Though these people were raging narcissists who bathed in their own vapidity, they had achieved something that evaded Peter to no end: a relationship. He coveted what they shared, simultaneously unsure if he could accept that kind of love if it ever came his way.
Red light.
A breeding ground for unwelcome thoughts.
Peter fiddled with the knotted drawstring of his hoodie in a weak bid to distract his manic mind. Hours had passed but the phone call with his mother rang fresh in his mind. In a matter of weeks, the Rosenfeld men would come face to face, doomed to repeat the toxic cycle of the three R’s for the duration of the visit: rile, ridicule, recuse. Hurling oneself off a cliff yielded less risk than enduring an interaction with his father.
Green light.
Two months — then, this unavoidable dread would become relevant. Peter could bury it until then.
“Why does this place always smell like it’s been freshly mopped with a bucket of bleach?” Andrea’s lip curled. The malodor assaulted their senses while passing through the automatic doors of Sherman’s Drugs.
“It’s a pharmacy. It’s supposed to smell sterile,” Ryleigh said. They skimmed along the expansive aisle of greeting cards en route to the rear of the store. “I should’ve stopped by after school yesterday. Sorry to drag you along.”
“I wasn’t about to stay behind and let your dad talk my ear off about gum tissue grafts.” She had wanted to be a dentist since they were little kids, and Dexter chatted her up about the subject whenever the opportunity presented itself. Ryleigh envied Andrea’s clarity about her future. “We should pick up snacks for our movie marathon. I love your parents, but some of that organic stuff they buy skeeves me out.”
“Good luck sneaking your junk food contraband past them.”
“Did I tell you what happened in fifth period yesterday?” Judging by the gleam in Andrea’s eyes, it had to be boy related. “Colin finally said something to me after weeks of eye-flirting in calculus. He came up to me after class and asked if I wanted to get together and study sometime next week."
"Yeah, I’m sure studying is all he has on his mind." Ryleigh flashed a devilish grin.
"Oh, shut up. Apparently, he's not very good at calculus if he thinks I'd make a decent study partner."
“Again, not the reason he asked.”
Ryleigh’s appearance at the pharmacy window attracted the attention of an older employee. ‘Heidi’ was embroidered in vibrant red stitching on her white coat. “What’s the last name and date of birth?”
“Branson. 9-3-2000.”
“Okay. I’ve got it right here. Give us about half an hour and we’ll have it ready. Are you signed up for our text alerts?”
“I’ll be in the store.”
The pharmacist may have still been within earshot when Andrea butted in with her two cents. “I can’t believe your mom let you get on the pill. I’ve been trying to convince my mom for like a year. No luck. It’s ironic, really. I’m the one who’s sexually active.”
“That is the absolute worst phrase ever invented. Can we not talk like clinicians?” Ryleigh squeezed her eyes shut. “My mom let me get on it for my skin.”
“Bullshit. You haven’t had a speck of anything on your face since the eighth grade. Plus—”
She snagged Andrea’s forearm, jerking her into the safety of the office supply aisle.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Shh.” Ryleigh peered around the end cap display.
Peter.
He accepted a paper bag from Heidi. The collective hum of their voices came out garbled, like a static-stricken radio station. Every muscle in Ryleigh’s body tightened, breathless at having encountered Peter the coffee purist in the wild. But, he lacked the dapper attire of the coffee purist. A slight frizz distressed his curls. Loose-fitting sweatpants. Slip-ons. Perhaps today, he was simply Peter.
“What gives, Ry?” Andrea peeked at what lay beyond the end cap. She whispered, “Hey, I know that guy.”
Ryleigh wrestled her into the aisle. “You know him?”
Andrea crossed her golden arms and cocked her head to the side, employing the ‘it’s not an interesting story’ act. “Yeah. He interviewed me for homecoming court. He’s like a reporter or something. So, what?”
“He’s a regular at my work.”
Ryleigh chanced another look at the pharmacy window. He exchanged pleasantries with the pharmacist as he paid for the medication. Peter’s lips hinted at a smile he seemed too exhausted to manufacture.
“Oh my God.” Andrea’s arms fell limp at her sides, mouth agape. “You’re crushing on this guy.”
Is it a crush?
Is that why her pulse lunged into her throat?
“If he hears you, I swear, Andy.”
The corners of her mouth stretched to their limit to reveal blinding white teeth. “Go talk to him.”
“No way.” Ryleigh’s eyebrows knit together. “Besides, isn’t this the part where you incessantly mock my interest in older guys?”
“I’ve known you for 10 years. Not once have I ever seen you freak out like this about seeing someone. You have my blessing. Now go before he leaves.”
“You have a good night, Heidi.” Peter swiped the stapled paper bag from the counter.
“You too, hun.”
With seven years of rapport between them, he let the distasteful nicknames slide. Only Heidi and his mother could get away with something as appalling as ‘hun.’
The temptation to purchase a pack of cigarettes seduced his weary spirit. Smoking was as far removed from his life as sex. But, whenever dealings with his father neared, the itch for nicotine cropped up. You’re better than this.
Peter emerged into the area near the registers, losing all interest in the plastic-wrapped boxes behind the glass case. A familiar visage rendered him immobile.
The new barista.
She studied the drugstore’s pitiful Halloween display, turning over a pumpkin-printed mug in her pale hands. Her name eluded him. Something with an R …
“Hey.” She replaced the mug on the shelf.
Shit. You can’t even remember her name.
Peter clutched the paper bag for support, resulting in a distasteful crinkling noise. A corner of his mouth hoisted to form a shy smile, “Rachel, right?”
Her lips parted long before she made a sound. “Ryleigh.”
Idiot.
“I’m usually good with names.”
Embarrassment engulfed him like tar, thick and inescapable. Her neutral stare extended an invisible hand, pulling him from the depth of humiliation. Ryleigh’s features relaxed in a manner which welcomed their beholder. Her liner-smudged, blue eyes trained on him, unfaltering. Peter failed to discern whether a coy smile played at her lips, or if they rested with a natural wryness.
“Do you live around here?”
Yeah, that wasn’t creepy at all.
“If you’re trying to stalk me, I’m afraid you’ve blown your cover.” She tucked a section of flowing black hair behind her ear, revealing an appendage riddled with silver earrings. He counted five piercings. “It’s Harris, aren’t we all a hop, skip, and a jump away from each other?”
Heidi’s soft voice spoke over the screeching intercom, “Ms. Branson, your prescription is ready for pick-up.”
“That’s me,” Ryleigh pointed to the ceiling. “See you around, Peter.” His stomach hardened at the casual use of his name. Backpedaling, she tapped her lips. “Or was it Patrick?”
"I’m leaving the scene." Peter rode his brakes down the traffic-ridden street. An ambulance wailed its screeching siren, using the shoulder to zip past the line of cars.
"Did everything go well? Did you get the interview?" Cliff Roberts’ senior citizen status did not preclude him from wearing the hat of an intimidating boss.
And he wore it well.
"Yes, sir, I did get an interview." Peter paused to navigate a sharp corner. "It may not be the one we were shooting for.
"
"Spit it out, Rosenfeld."
Peter swore saliva pelted him through the phone.
"The authorities wouldn't let any of the press speak to the individuals involved in the crash, and that order extended to family members. I spoke with an EMT and a witness, both of whom provided useful accounts of the accident."
Mr. Roberts’ exhalation sent an unpleasant crackling static into Peter’s ear. "Alright, do what you do best and make something out of nothing."
"Will do, sir." He terminated the call, flinging the phone onto the passenger seat.
Cliff could be quite particular about the angle in which certain stories should be presented. He wanted firsthand accounts, a reconstruction of the nitty gritty details. Coercing people to relive something as horrific as a car accident turned Peter off. Instead, he interviewed a small sampling of individuals and weaved engaging articles anchored in fact.
Sensationalism had no place in Harris.
Upon returning to downtown, he stalled in his parked car. Returning to the office under Mr. Roberts’ duress did not appeal to Peter. He had been chewed out through the phone; he would rather not go for round two in person. The coffee shop on the corner buzzed with activity, drawing him in with its warm light.
“Ah, what the hell.” Jaw set, he snatched the laptop bag from the backseat.
Patrons sipping lattes, conversing, and working monopolized more than half of the tables in the shop, but no one occupied his preferred spot.
Corner table, two chairs, an outlet.
Peter stood in line and impatiently waited for the indecisive couple in front of him to confirm their order. Poisonous words bubbled in his larynx, an ever-churning ocean of toxic waste raring to flood.
All contemplation halted when the couple stepped aside and revealed the newly hired temptress. The ambiance from the track lighting enshrouded Ryleigh’s face in a cloak of ethereality as she scribbled something on a napkin beside the register. Peter could not embarrass himself in front of her again, not after the drugstore.
"A medium cappuccino, to go?" Ryleigh punched the order in before he opened his mouth. “2% steamed at 180. Or are we feeling adventurous today?”
"Your exceptional memory must go a long way at this job."
"Are you always this pleasant?"
"You caught me on a good day. That cappuccino is for here, by the way." A psychology textbook nestled beside the register caught Peter’s eye while he rummaged for his wallet. “Psych major or just an elective?”
Ryleigh spied the worn book. “It’s an elective, I’m undeclared for now.”
“No kidding. I rode the coattails of undeclared until junior year. College is such a cruel joke … making decisions that will influence the rest of your life at an ill-equipped age.”
“You basically summed up my thoughts.”
Peter glanced at her as he swiped his card. “Hemlock?”
Hemlock College was a private school, a 20-minute drive outside of Harris. A few years earlier, he went out with a graduate student at Hemlock—someone he interviewed while doing a spotlight on the swim team. The disastrous evening shattered any shot at a subsequent meeting. All for the best.
“Yeah. I’m a freshman.”
Undeclared. Equipped with this knowledge, he should have understood she was either a freshman or sophomore. Ryleigh’s eager eyes conveyed her low mileage.
She must have noticed him lingering near the register like a complete imbecile. “I’ll bring your coffee out when it’s ready if you want to find a seat.”
Ryleigh recognized the impropriety of lying about college. How could she say no to those sleepy, long-lashed eyes? She planned to use her break to submit an application to a safety net school. That agenda now seemed shady, given Peter would presumably still be in the shop.
She watched him get situated as the espresso brewed. While his laptop started up, he unpacked an unfamiliar device along with earbuds, a notebook, and a pen. Fixated on Peter’s every movement, Ryleigh failed to notice the espresso flowing over its shot glass and into the machine’s grates.
Balancing brimming mugs on saucers topped her short list of irksome things that went along with being a barista. Ryleigh imagined tight-rope walkers felt the same kind of pressure. Peter’s coffee made it to the table, safe and sound.
"Thanks, you're a doll." His hand automatically reached for the mug handle.
Why did her heart not soar at the saccharine remark?
Proximity.
Their closeness flustered Ryleigh, the usual separation of the counter absent. Gray beams highlighted Peter’s golden eyes, an odd but arresting combination. His messy brown hair and five o’clock shadow betrayed the niceness of his ironed dress clothes.
“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare?”
"Let me know if you need anything else.” Like my number, perhaps?
Peter sipped the steaming cappuccino as he transcribed the two interviews from the accident. Every so often, his attention wandered to Ryleigh. A mussed braid contained the wonderment of her thick hair, identical in style to his last visit. When his focus returned to the laptop screen, a slew of blue and red squiggles revealed the extent of his distraction.
“Goddamnit,” he mumbled into the mug.
Maybe the coffee shop had been a poor choice.
He found himself drawn to Ryleigh’s animated aura, the sort radiated by a person who lived their life in full color. Her technicolor vibes intimidated Peter’s spent black and white reel.
Ryleigh sauntered back to the table as he scanned the transcriptions for pull quotes. She collected the empty mug. “Can I get you anything else? Thought I’d check on you before my break.”
"Unless you can make this article compose itself, I don’t need a damn thing. But thanks, anyway.” Peter did not cease his rhythmic typing, but his gaze pulled in her direction. The hem of her loose dress halted at the mid-thigh. “You better cover those Casper legs if you’re heading outside. It’s 44 degrees.”
“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare?”
Peter’s lips clamped together at her recycled line. “I wasn’t staring. Peripheral observation.”
“Just so you know,” she slid out the unoccupied chair across from him, “this is my table.”
Had anyone else claimed the seat, he would have objected to their outright brashness. Why did he not turn her away? Peter needed confirmation that this scene was anchored in reality. “I have seniority rights to this table.”
“Ageist.” Ryleigh’s eyes flicked upward. She cracked open a portable leatherbound notebook and produced a pen out of nowhere. The writing utensil sailed along the page. Her shoulders drew closer to her body, as if those words were a secret that necessitated protection. Pen aimed at his recorder, she asked, “What’s that?”
“What are you writing?”
“I asked you first.”
“It’s a recorder.” Peter crossed his arms. “Your turn.”
“Uh, it’s a poem.” She tightened her grip on the pen before releasing it. A playful grin materialized, flushing any residual embarrassment. “Why don’t you record your interviews on your phone?”
“Guess I’m old-fashioned. Why don’t you write your poems on the computer?”
“Touché.”
His screensaver populated on the laptop screen; had it been that long since he touched the article? Peter refused to let a cute college student influence the quality of his writing.
You think she’s cute, now? This is the last thing you need.
Ryleigh snatched the journal and moved it to her lap, letting it rest against the table’s ledge. Colorful band stickers littered the cover. A jean-wearing bunny caught his eye.
“You’re a Blink fan?”
“They’re one of my favorites.”
Those words must have been eating her alive, because she wrote like someone held the cold mouth of a gun to her temple. Even after bilateral carpal tunnel surgery, he winced thinking about how
much his wrist would ache if he were to replicate her ferocity.
“I saw them with Silverchair a few months after Enema came out.”
That got her attention.
“No way.” Ryleigh’s pen halted as a menacing grin blossomed. His heart raced at their penetrative eye contact, but something inviting shone in her pools of blue and Peter lingered longer than he normally would have. “That album’s ancient.”
Fingers flexing above his keyboard, he joked, “I’m admittedly a little ancient.”
She searched his face, eyes darting here and there, before returning her focus to the journal. “You wear it well.”
Heat traveled up from beneath the collar of his dress shirt, along his neck, and onto his face. Is she into me? No, she thinks you look good for your age, that’s all; which is ironic because she doesn’t know how old you are.
He refreshed his laptop’s screen and ventured a safer avenue of conversation. “So, you’re going to school here. You don’t strike me as a local.”
“You’re wrong, there. Born and raised.” Ryleigh’s thumbs tap danced on her phone’s digital keyboard. Was she telling off a throng of boys? Tweeting? Peter supposed it did not matter, except the sudden interest had him miffed. Mischief backlit her squinted eyes. “You, on the other hand, you’re definitely not from here.”
“Californian transplant. What gave it away?”
“Your accent isn’t up to par to audition for Damn Yankees, that was my best hint. California’s a world away.”
“That was kind of the idea.” And your presence at this table is shattering all the progress I’ve made. Peter shut the laptop, rising to his feet. “I better head back. Busy night.”
The subtle biting of her lip urged him to stay, but he could not fall victim to another charming woman.
Not after college.
All hell broke loose during third period biology in light of Mr. Fisher’s absence. Quiet chatter hummed throughout the room, igniting further exasperation from the incompetent substitute who just wanted to know ‘if anyone could work the projector.’
Loving Rosenfeld Page 3
