Having Rosenfeld (Rosenfeld Duet Book 2)

by Leighann Hart

  Her phone rang, and she looked up from her English notes for the first time in more than an hour. Glancing at the caller ID would have been a useless exercise Ryleigh’s eyes were too bleary to entertain. Peter had called 27 times since their shouting match in his car. She had ignored each one and not a granule of compassion rattled around in her hollow heart that urged her to, for once, pick up.

  After it went to voicemail, she shuffled her music library and chucked the phone across her desk. Alanis Morissette’s You Learn started playing and Ryleigh almost laughed at the algorithm’s apropos selection.

  Fingertips brushing against her forehead, she made a bid to return to her homework but what little focus had been reclaimed was shot when Min-ji waltzed through the door, frozen coffee in hand.

  She had taken all of two steps into the room before she stopped, lips comically still around the green straw and thin brows bunched together.

  “Jagged Little Pill? That can’t be good.” Min-ji scooted over Ryleigh’s books without asking, taking up residence on the desk where she and Peter had carried out unspeakable acts. Stop thinking about him. Honestly, get a grip. Extending the cup toward Ryleigh, she offered, “Want a sip? You look like you need it. No offense.”

  She was too exhausted to argue that, as per Peter’s philosophy, frozen espresso drinks could not be counted as real coffee and instead shook her head.

  “I’ve been a model roommate the last few days and minded my own business, but if you’re setting your moodfests to music, I think it’s my unspoken duty to intervene.” A playful gleam lit up Min-ji’s cognac eyes as she leapt from the desk. She patted Ryleigh on the shoulder before once again heading for the door. “Grab your shit and let’s go, girlie.”

  Flurries of snow cascaded upon the streets of downtown Ann Arbor. The film crew hired by Reyes Media Group idled on the corner, making final preparations for the subsequent stream of the broadcast. It was absurd to refer to this trio of goons as a film crew; they looked the part of college burnouts seeking a path to a quick but honest buck.

  Agitation breezed through Peter’s bloodstream with the ease and urgency of a narcotic, and despite the snow and cold, he felt overheated in his loose office clothes and peacoat. The tiff with Ryleigh had gutted him, making him wonder if he had done irreparable harm to their relationship.

  You thought you could make this work, didn’t you? You should’ve known you’d find a way to mess it up.

  He took a long drag from the cigarette dangling between his cracked lips, savoring the warmth flooding his lungs before dispelling the nicotine-laced smoke into the air. Extinguishing its remains on the brick wall, Peter rubbed at his lids with his pointer finger and thumb.

  His nerves were shot, their synapses fried and useless. The only hope of restoring them to a semi-functioning state ahead of the broadcast lay in phoning Ryleigh and hearing her syrupy sweet voice assuring him that everything would be alright. Peter rang the back of his neck as he contemplated and dismissed a second cigarette in the same beat.

  Part of him knew calling her was pointless when she had been ignoring his calls for days on end. No heartfelt voicemail or apologetic text could make up for the way Peter had treated her.

  And yet, with the birth of this realization, he still had the audacity to phone Ryleigh.

  “Fuck,” he muttered when—no surprise—she neglected to pick up. Peter had crammed her inbox with pleading messages, and he opted not to add another to that archive of humiliation.

  A dash of violet appeared in his peripheral in the form of the purple-scarved camerawoman, who peeked around the corner to warn, “Thirty seconds.”

  He rounded the same corner a moment later, joining the crew and interview subject. Peter raked through his windswept curls, clearing his throat to disband the jagged shards of apprehension slicing into his fragile mental state. Why had he agreed to anchor this godforsaken web coverage?

  Peter’s sweating hand gripped the mic as Scarf held up three fingers, mouthing the countdown in time with the retraction of each gloved digit. Despite the violent churning in his stomach, he pressed on.

  “I’m Peter Rosenfeld, reporting for Real Time in association with the Ann Arbor Times. This afternoon I’m joined by Scott McClaran, principal of Whiting Academy. The private, performing arts school’s senior showcase has been a closed-door affair since the institution opened in 1978, but with Principal Hennigan’s retirement last year, new changes are being ushered into a school rooted in tradition. Principal McClaran, what led you to make this trailblazing decision regarding the showcase?”

  He angled the mic toward the older man. The subtle motion of the microphone shifting made Peter woozy, as if the ground beneath him were no longer solid. Squeezing his eyes shut, he drew in a breath to steady himself. Principal McClaran shot him a curious look before delving into his response.

  “These seniors, in most cases, work all year putting together their acts for this showcase. This event is the culmination of everything they have gained throughout their time at Whiting. It seems unjust to their efforts if the showcase is only open to those within the school, families included. My students have put their blood, sweat, and tears into the preparation of these performances. Our faculty and families know how talented these kids are. The rest of the city should be afforded the chance to see what these young ladies and young men are capable of, and that’s why we’re turning it into a community event.”

  Peter tried to formulate a follow-up question, but his mind went hazy and he became incapable of uttering a single word as an overwhelming surge of nausea halted all capacity to engage in conversation. The film crew eyed him, questioning his hesitation to proceed with the interview because they were live, after all.

  Like he needed another reminder.

  What he needed was for things between himself and Ryleigh to be copacetic, and they were far from that. You can’t think about her right now. You’re working. You’re on air, for Christ’s sake.

  The mic escaped Peter’s grip and crashed to the ground. Clutching his stomach, he doubled over, ashamed of what ascended in his throat but unable to prevent its impending expulsion.

  Vomit projected from his mouth like erratic spurts of water from a haywire faucet. The thick, orange liquid coated Principal McClaran’s dress shoes, spilling onto the sidewalk. Now he regretted that morning’s hasty consumption of an entire container of soupe pour deux Ryleigh had left in his fridge days earlier, staring in horror at his Jackson Pollock knockoff splattering the cement.

  A hand hovered frozen in front of the camerawoman's agape mouth while one of the male crew members stepped in and terminated the footage.

  Peter remained hunched over for a moment, fixated on the mess he had spewed onto the principal’s shoes. He glanced at the principal through the veil of his dark lashes. McClaran glared right back, face going purple from the strength required to rein in his ire.

  Straightening, Peter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He offered a lame, “Sorry about your shoes.”

  McClaran huffed, hair-lined nostrils flaring. He turned on his heel and trudged up the steps leading into Whiting, slamming the large oak door once inside.

  “That was awesome,” a beanie-wearing member of the camera crew ventured, earning an elbow shove from the scarved woman.

  She whipped a cell phone out of her coat pocket, already stepping away from their small group. “I’m going to give Nora a call before she hears about this secondhand, ask her how we should recalibrate.”

  Peter did not care that he had puked on a stranger. He did not care that he had botched the launch of the live coverage. He did not care that his new job may have been jeopardized.

  Crouching to the curb on shaky legs, he lit another cigarette, bringing it to his vomit-crusted lips. Peter pulled out his phone and tapped Ryleigh’s number, the dial tone purring in his ear while his lungs came alive with a familiar, comforting fire.

  Min-ji’s idea of an intervention revealed itself in the no
t-so-tortuous form of pedicures at a nail salon a few blocks from their dorm.

  The hot water pooling around her feet and the massage chair kneading her back failed to put Ryleigh at ease. Her cell lay face down on the mini foldaway tray between her and Min-ji. Tempting as it was, a relentless quiver in her stomach dashed the urge to check for new messages. She had not replied to any of them, after all. What was one more among the ranks of the unread and unanswered?

  Her toes curled in the shallow depth of the artificially blue, fizzing water as she imagined how Peter reacted each time he was greeted with her generic voicemail message.

  “Ryleigh?” Min-ji started. Much to the chagrin of the nail tech buffing her heels, she leaned slightly over the chair’s armrest. “There’s a cloud of romantic funk the size of Alaska hanging over your head and it’s totally killing the good vibes we’re trying to conjure, here.”

  “I’m trying to be present. Really, I am.”

  Min-ji straightened and the nail tech muttered something that sounded like an expression of relief. Turning only her head toward her roommate, she said, “Look, I know you love this guy, or whatever, but he doesn’t define and dominate every aspect of who you are, right? You acknowledge that you’re your own person and a relationship doesn’t define your worth?”

  “Of course. You know that’s not who I am.”

  “Then why do I feel the need to remind you of that?”

  Check and mate. Ryleigh tapped a finger on the armrest to the tempo of her annoyance. “Okay, okay. You’re right. I shouldn’t be so weak in the face of this.”

  Min-ji produced a crisp nod. “Damn right you shouldn’t.”

  In an instance of impeccable timing by the universe, Ryleigh’s phone blared with the specially assigned ‘extra, extra’ ringtone. Min-ji bent her neck forward and openly stared at her, but Ryleigh was not swayed by the disbelief.

  She was ready—or at least, the tingling sensation sweeping through her body and bringing her back to life insisted that she was—to hash things out with Peter. Not wanting to be completely at his mercy, Ryleigh resolved to hang up within the first few minutes if an apology had not been issued.

  She may have loved him, but she was no fool.

  As Ryleigh reached for the phone, Min-ji snatched the still ringing device from the tray and punched the ‘ignore’ icon. She powered it off before returning it to a stunned Ryleigh.

  Tilting her head against the headrest, Min-ji’s eyes cut over to her. “If he’s really sorry, he’ll come to you.”

  As per Min-ji’s advice, Ryleigh continued the silent treatment toward Peter. Though, she grew concerned that almost a week had passed since their falling out and things were nowhere near mended. She wondered in hindsight if she should have given Min-ji some context before her issuance of suggestions—namely that Peter had no problem being a cold, standoffish bastard when it suited him.

  For all Ryleigh knew, he would never apologize, because much like being sweet, groveling was not his brand.

  All of this swirled in her head like a top 40 hit nearing retirement as she restocked the condiment bar. She dumped little capsules of butter into their designated container, inwardly thankful for the simplicity and repetitive nature of the task given her inability to concentrate on anything but her troubling thoughts.

  Ezra hovered around her like an incessant gnat. It was a shame Ryleigh could not swat him. He did minimal work, enough to justify to Ivan that he was ‘assisting’ her. His puny arms tore at the packing tape on one of the boxes but it did not budge.

  The attempt to show off what had clearly been outed as an absence of any degree of strength should have been appropriately accompanied by the shrill whining of a deflating sound effect.

  “I was won—”

  Ryleigh fragmented Ezra’s sentence by yanking the sealed box from his pitiful grasp, whereupon she opened it with next to no effort. This kid is pathetic.

  As she poured ketchup packets into their bin, he blurted a question so ludicrous, she halted the action.

  “I was wondering if you would go to prom with me?”

  A deafening, high pitch rang out in her ears and the half empty box escaped her hold, somehow landing on the counter. She tried her best not to gawk at the boy in the square glasses who had a shy smile plastered on his bashful face; meanwhile, a sour taste spread in her mouth that had nothing to do with the everything bagel she had eaten on break.

  It pained Ryleigh to verbally reject him but the surprise promposal felt like an ultimatum: either she shut it down or he would keep trying his luck.

  “Ezra, you’re a nice guy, and I enjoy having you as a coworker, but I have a boyfriend.” Caution wielded her tone, steady yet firm, subtle notes of rejection evident even in the way she enunciated his name.

  All of his features slouched at once, as if everything within the poor boy had imploded. Ezra pushed his glasses up the bridge of his slender nose, regaining some confidence with the repositioning of his spectacles. “And why haven’t you mentioned anything about this alleged boyfriend?”

  “We’re fighting.”

  Was she seriously discussing this with Ezra Herskowitz? Ryleigh must have been dreaming, for there was no other scenario in which she would have entertained this.

  “And before that?”

  This boy had moxie, she would give him that.

  Jutting out one hip, Ryleigh cocked her head to the side and sucked in her cheeks. “I was trying to be nice before, instead of embarrassing you in front of the entire cafe, but you’re making it clear you’re undeserving of my niceness. I can assure you, who I date is none of your fucking business, and you certainly aren’t privy to even the vaguest details of my romantic life. So, if I were you, I’d think long and hard the next time a question like that is on the verge of slipping from your lips.”

  Ezra’s eyes went wide, shining like twin full moons behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.

  “Go easy on the kid, sweetheart,” came an all-too-familiar voice. A voice she was supposed to be averse to, but her heart thawed as it resonated in her delighted cochleae.

  Don’t be weak. Don’t be weak.

  Shooting a menacing glare at her boyfriend, she continued to restock the condiment bar. In the window of brief observation the glance afforded, he looked a mess: frizzed curls, purple rings hugging his tired eyes, jawline buried beneath a week-long shaving strike. And in spite of it, she still found him irresistible. To her, Peter was always perfect, which was why she had to channel her concentration elsewhere.

  She forged a tough front. “Don’t sweetheart me.”

  “Come on,” he said, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets.

  Ryleigh hated when he resorted to his present, pleading expression: brows drawn together, eyes softened like butter in a hot skillet. It made her weak in the knees and made her act of indifference a tough one to carry out.

  “This is your boyfriend? He’s like 40,” Ezra bitterly remarked as he returned to the registers.

  “Do I look that old?” Peter muttered to her. Quiet laughter escaped before she could think to suppress it. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry about last weekend. I was stressed and I lost my temper, and that wasn’t cool of me. I shouldn’t have aimed my frustration at you, especially since you weren’t the source of it.”

  Yearning crawled along her throat and pressured her to speak, to accept his apology, to produce her own, but she found herself unable to manufacture a response.

  His gray eyes drilled holes into her skull when she resumed tending to the condiments and did not let up until her motions slowed, a silent indication she was listening.

  “I’ve had a lot of time to think this week.” Peter paused, paralyzed by the hesitancy written all over his face, which she was pleased to note looked less gaunt than usual: a smaller degree of concavity to his cheeks, smooth lips with a healthy flush of color.

  He caught Ryleigh’s wrist as she opened a package of disposable cutlery.
She swallowed, glancing at the hold his slender fingers had on her before meeting his earnest gaze. His thumb stroked the prominent veins of her wrist and the flicker of a pulse that beat for him and him alone. “Come by tonight. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

  “Alright.”

  He cupped the crown of Ryleigh’s head, drawing her closer to plant a kiss on her forehead. Peter drowned in cologne, and she had to suppress a cough attempting to escape from her screaming lungs. It was unusual for him to wear cologne on an off day, though maybe he had thrown some on before coming to see her. No occasion, not even one of romantic reparation, called for this repugnant amount of fragrance that left the inside of her nose tingling and sinus tract burning once he pulled away.

  As soon as Peter swept out of the cafe’s door, her mind raced with possibilities to account for the vague yet pointed invitation. Ryleigh recalled his words; he said he had been thinking.

  About what?

  Ryleigh made Peter wait.

  Though she got off work at seven, she returned to her dorm to shower and mentally prepare for whatever he had to say. Her knees quaked, nearly buckling in the communal shower stall where she fleetingly wondered if Peter intended to end things. Ryleigh did not let herself fret over any one theory but the uncertainty surrounding the invitation had her unsettled.

  Now, sitting in his apartment, she shielded her accelerating heartbeat and sweating soles with a vacant stare. Peter had a considerable amount of making up to do and she refused to let any sign of weakness slip through the cold-stone bitch mask she had perfected on the mile-long walk over. Ryleigh was worth an apology—Min-ji had reaffirmed as much—and she planned to hightail it out of that one-bedroom if one was not formally extended.