“What do you want from me, honestly?” He threw a dampened dish rag onto the floor like an enraged restaurant employee. “I went to college and got a degree. I have a decent job. I’m not an alcoholic. I’m not strung out on drugs.”
“What I want is for you to be passionate about something. Anything. You half-ass everything in your miserable life.”
Harsh as the jab may have landed, it rode the gray area between accusation and fact; and it cut deeper than Peter cared to admit. “When I stumble across the first thing that resembles passion, you’ll be the first to know.”
Two bottles of wine and several hours later, his parents said their final goodbyes and returned to the hotel. Gideon did not speak to Peter the rest of the night, leaving Janet to guide any discussion. He hated the awkward position in which his mother constantly found herself, caught between the two great loves of her life.
As soon as they walked out the door, Peter collapsed in an exhausted heap. The relief coursing through him from his father’s exit outweighed the emptiness that gnawed his nerves as he said goodbye to his mother.
This time next week, he would feel fine. He had gotten used to the distance separating him from the only person he genuinely loved in this twisted world.
He would sure as hell be okay without his father.
Climbing into bed, he popped his fluoxetine and chased it with a swig of water. It was hardly 10 o’clock and he was between his sheets, begging for this day, for this week, to be over. All of his systems denied the plea.
Peter had never been more awake.
A supercut of the last seven days played on a tireless loop, feeding his shame until it was so thick, it became a second skin. Every detail rushed back, ugly and uninvited. His mother drinking the entire case of cabernet. His father spouting constant criticism. And then there was Ryleigh, caught in the middle of his familial mess.
How was she still speaking to him after what he had blindly put her through? One thing, he knew for sure.
He did not deserve her, in any capacity.
Ryleigh’s anxiety about the evening ahead snowballed. Her stomach knotted more than the tangled mess of hair she had brushed to perfection.
An hour earlier, she had locked herself in her bathroom to get ready—though, most of that time was spent panicking on the edge of the clawfoot tub. It was a modest room, small but not cramped, encouraging its visitors not to linger. Its only bit of uniqueness was the light pink wallpaper her parents had put up not long after they moved into the house. Now, it cracked and peeled in several places. Would they replace it once she moved out? Redecorate? Would they do the same to her bedroom? These questions stung from the inside out.
Her time here was up, just like the tired wallpaper.
The early acceptance letter from UMich poked out of her purse, tucked neatly in its torn envelope. Peter had a right to know. They were not together, and their tentative friendship stood on shaky ground, but she could not withhold such vital information. Not after her devastating lie.
Peter had told her this was not a date, and yet she selected her sheerest dress, slipped on her hottest panties, and prayed to a god she did not believe in that tonight, she would be able to taste his lips again.
P: Be there in five. Parking down the street, as requested.
Without a second glance in the mirror, Ryleigh snatched her purse off the counter and flew downstairs, careful not to trip over the haphazardly tied laces of her boots. She peered around the corner on the bottom step to assess whether it was an opportune moment to make her move.
Anderson Cooper’s smooth voice carried through the hall from the living room, where her mother folded a basket of laundry. Light shone from under the door of the half bathroom to signal her father’s occupance. Perfect timing.
“I’m heading out,” Ryleigh called, slinking toward the foyer. The last thing she needed was to endure a string of questions, all of which she would be forced to give phony answers to.
“Have a good time, sweetie,” Charlotte shouted.
“Wait, let me get a picture of—”
She heard her father protesting as she slipped out the door, locking it with expert swiftness.
Ryleigh spotted the neolithic silver sedan parked three houses down and the earth skirted out from beneath her feet. Peter had a way of leaving her unsteady without trying. He stood in a slouched stance against the hood of the car, hands in his pockets. Smoothing her sweater dress, she strode in his direction. Seeing him on her street catalyzed a dangerous rush of air to circulate through her fragile lungs.
She wanted this. She wanted him.
No matter how much she convinced herself, the sinking weight of guilt encapsulated her. Ryleigh thought of the inevitable wrath of disappointment her parents would unleash upon her when they uncovered the truth about who she was seeing. But the truth could stay hidden one more night.
“Hey, you.” Peter’s gaze roamed over her form, the canary glow of the streetlight reflecting off his mesmerizing eyes. Ryleigh marveled at the way he stared at her, juxtaposed with his adamant inaction. His gentlemanly restraint made her heart swell. “You look nice. However, if you’ll recall, I did send you a text requesting you dress warm. Here you are, dressed to seduce the flu.”
“I guess that makes you the flu.”
“You’re a regular comedian. Don't expect a can of Campbell’s and a get well soon card from me.” He opened the door for her. “Get in before you freeze to death.”
Competing notes of cinnamon and espresso mingled in the sedan’s cabin. A navy and gold graduation tassel with an ‘05 charm hung from the rearview mirror. You’re alone with him. In his car. Holy shit. Swallowing, she yanked the seatbelt across her chest, clicking it into place.
“Coffee?” Peter proffered, plucking a to-go cup from its drink holder. He held it out to her as he peeled away from the curb. “It’s a caramel latte with almond milk, I hope that’s right. I didn’t know what your usual was so I asked Kendall. If it’s horrible you can blame her.”
Their fingertips brushed as she accepted the coffee, heat enveloping her ears. The high she experienced from their contact, however innocent, was indescribable.
“Thanks. How uncharacteristically sweet of you.”
“I can be sweet. I reserve my sweetness for a select few.”
“And I’m one of those lucky people?”
“Don’t push it.” He emitted a fake laugh. “Earlier, I accidentally mistook your drink for mine. I could feel my kidneys failing once it hit my tongue.”
“You’re so dramatic. It’s not that sweet.”
His right arm hung over the console between them, his long, skeletal fingers lying limp as he drove. An image of those wondrous digits tracing her tight-sheathed thigh flashed in her subconscious. Peter’s hands drove her nuts; large palms and mile-long fingers. Bass player hands.
They were sheer perfection.
“If it has sugar in it, it’s sweet by definition. It’s beyond me why people willingly ruin their coffee with all of these syrups, creamers, and artificial sweeteners. Have you ever had an espresso drink as it’s meant to be? You’re being robbed of your coffee-drinking experience.”
Ryleigh admired his profile as he rambled. Passing headlights floodlit his dark, pin-straight lashes. A few days worth of stubble minimized the angling of his jaw. His curls had been tamed by gel, rescuing them from their signature erraticism. Her examination circled back to that wonderful, dangling hand. The memory of Peter helping her off the steps overrode reality, leaving her submerged in that night rather than this one. She recounted the rose petal softness of his skin, and how he held onto that small part of her like he never wanted to let go.
She snaked her fingers between his. Ryleigh suffocated in the confinement of the passenger seat when his thumb caressed her palm. Its pad traced her creases, injecting her with the white heat of want, a feeling her body had assigned to him and him alone.
“Is this your polite way of asking me to shut up?
” His cheekbones became prominent, laugh lines accentuated by a tight-lipped smile.
“Peter, if I wanted to shut you up, I’d use my mouth.”
“I have it on good authority that you’re a voracious reader,” Peter teased as the pair entered Park Brothers Books in the heart of downtown. An endless gallery of oak shelves filled the space, each one packed to the brim with paperback and hardback editions alike.
“And who told you that?”
“I’m a reporter. I happen to have excellent observational skills.” He winked. “Plus, it would be hard to miss the book you keep by the register.”
Peter made it halfway to the mystery section when he realized Ryleigh was missing. He peeked over his shoulder, puzzled as to why she had not moved from the foyer. She idled by the new release table, but she did not ransack its offerings.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t you love the smell of a bookstore?”
Ryleigh’s face softened as she drew in a deep breath through her doe-like nose, eyes shut. The question buried itself in the trenches of his cerebrum when her liner-rimmed lids fluttered open and he lost himself in her sapphire irises. He wanted to tell her how stunningly beautiful she looked. Peter knew better.
“I’ve never noticed it.”
She shook her head and waltzed along the main corridor of the shop. Before ducking into an aisle, Ryleigh pointed a finger, “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
He lagged behind to investigate this alleged bookstore aroma. Inhaling, freshly cleaned carpet, crisp paper, and the slightest bit of vanilla greeted him. The scent was indeed one worthy of love. Perhaps what he found more worthy of love were all the miniscule details Ryleigh introduced him to, as if they experienced opposing versions of reality. Peter vaguely remembered what it was like to be young and invigorated by the tiniest pockets of bliss the world had to offer. Life was simpler without existential dread nipping at your heels.
He stumbled across Ryleigh snooping around the young adult section, transfixed with the description of a vibrant yellow book. His skin flushed beneath his sweater at the maddening serenity which circumfused her.
“I figured I’d find you lurking in poetry.”
“You scared me.” Her fingers fanned out over her chest. Weaponizing the book, she smacked him on what barely qualified as a bicep. “No, my parents would probably stage an intervention if I brought another chapbook home.”
Peter rubbed his assaulted arm. “They must have been proud about the Beckwith scholarship. That’s a big deal.”
“Eh, they were whatever about it. They see it as a way to get scholarship money, but they worry my interest in it runs too deep, that I’ll morph into a starving artist.”
“How do you see it? It’s your life. People might tell you how you should run it, hell, they will tell you. You have to keep your head down and remember that you have the final say.”
“The truth is, I’m not sure what I want to do. I’m sick of the interrogations and suggestions from my parents, from my college counselor. It’s too much pressure, you know? I’ll turn up on campus come fall, undeclared, and figure it out like everyone else. Which reminds me ...”
She produced an envelope from her purse, extending it to him and then immediately retracting it. “I don’t want to keep anything from you, and if we’re going to hang out or whatever it is that we’re doing, this is something you should know about.”
Ryleigh transferred the document to his waiting hand. The mustard ‘M’ hit him like an uppercut while he scanned the acceptance letter. Everything blurred together after the first few lines, brain checking out once the significance had been gleaned. By the fall, she would be gone.
He returned the paper, bearing no indication of the numbness sheathing his every muscle. “University of Michigan? That’s incredible.”
“I thought you had a right to know after the Hemlock drama. Enough about me, let’s discuss the reason we’re here. You owe me an explanation for this fake girlfriend business.”
Peter knew this avenue of discussion could not be avoided forever, and yet he had put it off like a cumbersome article hours before deadline. He leaned against the bookshelf, confident he would not knock it over and create a domino effect throughout the store.
“I thought introducing you as my girlfriend would get my dad off my back, at least while they were in town. Of course, it didn’t make much of a difference. I shouldn’t have involved you.”
“Is he always like that?”
He flashed a broken smile. “More or less.”
“I don’t know how familiar you are with the formalities of dating, but it’s not okay to introduce someone as your girlfriend - especially to your parents - if you haven’t even consulted with the girl in question.”
“I wasn’t sure if you would go along with it.” His arms felt impossibly heavy. The imagined weight pulled his shoulders low.
Her cheeks adopted a rich hue that would have made the most dazzling garnet gems envious. She freed the strands of hair that were tucked behind her ear. They cascaded to disguise her reddening face. “The fact that you think I wouldn’t play along with being your fake girlfriend is hilarious.”
“Why’s that?”
When she looked at Peter, her usual cheerfulness was gone. “I’ll let you mull it over.”
“Open your eyes.”
Ryleigh’s heart skipped a beat. Harris glowed against the bleak backdrop of the night. Streetlamps, windows, and traffic lights twinkled like a thousand fireflies. Even the suburbs emitted a distant gleam, houses decked out with Christmas displays competing to be seen from outer space. It was ironic, a Californian showing her the beauty of this sleepy Connecticut town where she had spent her entire life.
“This is normally when I’d take you for a drink. Obviously, that’s out of the question so I had to brainstorm an alternative.” Peter wriggled out of his peacoat and held it open. “Here, put this on. You need it more than I do.”
His heat transferred to her as she plunged into the fabric that had been nestled against him all evening. The coat swallowed Ryleigh, but, surrounded by his warmth and his scent, she did not care. “Is this where you come to air your complaints toward humanity?”
“Something like that. When I started working for the paper, I’d come up here and chain-smoke a concerning number of cigarettes before deadline.”
“What made you quit?”
He planted his forearms on the building’s ledge, hands cupping the crooks of his elbows. “Cappuccinos. I was 23 when I had my first sip, and we’ve been in a loving relationship ever since.”
“Relationship. There’s an unfamiliar term.”
Ryleigh gripped the lapels of the coat. She wondered if the admission acted as a gateway for him to see through her tough girl facade. Did he connect the dots of her pathetic existence: that she had never been on a date, never had a boyfriend, never had sex? Whatever conclusions he may have drawn, he kept them to himself.
“Are the guys at your school morons, or what? No one’s ever asked you out? Actually, I believe it. You’re pretty intimidating for someone of such diminutive stature.”
“I like older guys.”
“Oh, yeah? I had no clue.” Peter smirked. His fingertips skimmed along his jawline. “For what it’s worth, if you weren’t in high school, I’d ask you out in a heartbeat.”
“You could ask me out now, if you weren’t wigged-out by societal backlash. Who cares what everyone else thinks?”
“Excuse me for having morals.”
Peter’s morals would be the death of her. Though they stood a handful of inches apart, his standoffishness made it unnavigable. Because this was not a date, she was just his kid barista cashing in on an IOU. The breath she pulled in failed to vanquish the hollowness invading her chest. She concentrated on her boots, feeling small and helpless in the reflection of the patent leather. “What happened with you and Kendall?”
“I suppose if I don’t tell you, you’ll ge
t it from her?”
Ryleigh nodded.
“I’ll give you the PG-13 version, not because I don’t think you can handle it, but I’d like to spare myself some embarrassment. I’d also like to preface this by saying she and I were pretty good friends leading up to this.” Peter thrust his hands into his pockets, arms tucked at his sides. He cast his gaze at the concrete. “We went out one night for drinks, and afterward, we ended up at her apartment. Things escalated. It had been a long time since I’d been physical with someone, and combined with the alcohol, let’s say it was a recipe for disaster.”
“I don’t get it. You guys didn’t hook up?”
She knew exactly what he meant, but torturing him brought her immense pleasure.
“We were heading in that direction. Jesus, you really don’t get it?” He seemed to be on the verge of vomiting. “I came all over her skirt.”
Biting her tongue hardly dampened her maniacal grin. Buckling to her knees, she quaked with soundless laughter. Red waves of humiliation crashed over Peter’s face.
“You’re a sadistic girl, Ryleigh Branson.”
Peter leaned against the hood of his car. Dainty snowflakes flurried around them, melting instantly upon contact. Scattered water droplets clung to Ryleigh’s waves, making it look as though someone had sprinkled silver glitter in her hair. She tipped her head toward the sky and the tiny crystals delivered a shower of kisses unto her face. For an irrational moment, Peter envied those snowflakes. He too wished to melt into her skin and cease to exist.
“Tonight was almost perfect.” His coat still hung around her shoulders while the sleeves lay vacant.
“Enlighten me. What did I miss?”
He knew the answer long before asking the question. He had seen it in her crestfallen glances on the roof, in the way she had simultaneously held her breath and his hand. Peter saw it presently, in her slow smile and that glossed-over gaze which refused to let him go.
Loving Rosenfeld Page 10
