: she sat across from him in a dimly lit restaurant, clad in a red dress, her straightened hair splayed across her shoulders.
Why had he not let her spend the night? He made a mental note to phone her after work and apologize for whatever attitude he undoubtedly imposed upon her in Detroit.
While he skimmed a finished piece, his phone rang. Confident it may have been Ryleigh, he let it go to voicemail, vowing to step away and ring her back the second this story was submitted. The phone rang a second time. He ignored it again as he waded through the lines on the screen, scanning for mistakes.
The third call manifested worry.
It was unlike Ryleigh to spam him with calls.
A sinking feeling bottomed out his stomach when he identified his parents’ home number. Peter pushed away from the desk, on his feet in a second. His footfalls grew heavier as he headed for the hallway, something unknown weighing down his movements, as if the moment unfolded in slow motion.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
It had to be her. There was no way his father would call, let alone three times in a row. Peter’s mind turned frantic until understanding clicked into place like a safety belt. His dread intensified upon hearing his mother’s horrific sobs.
She made a valiant effort to piece together an intelligible sentence, but her voice cracked, not permitting the bitter revelation to make its exit.
An explanation would have been unnecessary. Cruel.
His mother’s harrowing brokenness said more than her mangled words ever could.
His fist embodied the heaviness of lead as he raised it to knock on Ms. Reyes’ door. He twisted the handle upon hearing her shouted permission to enter.
Asking for more time off on the first day back at the office was a peak example of absurdity. In his eyes, the request was non-negotiable. If Nora could not find it in her heart to approve the informal demand, he would have to quit.
He filled the acrylic visitor’s chair with haste, wanting to get this meeting over with as quickly as possible.
To pack. To get to California.
Ms. Reyes eyed him with a degree of curiosity. “Are you settling back in alright? I always take off a few extra days when I come off a trip, recuperate at home before returning to the office.”
Peter covered his mouth, unsure of how to proceed with such a sensitive inquiry. Hey Nora, I know I’ve only been back in the office for a few hours, but my father is suddenly without a pulse and I was wondering if you could extend my vacation time.
Yeah, this was bound to go over well.
“Is something the matter?”
“I’m afraid it’s the textbook definition of the matter.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, his gaze locked onto the plush white rug. “The timing couldn’t be more questionable, but I can assure you, this isn’t a clever ruse to extend my vacation time.”
Relaying word of his father’s death to someone whom he did not know on a personal basis felt like the worst kind of humiliation, conjuring a level of shame that was foreign and altogether unwelcome.
“I just got a phone call from my mom...” he trailed off.
The information was too new, too raw to be repeated. Peter had not had time to process the breaking story now crowding the headlines of his life and yet was being made to repeat it.
“My father...he passed.”
Ms. Reyes’ mouth fell agape for a millisecond before she regained her professional neutrality. She tucked a curl behind her ear and folded her hands atop the desk, a spitting image of corporate condolence. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“We weren’t especially close.” It sounded like Peter was trying to persuade himself not to fret over the loss and brought to the surface all of the occasions they had shouted at each other, to recall every instance his father had belittled him. Still, Gideon had been his father. One third of their family unit, gone. “It came as a shock, all the same.”
“Of course, it always does.” Chin trembling, Ms. Reyes cupped her mouth and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window. She swiped beneath her eyes. “Sorry. I lost my father, too. Eight years ago. He didn’t go suddenly, though sometimes, I wish he had.” She let out a small, shaky laugh. “That makes it sound like I hated him. That wasn’t the case. I was the epitome of a daddy’s girl.” Tears hazed her eyes. “It was cancer. My father was one of the healthiest people you’d ever meet, but he was taken by a disease that had no prerequisites, and no mercy above all else.”
He had worked under this woman for months, interacting with her five days a week while never knowing the pain she carried inside. Pain which had become a common experience between them, a point of connection.
“Reyes Media Group was his company, and he left it to me. Since taking over, I’ve prided myself on hiring the best reporters. Journalists with integrity, with heart. You’re no exception, Peter. You’re one of the best guys to walk through those doors.” Ms. Reyes shook her head. “I can’t afford to lose the kind of talent you bring to the table.”
Peter emitted a long, steady breath that hardly cracked the radar of audible. This was not at all how he had expected this conversation to go. Even if her empathy was only a byproduct of their shared misfortunate, he would take it.
“I’m approving your leave, without question. Take however long you need. Your job will be here when you return. Just know if we get backed up over here we might have to send you some pieces. Light stuff, of course.”
Warmth flooded his face, his fingertips, his toes.
“I can’t thank you enough, Ms. Reyes. Truly.”
She fiddled with a ring he had never seen which now graced her finger, lips tight. “It’s Mrs. Reyes, if you please.”
The corridor narrowed as Peter drew closer to his apartment, the walls compressing his jumbled thoughts into straightforward, actionable tasks. Pack. Get to Detroit. Book whatever flight they have, no matter
the layovers, the stops, the cost. You get there.
His plan halted before it was set in motion.
In the entryway, Peter spotted a familiar pair of checkered slip-ons. Vacant. The question of their owner’s whereabouts was answered by the sound of the refrigerator door being pried open. His pulse soared from zero to sixty. He had held firm in not giving Ryleigh a key, which meant he must have left the door unlocked.
Dealing with her in a time of crisis was inconceivable. He steered clear of the kitchen and, instead, ducked into his bedroom.
“Peter?” she called.
No reply came. His mind was operating on a short circuit. Precious bandwidth could not be wasted on speech.
Manic energy rose within Peter. He dumped his beachwear-filled suitcase onto the bed, replacing it with more formal attire. The clothes did not part from their hangers as he filled the bag. On top went his lone suit, an outfit he had not touched since his grandfather’s funeral a decade earlier.
Peter wondered if there ever may be an occasion where he could dress this nice without someone having dropped dead.
“Hey.” Ryleigh appeared in the doorway. She wore her ridiculous work beret and required striped shirt. “It’s 9 o’clock. What are you doing home so early?”
He fumbled with the suitcase’s zipper, snapping, “I can’t talk to you right now, Ry. It would be for the best if you left.”
There was no time to consider the damage his curtness would inflict upon their relationship. What he could consider was the fact that he might not have the energy to pick up the pieces with Ryleigh whenever he returned from California. Maybe they would end here, amid his theatrical desperation to rush to his mother’s aide.
He liked to think she would be better off without him. Peter was 17 years older than her and would one day meet the same fate as his father.
We are all dying, every second ticking closer to an unpredictable death.
“Are you still upset that I asked to spend the night yesterday? Because that seems a little ridiculous.”
Peter hefted the suitcase off the bed and squeezed past his girlfriend in the doorway, muttering under his breath, “What part of I can’t talk are you not comprehending?”
She trailed him into the hall, expression slack. “Why do you have your suitcase?” Ryleigh’s fingers flew to her temples. “What the hell is going on?”
Trying to rein in his emotions may have been a feasible option minutes ago, but things had become nuclear. The fallout would be deadly, irreparable.
The hand Peter had on the front door slipped as he faced her with gritted teeth. Her visible mix of confusion and hurt did not garner any sympathy. It had the opposite effect, pouring gasoline on his blazing frustration.
“You said everything would be fine. Everything would ‘work out.’” He mimed aggressive air quotes that made Ryleigh flinch. “Now he’s dead. He’s fucking gone. How’s that for fine?”
It was malevolent, what he was putting her through, and yet he could not stop himself. Peter felt he had no control over his actions, that he was standing off to the side watching someone use him as a host.
Face buried in her hands, Ryleigh dropped to her knees with a loud thud on the cheap flooring. She sniffled into her palms while a series of horrid, uneven noises escaped her mouth. Peter had not shed a tear over his father’s passing and he was being upstaged by a girl who had met him twice.
Or perhaps his yelling had set her off.
He tore his lone house key from its ring and tossed it at her feet. “Lock up whenever you leave.”
“Peter, wait—”
The door clicked shut and he raced through the hall.
837 Salvia Circle had never been a quiet residence.
In the 24 hours since Peter’s arrival, silence had ruled every second. Gideon’s booming voice was absent, no longer shouting from down the hall or delivering a jarring curse at the minutest injury.
His mother’s usual cheer and near constant, boisterous laughter had vanished, replaced by a somberness that engulfed the entire house, casting shadows of grief in every room. Even in the peak of daylight, the house felt as dark as a starless sky.
Through this haze of mourning, it was impossible to recall whether they had shared any good memories here. Were the three of them ever happy or had they merely coexisted?
What did it matter?
Peter had a life of his own, a girlfriend, a shot at happiness. Though he may have sullied all of that with the angst-ridden exit from his apartment.
Shit. He sighed and mulled over issues exclusively solicited in the event of someone’s death: lifespan, the question of marriage, and his disinterest in having children.
Low-hanging, gray clouds crowded the sky. He and his mother sat on the deck, a pack of cigarettes on the table between them. The house phone. Two lighters. Two sweating, untouched glasses of orange juice. They had run out of coffee but neither was in any position to leave the house for such a frivolous errand after a sobering morning of browsing caskets.
Janet’s motions were sluggish while lighting her cigarette, as if her body was ready to give up and accept a grim fate of her own. Mostly, they had kept each other company in companionable silence. Peter was at a loss as far as what to say, believing those words would be empty and nothing could truly console her. Condolences would not resurrect the man with whom she had spent the majority of her life.
In the scheme of his existence, he had known Ryleigh a short period of time and yet losing her was not something he could begin to fathom.
A cloud of smoke spilled out into the air beside him, followed by another. He wanted to tell his mother to abandon the habit, but revoking someone’s vices while they grieve their spouse seemed like a poor judgment call. Peter pocketed his hypocrisy and siphoned a long drag that blazed a trail along the back of his throat.
“Your father loved you. Very much.” Janet quirked her lips to the side and expelled the smoke, tapping her cigarette on the rim of the ashtray.
Peter laughed as he exhaled his own cloud, choking in the process. “He had an ass backward way of showing it.”
She tapped her slippered foot against the deck and glared at him, gesturing a little too close to his face with her cigarette. “Peter Zayn, you like to ruffle feathers just as much as your father did. I know he didn’t tell you nearly enough, but that man loved you to pieces. He was a lot like you, you know. Endlessly stubborn, had a difficult time expressing his emotions.”
“No wonder we didn’t get along.”
“When you were little, your father said he didn’t want any more kids, because you were too perfect.”
He could not picture his father saying such a thing.
“We don’t have to sit here and bullshit each other. What purpose does it serve?”
“I have no reason to tell you anything but the truth, dear.” Janet extinguished her cigarette among the ashtray’s graveyard, immediately igniting another. “Your father was hard on you because he was unhappy that you were unhappy. Whenever you two hung around each other, all of that unhappiness boiled over. It turned into anger, frustration.”
Peter wanted to bite out a dark laugh, but refrained. The idea that his father might have cared about his well-being was hysterical. He was dead, no need to tie up their strained relationship with a shiny ribbon.
The gold flecks in her eyes intensified, sparks springing out of a fire. “I told your father about your attempt.”
A tingling army of pinpricks erupted across Peter’s forearms. His father had known about his suicide attempt. Equally as shocking as this revelation was his mother’s graduation of ‘accident’ to ‘attempt,’ like she was finally ready to acknowledge what he had done.
“You should know, he was happy to see you in such a loving relationship. And I think he was genuinely looking forward to you two coming to visit this summer, even if he got a bit confused at the end of things.”
Tears rolled along her cheeks but she stared ahead stoically at the bac
kyard. Peter reached out and took his mother’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“Ry and I will still come, mom. We’re going to be here for you, alright?” At the mention of Ryleigh, it felt as though someone were crocheting his insides. A little softer, he added, “I won’t let you go through this alone.”
Janet flicked away her tears. “Speaking of Ryleigh, have you talked to her since you’ve been here?”
“I was a little harsh with her when I told her why I was going out of town. She’s sent me plenty of messages but I haven’t felt up to reading them. My focus is on you right now. Everything else can wait.”
“You can’t take a minute out of your day to fix things with her? Someone close to you dying ought to give you a sense of urgency, don’t you think?” She fanned herself, minutely shaking her head. Janet jammed a finger into the tabletop. “That young lady is the best thing to have walked into your life. If you mess this up, it’ll be your funeral next and I’m the undertaker. You hear me?”
“Oh, I hear you.”
“There’s that saying, don’t go to bed angry. Well, you sure as hell shouldn’t leave town angry. What’s the matter with you? What kind of son have I raised?”
“Alright mom, I get it, okay?” Peter took a drag and buried his head in his hands. He exhaled the smoke in a clean line toward the stained planks of the deck, tearing at his unruly curls as the vapor dissipated.
The house phone’s shrill, yelping ringtone sounded.
He beat his mother to the punch. “I’ll get it. You’ve dealt with enough calls for one day.” Pressing the button labeled ‘talk,’ he answered, “Hello?”
Finals were just a few weeks away and Ryleigh’s usual concentration was nowhere to be found. She was lucky to survive four or five lines in her textbook before her thoughts found their way back to Peter. Thinking of the way he had shouted at her and then stormed out of the apartment made her toes curl beneath her desk. Ryleigh believed she would have let him yell at her like that a thousand times if it falsified the news of Gideon’s death.
Having Rosenfeld (Rosenfeld Duet Book 2) Page 18
