Andrea fanned herself. "Guess who asked me to the football game tonight?"
"God, I don't know. You're making it so difficult," Ryleigh mocked. "Let me guess, Colin from calculus?"
During all of their conversations, Ryleigh always referred to him as ‘Colin from calculus.’ Never Colin Halstock, or even Colin. Andrea would likely not approve of the catchy, alliterative nickname if things panned out between her and this new guy.
"Yes," she shrieked, clasping a hand over her mouth. The substitute glared at the girls when the strange celebratory noise erupted from their table.
Ryleigh shrugged at the disheartened substitute, mouthing, "Sorry."
"Will you go with us?" Her lower lip poked out.
"I'm not going to crash your first date."
A pen danced between Andrea’s fidgeting fingers. "I don't know if I'm counting this as our official first date. What's more casual than hanging out at a football game? I would be way less nervous if you were there."
As much as Ryleigh wanted to say no, she could not ignore Andrea’s desperation. They were like sisters. Anytime one needed the other, they were there. No excuses. She would have to suck it up and go.
"Luckily for you, I'm off work tonight. Text me the details when you get a chance and we'll meet up in the parking lot before the game."
"You’re a lifesaver, Ry.” Genuine happiness glistened in her topaz eyes. Andrea nudged her friend’s ribs. “Who knows, maybe your reporter will turn up tonight. Extra, extra, local student Ryleigh Branson has a crush on a living, breathing guy, not a fictional character.”
She has a point. Ryleigh might have laughed at the comment if not for the dread it manifested.
How had Peter come to spend his night sandwiched among the greater Harris area’s sports reporters, under the disorienting lights of a high school football stadium? Two words: stomach flu. Matthews, their sports aficionado, called out sick, and Mr. Roberts tasked Peter to take his place.
“You see that scrawny kid in the #47 Creek Bend jersey? Best kicker in the state, they say. Hoards of colleges are fighting over him.”
Peter detested sports, yet the inane conjecture by a fellow journalist bothered him. These kids played on teams, but a select few were given superstar treatment. Sure, they should be recognized for their talents, but why leave the other teammates in the dark? Did their roles carry no meaning?
He sampled his cappuccino; a consolation prize he had picked up on the way to Victory Hills for being made to suffer through an assignment in this uncultivated beat. A bitter tang spread within Peter’s mouth as he returned the cup to the cement flooring of the bleachers. If someone happened to kick it, they would be doing him a favor.
Kendall’s cappuccinos had been satisfactory until Ryleigh came around. Peter could not work out how their drink-making process could be different enough to warrant this discrepancy. A more plausible explanation? His infernal interest in Ryleigh laced her drinks with a placebic effect.
While his colleagues recorded notes on their laptops, Peter’s aching fingers urged him to stave off typing until it became necessary. His election of a notebook and a fountain pen resulted in odd looks from those working around him.
A photographer examined the press badge pinned to Peter’s sweater. He boasted a thick mustache that would have given a push broom a run for its money. “Ah, you’re from the Chronicle. I didn’t recognize you. Filling in for Matthews, I see.”
Why yes, and I begged not to be here.
“I’m not particularly adept at covering sports.”
He waved a hand. “There’s nothing much to football.”
Lies. Every play in the game confused Peter. Semi-familiar terms inched forth from the recesses of his memory: fumble, touchback, safety; if only he could remember their significance. Eavesdropping on the other journalists' remarks seemed like a good strategy to clarify important moments of the game. Peter found no success. They may as well have spoken a foreign language.
Attempting to detail a critical play from the first quarter proved disastrous. Crafting a catchy opener breeded agony. Peter operated on a mediocre cappuccino and overwrought brain cells, neither of which aided his ineptitude. The game had all but started and he was primed for a break.
Ryleigh cursed herself for agreeing to this third-wheel disaster as the trio scouted out seats on the crowded bleachers. If not for her and Andrea’s figurative blood oath, she would not be on this wingwoman suicide mission.
“What’s up, Branson? Your date didn’t show?”
Colin was the stark opposite of Andrea’s clean-cut, preppy persona. He embodied the skater boy, give the finger to figures of authority type. Razor cut, shaggy blonde hair fell short of his eyes. But Colin was far from a bad boy, to Ryleigh’s knowledge. Good grades. First string on the soccer team. These must have been redeeming qualities to Andrea.
Ryleigh ran her tongue along her teeth. “I’d rather drop dead than go out with someone at this school.”
“It was a joke.”
Highly doubt that.
“You’re going to have to explain everything to me. I watch games with my dad sometimes, but the details sort of go over my head.” Andrea’s voice pitched, like she had inhaled a small dose of helium.
“Nah, this isn’t football. You want to see real football? Come to our games in the spring.”
For Christ’s sake. Why didn’t you bring a book to read, or your notebook? Where’s your foresight?
Colin wrapped an arm around Andrea, and she leaned into the affection without hesitation. They looked like they had been matched together on some cheeseball dating show. It was enough to make Ryleigh gag. “I’ll be back.”
The lovebirds were too wrapped up in first date fantasyland to acknowledge their companion’s exit. Several guys’ enthusiastic whistles harassed Ryleigh as she ascended the bleacher steps. Some of them made innocent kissy faces while others mimed jerk-off motions. Animals.
Since she failed to bring anything along to occupy herself, she would have to improvise with what she had access to. No paper, no problem. Napkins would suffice. Ryleigh had written poems on napkins in the cafe, in a pinch. She ripped a handful from the metal dispenser and spun on her heel to ponder the attainment of the next item: a pen.
As if on cue, she spied Peter tossing a to-go cup into a nearby receptacle. An iciness more bone-chilling than the night’s fall wind cocooned her. He wore a pewter sweater, pastel blue dress shirt layered beneath. Wild curls contained by gel. The hair on his face exceeded the classification of stubble, evidence of a trying week. Ryleigh’s stomach twisted.
“Peter.” Calling his name felt like swallowing a sword.
“Ryleigh? Hey.” His cheekbones raised, but the warmth did not last. He motioned to the bleachers. “I have to get back. I just stepped away for a second.”
Ryleigh dashed to stop him. “Can I ask a favor?”
“Depends on what the favor entails.”
Flirtation edged his tone. No, he’s not flirting. That’s how he always sounds, isn’t it? Is this what it meant to like a guy: transforming into a giddy schoolgirl flustered by low stakes chitchat? Ryleigh registered the idiocy of the question as it was verbalized. “Could I borrow a pen?”
Peter slid a fountain pen from his pocket. He held it out to her, and right as she tried to grab the pen, he retracted it. Ryleigh shivered when his gaze dipped below her face.
“This is my favorite pen. I expect you to take good care of it.” He surrendered the sacred writing utensil, backing away toward the bleachers. “I also expect it back at the end of the night. I’ll be out front.”
Poetry sprouted wings and departed her mind. Ryleigh’s possession of this wonderful pen gave her an excuse to see Peter again that night. That was more than enough to get her through this stupid game.
Once the crowd died down, Peter set up camp on a bench outside the stadium. His glaring inexperience murdered each new line in this catastrophic article. The late hour sharpened the bree
ze, numbing those who dared to step in its path. And he had neglected to bring a coat.
“Hey, stranger.”
Ryleigh, coming to return his pen, no doubt. There were two culprits for the imminent termination of his job: this tanked story, or his newfound distraction. She had the story beat by miles.
"Hey, yourself. I have a bone to pick with you." Peter glanced at her amidst his typing, eyes bouncing between the notebook and computer screen to ensure he transferred the correct player’s statistics.
“Don’t worry, I have your pen.”
“Nevermind the pen. You left me to suffer through a subpar cappuccino. I’ll have you know your co-worker’s shoddy craftsmanship is having a negative impact on my performance tonight.”
She joined him on the bench. Even from a couple of feet away, the fruity smell of her perfume almost sent him into a coughing fit. Frayed rips in her black jeans widened when she crossed her legs. “If you want my schedule, just ask.”
“Noted.”
“Do you usually report on sports?”
"Hardly." He released a crude laugh. With a final stroke of the keys, he granted her his undivided attention. "What are you doing at a high school football game, anyway?"
"I have a cousin who goes here. There’s this guy she likes and they came tonight sort of on a date. She asked me to tag along because she was nervous about hanging out with him for the first time and—why am I telling you this? You’re busy. You don’t want to hear about this kiddy drama.”
Ryleigh’s magnificence made his insides flush. The pen had been returned. Why she would stay to converse further befuddled him. “What are you doing here?”
She whipped her hair, exposing a glimmering studded ear to the biting wind. “What do you mean? I just told you.”
Peter extended an arm over the top of the bench, shifting toward her. “I mean, what are you doing here, on this bench, talking to me? Shouldn’t you be out at some rager, chugging a cheap drink while two guys fight over you, learning how to master the fine art of beer pong?”
“You want to know what I think?”
“Try me.”
She slid along the bench, the space between them so narrow that their pants could have created static electricity. Featherlight arousal tantalized Peter’s senses. Their closeness inflicted corporeal pain, testing restraint he no longer possessed.
“I think you leveraged your precious pen as an excuse to see me again tonight. Sue me for coming around to repay you for your generosity.” Ryleigh brought her lips to his ear. Her hot breath emerged like steam, tickling his skin. “And for the record, you described the antithesis of my ideal evening.”
She leaned into him and nothing else mattered.
Peter did not care that 11 p.m. neared. He did not care that his garbage story was due in half an hour.
Hushed, heated exhalations passed between them as their mouths collided. Her brazenness made him light-headed. Peter’s thudding heartbeat flooded his ears with deafening palpitations.
Two years—it had been two years since he felt the tender embrace of a kiss. Now’s a fine time to reminisce about Kendall while you’re making out with her co-worker.
Flames crept up his calves and welded him to the spot. The thrill of this impromptu affection paralyzed him, but he did not mind. Peter supposed he could spend an eternity on that bench connected to this wonderful, witty woman.
Her lips parted when his chilled fingertips grazed her cheek, the sweetness of her trespassing tongue poised to induce a toothache. Ryleigh’s mouth moved against his like they were accustomed to each other’s rhythms.
They hardly knew each other, and yet she performed the intimate act with unsettling confidence.
His cell phone rang and interrupted their spontaneous bliss. Ryleigh pulled away, yanking on her sweater sleeves. Peter produced the device from his pocket and slid the green bar.
“Hey, Cliff. Still working on it.”
“Are you coming back?” Mr. Roberts asked.
“I’m going to finish up and send it in. Pretty close.”
“Alright. Watch the time.”
Peter tapped the red icon on the display. Ryleigh stared at him, curling a strand of hair around her finger. He gestured to the phone. “My boss.” Skin flushed, inarticulateness took hold. “That was — ”
“Payment for the pen.” She pushed off the bench.
A heaviness weighed on him in the face of her departure. What did Peter expect, exactly? That she would stay and chat as he finished the article? That they would ride away into the moonlight together upon its completion? He had learned his lesson about letting people in, no need to let history repeat itself.
Ryleigh backtracked toward the parking lot, calling, “Oh, hey, the next time you come by the shop, your drink’s on the house. You know we have a satisfaction guarantee, right?”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
The kiss, pleasurable as it may have been, would be an isolated incident.
He would see to it.
Swathed in sheets, Peter rolled to the unoccupied side of the bed. His fatigued eyes attempted to decipher the red pixels on the dusty digital clock: 11:32 a.m.
Unwelcome bursts of reality greeted him as he adjusted to the daylight. Guilt weighed heavy like an anvil on his chest. The unexpected kiss with Ryleigh left him conflicted. She was a freshman in college; 18, no more than 19 years old.
He had gone out with younger women, but this age difference surpassed the realm of what was justifiable. Not to mention what a nightmare it would be if he brought someone Ryleigh’s age home to meet his parents—or if she brought him home to meet hers.
Analyzing himself out of any potential romantic attachment had become an acquired skill, one that served as a shield for his fractured heart.
Nothing terrified him more than the institution of a relationship. Two people commit to each other, initiating a painful waiting game to see who will screw up the union. Peter had played that game once, and he had lost. The aftermath of which spawned the move to Connecticut with a few hundred dollars to his name and a broken spirit to boot.
He dressed for work while half-listening to the local news. Peter knew his damnable interest in Ryleigh prompted the unwanted trip down memory lane. No way could she be as vicious, as heartless, as … His fingers trembled as he fastened the last buttons on his pin-striped dress shirt. How had his life undergone such drastic changes since relocating to Harris? In California, he had a girlfriend, a close circle of friends, and his family.
Here, he had no one.
Whether he cared to admit it or not, his existence had become isolated and predictable. Something tugged at Peter’s heart the more he pondered the subject. He turned up the volume on the news broadcast to drown out his self-reflection.
"Did I tell you Colin drove me home after the game? It was the sweetest," Andrea said as she and Ryleigh traversed the student parking lot.
"Yes, you've mentioned it three times now." An excited flutter spasmed in her stomach at the mention of the game. Andrea did not know Peter had been there, or about the pen, and definitely not about the kiss. She would have rather dived into traffic than interrupt Andrea’s gushfest over Colin from calculus. Ryleigh fished for the keys buried in her backpack, wincing when her finger caught the sharp edge of a plastic folder. "Also, you two rode together so under what circumstance would he not drive you home?"
Ryleigh and Andrea had carpooled to and from school since junior year. Their neighborhoods were off the same road, and her parents appreciated the gesture. Despite Andrea’s straight A’s and good girl exterior, she misbehaved the second her parents turned their heads.
A car of her own? Not happening.
"My parents offered to pick me up, but we were having such a good time. I’m surprised they were cool about me riding home with him so late. You know how they are." Andrea buckled her seatbelt. "He invited me to the movies next weekend."
"He seems nice enough.”
"What’s
that supposed to mean?"
"Most guys our age are immature jerks," Ryleigh neutralized her tone. Their differing opinions about guys resulted in tension on occasion. She adored crow’s feet, whereas Andrea had a fascination with biceps; to each her own.
"Not all of them. Colin has his moments, though, I’ll give you that,” Andrea said. “Isn’t today your first catering thing? And to think, a few weeks ago, they thought you couldn’t be trusted with such great responsibility."
The catering event. Ryleigh had almost forgotten.
Her brain had been a mushy mess of nostalgia all day, replaying the way her and Peter’s lips had aligned like they were custom made for each other. The soft scratch of his stubble bristling against her smooth skin. How his eyes seemed to beg for more once it was all said and done. Sweat collected in Ryleigh’s palms, fusing her hands to the steering wheel.
"I wouldn’t say they trust me, necessarily. I was their last resort. Oscar was going to handle it, but he had a family emergency. Kendall’s staying behind to run the shop while I’m gone. Apparently, my boss trusts me more to go on a solo catering gig than to man the shop alone.”
"You’ll be fine, as long as you don’t spill coffee on anyone," Andrea winked, gathering her belongings from the floorboard. Trekking up the Fuentes’ driveway, she called, "See you tomorrow.”
Ryleigh let down the passenger window. “I’ll text you later and let you know how many people’s skin I singed.”
Everyone at The Harris Chronicle looked forward to the weekly staff meeting. Everyone but Peter. Ahead of the hour-long affair, the gossiping bunch of his coworkers crowded together to dish on the latest office-related drama. He likened his colleagues to wild animals permitted temporary relief from their usual state of captivity.
He swung by his office to drop off his bag and start up the computer. Behind him, a chorus of quiet voices hummed as people congregated in the conference room. Peter suppressed a yawn, raking through his thatch of curls. Weariness wore to his bones. Paying a visit to The Roast that afternoon would have been a mistake. How could he face Ryleigh and Kendall on the same shift, knowing that he had shared some form of intimacy with both women?
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