“Listen.” He brought the cart to a halt. Peter lowered his tone to an almost inaudible volume. “I like you, and that’s saying a lot because I basically hate everyone.”
Her face fell in the wake of his extended pause. “But?”
“I can’t get caught up with someone so young.”
“You can’t or you won’t?” Ryleigh’s softness contradicted the demanding question.
“I won’t. If you were in college, maybe—”
“I’m legal. And next fall, I’ll be in college. For real.”
Peter did not love that they were having this conversation in the middle of the grocery store. Was she forcing him to discuss this in public as revenge for his theatrics at the coffee shop? Her curled shoulders and wet eyes pointed to no.
“You don’t get it. There’s more to consider. It’s not so black and white.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Let me put this in perspective for you: I’m 17 years older than you. 17.”
“Why does it matter? It doesn’t bother me.”
Naivety plastered onto her face, glowing with the earnestness of a neon sign adorning a shop window.
“Think about it. I was born into the Reagan administration. You were a baby when I graduated high school.”
“That’s a backward way of thinking,” she volleyed, bare lashes aflutter. “We’re both adults.”
“You’re an adult by technicality, not by experience.”
Ryleigh’s pursed bottom lip reminded him of their kiss and how desperate Peter was to recreate that magic. His stomach clenched, knowing he had made a big deal about their age difference to dissuade himself more than her.
A dinging notification on his phone rescued him from the intimacy of their tension-filled moment.
Saved by the pharmacy.
“I have to go,” Peter clipped. When he looked up, the electricity in her eyes had fizzled out.
“Was kissing me a mistake?”
How did women manage to do that? Say something like they can see into your goddamn soul.
He glanced over his shoulder as he turned to leave. “As I recall, you kissed me.”
Kissing you back was the most blissful mistake of my pathetic life.
Nat King Cole’s crooning voice swelled as Ryleigh bounded downstairs to assist her parents, who had been retrieving plastic storage containers of Christmas decorations from the garage all evening. The stifling scent of cloves and cinnamon sticks could have knocked her unconscious once she hit the landing.
Ryleigh gathered her hair into a bun when she came upon the sitting room. “The neighbors called. They’re begging for us to nix the potpourri.”
“Told you it was too strong,” Dexter said.
“I may have gotten carried away with the cinnamon sticks.” Charlotte fiddled with the sleeves of her cardigan. “We weren’t sure if you were coming down.”
“I was reading.”
She had actually been sobbing senselessly into her pillow, but the particulars were immaterial.
Holiday decorating abided by a tried and true process: Ryleigh aided her mother in decorating the house and her father cussed while assembling the 8-foot artificial tree. After the branches were fluffed, they would join him in untangling the lights and adding the ornaments.
He had made decent headway with the faux spruce. The pink, peach, and teal tipped metal of the branch bundles indicated her father had three more layers to install. PVC pine needles sprinkled the hardwood as he finessed the individual branches. “Remember when we used to get real trees? Those were the days. You know, this stress isn’t good for me in my old age. What’s the harm in switching back to the old tradition?”
“Dexter, that tradition is old for a reason. Your daughter is allergic to Christmas trees. I’m convinced you broach this subject every December for no other reason than to antagonize me.” Charlotte narrowed her eyes.
“Maybe next Christmas we can get a real tree. Something tall and full. I didn’t buy a house with vaulted ceilings to stare at the same stumpy, clunker tree year after year.”
Ryleigh adored her parents’ low-stakes bickering. Arguments were scarce in their 21 years of marriage, but the holidays ushered in a unique breed of stress. Yuletide commanded a certain je ne sais quoi that had the nicest of people at each other’s throats.
“Do you honestly think she doesn’t plan on coming home for Christmas?” Hands planted on her denim-covered hips, she turned to her daughter. “You’ll be home for Christmas, won’t you, dear?”
“Every year.”
She helped her mother lay out the silver charger plates, snowflake-shaped napkin holder, and silver glitter-covered pine cones that had been used to set the table for the holidays for as long as she could remember.
Dexter ventured a change in subject to avoid further backlash. “You’re going to freeze in Michigan. I remember those Ann Arbor winters like they were yesterday.”
“Really? I’ve heard it’s not much colder there.”
Interacting with her parents had become a burdensome chore. Her mind lingered elsewhere, led astray by a constant feeling of regret she could not shake. Peter refused to return any of her messages, and he spared no exception to the day they ran into each other at the supermarket.
He had just been cordial for the sake of cordiality.
“We’ll send you off with plenty of warm clothes.” Charlotte directed the comment at her daughter but sassed Dexter in the process. Her snappy attitude faltered, face growing serious. “It’s going to be so different next year.”
She made the remark as if realizing for the first time that her little girl really was leaving. It was no longer a far-off apocalyptic date on a page in her planner. At some point over the past few months, years even, her baby had morphed into a young woman, one who was on the cusp of welcoming adulthood with open arms.
“It’ll be weird for me, too. I’m moving somewhere I’ve never been, and I won’t know anyone.” As she said it out loud, the concept did not appeal to her.
What was she gaining in moving to Michigan—how different could it be from Connecticut? More importantly, was it worth leaving her parents and Andrea behind? Then her thoughts pivoted to Peter, and how she hungered to have him in her life. If he would have her.
You can’t change your college plans over a guy.
Her chest caved in when the ‘extra, extra’ ringtone sounded from her phone. She had purchased the tune and assigned it to Peter’s number as a joke, knowing he would never call her but thinking it would be hilarious if it ever went off. Standing there in front of her parents, it was far from humorous.
“What kind of ridiculous ringtone is that?” Dexter snorted while tending to the final branch bundles.
Her mother’s stare could have cut through steel.
She knew.
Ryleigh placed her hand over the blaring device in her rear pocket, toeing toward the staircase. “I’ll be back.”
Ahead of his parents’ arrival the next morning, Peter had taken the day off to prepare his place. Between keeping his distance from Ryleigh and the impending doom of interacting with his father, he hardwired his remaining focus into work, aiming to quell the anxiety chipping away at his nerves. The condo provided a visual representation of this shift in priorities.
Dirty clothes lay wrinkled on the bedroom floor, few of them having made it into the hamper. A sour malodor clung to his towels, past due for a wash along with his bedsheets. The slate floors amplified every trace of dirt or imperfection, an art exhibit showcasing the scuff marks from his loafers.
Avoiding Ryleigh had impacted him on a larger scale than he could have foreseen. Cleaning provided a convenient distraction from his quasi-romantic misery.
As he scrubbed the bathroom baseboards, she infiltrated his not so carefully guarded thoughts. The facts had been laid bare at the grocery store: he was 17 years her senior, and in a few months, he would be twice her age. And yet, he could no longer deny Ryleigh’s interest. She had made it abundantly
clear.
His phone vibrated against the counter. The rubber glove resisted removal, barricaded by sweat as Peter peeled it off.
J: Hello sweetie, will you pick up a case of cabernet sauvignon for the festivities?
P: No problem.
Her message may as well have read: ‘Peter, be a dear and pick up some wine. You know I can’t stand to be around you and your father sober.’
He did not fault his mother for her excessive alcohol intake during family visits. How else would she survive her non-negotiable referee duties? Although Peter would rather not spend the week with his father, he was looking forward to seeing his mother.
Family had always come a distant second to his father. Gideon rushed from closings, to open houses, to out-of-town conferences at the drop of a hat, opting to miss out on his son’s events rather than lose an opportunity to advance his real-estate career.
For a fleeting moment, Peter mused that his present life was not a dramatic departure from his father’s. He overworked himself of his own volition, and ignored things which carried the potential to brighten his harried existence.
He began slipping the glove back onto his hand when another message came through. Ryleigh’s name on the notification screen instigated heart palpitations.
R: you can’t ignore your problems forever
Peter could not help but laugh at the proverbial nature of her words, sounding as if they had been cracked out of a fortune cookie. A selfish notion manifested and goaded him to call her rather than reply to the text.
Three terrifying rings later, she picked up.
“Did you dial me on accident?” Ryleigh asked as if there were no other circumstances under which he would be calling.
“100% intentional. How’ve you been?”
“I hope you’re joking.” A quiet respiration crept through the receiver. “Not great since you left me stranded in the canned goods.”
“Sorry about that. I had to get to the drugstore.” Peter’s insides performed a noxious plummet, an elevator crashing at the bottom of its shaft. “To be honest, I didn’t call you just to chat. I wanted to ask you something.”
“Anything,” Ryleigh urged.
“Hold on a second.”
He placed the phone on the kitchen counter, grimacing at the sticky residue from the lemon cleaner. Peter located his favorite plaid mug and set himself to the task of preparing a pot of coffee. The dark roast released its addicting fragrance as he measured the grounds and poured them into the filter. Once the water had been added to the reservoir, he pressed the button signaling the medieval coffee maker to brew.
Peter returned the phone to his ear while grabbing a carton of half and half from the refrigerator. “Hey.”
“Did you put me on hold to make coffee? Don’t tell me you’re too old to know what speakerphone is.”
“That’s cute, real funny.” He hooked his pointer finger in the collar of his t-shirt. Peter’s leg involuntarily shook. Just ask her. What’s the worst that could happen? “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“Of course.”
“Would you mind coming over to my place Saturday night? My parents are coming into town, and I don’t get along particularly well with my dad. It’d be nice to have someone there as a buffer.”
“Mmm,” she purred in consideration. Her sultry rumbling inundated Peter with unbridled warmth. “And what are you going to do for me if I agree to this heinous plot?”
He was not wrapped around her finger, he was fused to it. “Whatever you want.”
“And you won’t say no?”
“I won’t say no.”
“Can we hang out one night?”
This is a horrible idea. His willpower had already been spread thin. Surviving an evening with her would be a terrible undertaking. But she had agreed to his ridiculous request and he had stupidly offered her anything in return.
“Consider it done. This drip coffee is disgusting, by the way. Doesn’t hold a candle to yours.”
“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Ryleigh teased. Static rustled on the line as she shouted a muffled ‘be down in a minute.’ “I better go. Text me your address for Saturday.”
“Will do. Wear an ugly sweater.”
Ryleigh checked her reflection in the rearview for the zillionth time. After fixing stray eyeliner smudges, reapplying overzealous layers of chapstick, and fluffing her mess of waves, she had run out of excuses to remain in the safety of her parked car.
Head falling against the headrest, she shut her eyes and swallowed hard. The funny thing was, her nerves were not borne out of the unorthodox arrangement of meeting Peter’s parents. Her anxiety stemmed from being in close quarters with him for the duration of the evening, and in his home of all places.
High-pitched whistling startled Ryleigh as she got out of her car. Peter crouched on the trio of steps outside the condo building.
“Look who made it.”
Two coffee pots adorned the front of his red sweater, the white text proclaiming, ‘Merry Christmas Pothead.’ A faint flame persisted in the center of the cigarette dangling between his fingers. Ribbons of smoke curled into the air.
“Great sweater.” She claimed the step below Peter, not trusting herself to occupy the same space as him. Her skin tightened beneath the cable knit when he brought the filter to his lips. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t.” He contradicted the statement with a long drag accompanied by an even longer exhalation. “I lifted it from my mom. Spend 10 seconds around my dad and you’ll understand.”
“Your parents have been in town for how many days and you’re already acting like a 13-year-old.” Ryleigh snatched the cancer stick and suctioned her own drag before returning it to Peter. She choked on the fumes. “Why do people like this? It’s horrible.”
“We like coffee, some people hate it. Everyone has a vice.” He flicked the cigarette onto the ground and extinguished the embers with his slip-on. “Really? Fa-la-la-la-llama?”
Ryleigh despised the scratchy, colorful sweater, decked out with ridiculous pom poms and threaded with glitter.
“It’s awful. This isn’t even mine, I borrowed it from a friend. It was the least offensive thing I could find.”
“Let’s get this trainwreck over with.” Peter extended a veiny hand, which Ryleigh accepted with a bit too much ardor. His elongated fingers entwined with hers to maintain a secure grasp. The weight and texture of their hands differed, but twin flames burned in their palms.
“I was under the impression you invited me to prevent a trainwreck.”
“With any luck, you’ll slow down its inevitable demise.” He swiped something on his keys against the door, and it emitted a loud buzz as they passed through its threshold. Though they were on their feet, he never surrendered her hand.
“Do they know I’m coming?” she asked as they ascended the stairs.
“No, because then they would’ve asked questions from the moment I mentioned you to the moment they met you. My dad’s foot is permanently lodged halfway up my ass. I could do without a reenactment of the Spanish fucking inquistion.”
His immediate release of her hand when they reached the landing on the sixth floor reminded her that she was there for moral support. Nothing romantic adhered to this favor.
Strangely, Ryleigh was okay with that.
“Last chance to back out.” His feverish eyes begged her to stay while he reached for the doorknob.
She yearned to gather a fistful of his stupid sweater and devour his lips. That course of action may have been in poor taste with his parents just inside the unit.
Instead, she said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The door to unit 6A swung open, revealing a cozy, sparsely decorated space. An olive green couch occupied the center of the living room; a worn leather armchair guarded the corner to its right. Mismatched lamps beamed yellow light, casting warm shadows on the graphite walls.
“P
eter, darling, is that you?” Janet called.
“Who else would it be?” Gideon mocked, bewildered at her foolish question.
Ryleigh’s chest heaved as the Rosenfelds rounded the corner, coming face to face with Peter and herself. Janet had a few inches on her husband, tall and lean like her son. His father’s face creased with wrinkles. Not the soft, lighthearted kind; these were harsh and ran deep, the consequence of someone who wore a permanent scowl. They donned matching green sweaters that said, ‘Don’t hog the nog.’
Peter snaked one of his long arms around Ryleigh’s waist, thumb stroking her hip. Her heart fluttered at the intimate nature of the embrace. She was so high from his subtle dose of affection, she almost missed the absurd statement that followed.
“I’d like you to meet Ryleigh, my girlfriend.”
She must have misheard him. Had Peter introduced her as his girlfriend? Heat flushed through her body. Everything within her tipped toward reaction. Ryleigh fought to control the tone of her greeting. “It’s so nice to meet you both.”
“You’ll have to forgive our shock, dear. Peter didn’t mention any guests.” Janet stole a sip from her wine glass.
“You know me, I’m full of surprises,” he deadpanned.
She wondered why his mother did not find the remark funny, as Ryleigh often laughed at his inane comments.
His father sunk onto the couch. “This is quite the treat. Our son never gives us the privilege of meeting his romantic acquaintances. Not that there have been many.”
Romantic acquaintance? A girl could dream.
“We’re in a serious relationship,” he insisted. They had not moved an inch from the entryway, awkward inches separating them in their socked feet.
Janet waved a hand from the armchair. “Come on and sit down, you’re making me nervous.”
Ryleigh and Peter settled on the sofa alongside his father. Lowering herself onto the furniture yielded embarrassment. The cushions were less firm than they appeared, and she sunk not so gracefully into their facade of comfort. His joggers brushed against her jeans as he settled in, and it left her disappointed when he crossed his legs, unwilling to share whatever warmth he had to spare.
Loving Rosenfeld Page 8
