Loving Rosenfeld

by Leighann Hart

  And though it had been annoyingly innocent, the memory of their snowy kiss at the end of her driveway refused to fade. Not that she wanted to forget the gloriously gentle pressure of his mouth, or the invasive bite of his cologne, or the heat of his thumb blazing a trail across her icy cheek.

  She had a feeling there was a slim chance of reliving such a delight upon turning up at his office, and that all-too-real notion busted her heart’s flotation device, letting it sink to the bottom of her soul.

  To dull the searing ache in her chest, Ryleigh grabbed pieces of bakery tissue and retrieved slices of banana bread and a couple of plain bagels, his favorites. She would need him in an agreeable mood, and carbs were the way to Peter’s caged heart, after all.

  “What do you know about his ex?” The question ran a hundred warm-up laps in her mind, and she still felt unprepared when it slipped out.

  Nosiness was not something she prided herself on, not like Andrea, who wore the quality like a badge of honor.

  Kendall halted her pastry selection. She dropped her voice to a fraction of a decibel, as if Peter could hear them from across the street. “Heather? Not much. Except that she’s the reason he left Cali. So, I’d guess whatever she did had him pretty fucked up to abandon his friends and family on a whim.”

  Everything within Ryleigh splintered, creating small cracks for his hurt to seep into her fissured tissue. A rising tide of saliva goaded her violent nausea, but she found herself unable to swallow and banish the boiling sickness.

  She almost rattled off an affectless laugh at her body’s involuntary reaction for the sheer irrationality of hurting for a man who refused to let her get close to him.

  But, perhaps this jagged piece of his past explained away some of that detachment.

  Pushing to her feet, Ryleigh glanced at the entrance to The Chronicle’s office and her pulse tripled its normal beats per minute. Facing Peter after months apart would have been awkward enough without this newly acquired information about his failed relationship.

  Focused on the bit of floor between them, she pleaded, “Could you, uh, could you not mention this to him? That I asked?”

  Kendall mustered a quick, unconvincing smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Three hundred words of a draft detailing a college student-led renewable energy rally stared back at Peter. A few more sentences and it would be done, submitted and out of his life, much like the women who had come and gone.

  He had no tenacity.

  If he had remained silent and ignored Heather’s wrongdoing, would they have still been together? If he had continued to pursue Kendall after their intimate mishap, would she have still been interested? If he had never read the scholarship article, would he and Ryleigh have gone out?

  Five hours remained until deadline, and his final article of the evening neared completion. Peter had not acquired a superhuman ability to compose at an unthinkable pace, but he had come in four hours earlier than everyone else.

  As soon as he woke up, he went to the office. Being at home was too much to handle under the torment of this crushing duress which bore no expiration date.

  The silence. The emptiness. The loneliness.

  His glowing phone screen vied for attention out of the corner of his eye. It faded momentarily, reviving its luminance to reveal a new voicemail from his mother.

  “Honey, you haven’t returned my calls in weeks and, well, I’m a little more than concerned. I know you’re old enough to take care of yourself, and maybe I shouldn’t worry so much, but I can’t help it. I hope you know, whatever’s going on, I’m always a phone call away.”

  Peter siphoned a stinging breath and looked toward the paneled ceiling. Disappointment surfaced when those square tiles failed to provide answers to any of his innumerable problems. He made a bid to return to his work as if he had never received the message, but his mother’s desperate speech rendered him unable to concentrate.

  He bit his tongue while the dial tone purred.

  “Hey, sweetheart.” She spewed motherliness. Her giddy demeanor belied the concern-drenched voicemail. “It’s about time you rang me back. How are you?”

  “Fine, fine. How’ve you guys been?” Peter returned the question out of respect rather than genuine curiosity.

  “You know us, same old thing. And you are not ‘fine, fine,’ mister. If that were the case, you wouldn’t dodge my calls for weeks on end.”

  “Seriously, mom, I’m fine.”

  “Listen, Peter Zayn, I’ve been your mother for 35 long years. I know you don’t like to talk about these things, I just …” Her tearful voice pleaded with him. “For Christ’s sake, let me help you before you wind up in the hospital with another tube down your throat. I can’t watch you go through that again.”

  The color drained from his face, a tango of dizziness following in its wake. He had fought hard to forget the details of his 48-hour stint in Dominican Hospital. The events preceding his stay, however, refused to detach from his memory.

  “Who’s on the phone?” Gideon shouted, trying to join the conversation from another part of the house. “Not that cable company again, is it?”

  “It’s our son.” The reply dissolved any interest Gideon harbored toward the call.

  “Dad can’t hear, can he?”

  “No,” Janet sniffed. “He’s in the study.”

  The familiar screech of his mother sliding back their ancient glass door and stepping onto the patio filled his ear. A loud snap indicated a cigarette being lit in preparation for anything he may throw at her.

  “Ryleigh’s parents didn’t know we were hanging out. They weren’t exactly keen on our friendship. Her father, in particular, wasn’t pleased, to put it lightly.”

  “I’d imagine that came as quite a shock for them. You need to understand that as parents they’re in a tough spot. You’re much older than her, honey. Some people aren’t going to accept that right away, or at all. These things take time. I’m sure they’ll change their mind once they get to know you.”

  “If I’m even afforded the chance.” Pessimism dripped from the tip of his tongue. “I have a story I need to finish up. I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?”

  “You better keep your word, or I’ll fly out to Connecticut to lecture you in person. I love you, Peter.”

  A soft knock sounded on the door.

  “It’s open.” He muted the call for a fraction of a second, unmuting it only to deliver the parting, “Love you, too, mom.”

  Peter did not greet whoever had entered the room. He cowered behind preoccupancy, responding to a time-sensitive e-mail. After skimming over what he wrote, he sent the message and switched tabs to the renewable energy story.

  “What do you need?” he asked, refusing to divert his attention from the computer screen.

  The visitor’s shoes shuffled on the cheap, scratchy carpet as they approached. A ghostly hand with chipped red nail polish extended to his right, slipping a white box onto the desk. Peter squared his jaw at The Roast’s familiar, stamped black logo.

  He spun around in the swivel chair and caught Ryleigh by the wrist, mid-exit. “What would your dad say if he knew you were dropping by my office?”

  But Peter did not give a damn about Mr. Branson. There Ryleigh stood, held in place by his charged grasp, smelling almost as tantalizing as the pastries.

  “That’s why I’m here.” She shook her wrist from his death grip. Even under the plight of irritation, her beauty was unjust. “My parents want you to come to dinner on Saturday.”

  Peter quaked on the Bransons’ doormat, cradling his oldest bottle of shiraz and failing to pull himself together. The neighborhood’s noises amplified his trepidation: the ominous roaring of a lawnmower, creaking trampoline springs, an incessantly yapping lapdog.

  It had been all of two days since Ryleigh delivered the news about the paramount dinner, and he had processed the monumental invitation no sooner than the evening had arrived. What was he to do, cancel at the last minute?r />
  Nonsense. So, there he stood, a quiet mess on the porch, overdressed and underprepared.

  Straightening his belt, Peter rang the doorbell. He observed the oddity of his battered sedan parked all too near the family’s luxurious vehicles. It served as a visual reminder that he was an unwelcome visitor in the hell that was suburban Harris.

  His pulse flittered in his throat when Ryleigh—and not one of her parents—answered the door in a rust turtleneck and skinny jeans that hugged her hips.

  She scanned him from head to toe. “Hey, you made it.”

  “I’d like to come inside, if you’re done ogling me.”

  Her foot shot out to block the door from opening. “A few things before you come in. This dinner was my mom’s idea. She’s the more liberal one. My dad,” she licked her lips, “he’s going to need way more convincing. You need to be on your best behavior.”

  His inhibitions went down the drain. He angled to kiss her cheek, whispering, “I’ve been on my best behavior the last six months.”

  Stunned to silence, she moved aside and granted him entrance. It opened into a formal sitting room, so meticulously decorated one would think it was staged for a magazine photoshoot. Peter’s grip tightened on the wine as he studied the sumptuous fixtures and finishes, trailing behind Ryleigh through the narrow hallway.

  Inadequacy constricted his veins. He had to wonder if, somehow, their undefinable attachment had been a joke to her, if he had been nothing more than an amusing, urbanite puppet in a game of rebellion against her parents.

  Ryleigh whipped around, halted palm pressed to his stomach. Her soft voice soothed his self-contained illogical diatribe. “Relax, alright? If disaster strikes, we’ll recalculate.”

  “Okay.”

  When they reached the kitchen, she branched off to help her mother transfer prepared dishes to the dining room, leaving him alone with a man he now feared.

  Dexter wiped his hands on a dish towel. He was intimidating even with his back turned; not because he appeared threatening by nature, but because Peter had firsthand experience with his ire.

  “I’d prepared one of those classic dad lines like, ‘Hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place,’ and then I thought, gee that’s silly, he’s been here before. Either way, I’d hope this is your first time inside.” He rounded the island and extended a hand toward his daughter’s potential suitor. “I don’t believe I introduced myself during our initial meeting. Dexter Branson.”

  The informality with which he spoke about the violent outburst made him seem like a megalomaniac.

  Something familiar rang out in that name, in that face.

  They had met once, more than a decade prior. Peter had his suspicions when Ryleigh mentioned his line of work at the ugly sweater gathering, but now, looking him in the eye, he was one hundred percent certain.

  Peter shook the outstretched hand. “Rosenfeld.”

  Ryleigh coiled her ankles around the legs of the dining chair. Tension was a horrendous misappropriation of what hung in the room. These stakes were nuclear.

  She stole sips from her bubbling flute of root beer while the adults indulged in the full-bodied wine. Cyanide would have been a more apt beverage to survive this near hostage get together.

  “Rosenfeld,” Dexter said, twirling his fork in a pile of garlic whipped potatoes. “Where do I know that name?”

  Peter had no intention of bringing the actual reason for the name’s familiarity to the forefront of his memory. In fact, the night would go much more smoothly if Dexter had somehow forgotten why ‘Rosenfeld’ rang out in his mind as if he had been branded by a red hot poker.

  He played coy. “Read the paper?”

  “Ah, you’re a journalist,” Dexter gathered. His mouth became taut, walnut brows stiffening.

  “My father says the stuff I put to print is a far cry from journalism. But, technically, that’s my official job title.”

  Ryleigh ached at Peter’s discomfort. His eyes shifted, never lingering on anyone for more than a few seconds.

  Nudging his loafer, she gave him a smile so slight, it went undetected by the others. Her adventurous toes grazed the skin just inside the cuff of his dress pants. He directed a piercing glance at her through the stemless glass as he downed the rest of its contents, a silent but certain ‘knock it off.’

  “You wrote that piece about my practice when it opened, isn’t that right?” Dexter blinked in slow waves, a forged front of calmness. He peered at Peter over the top of his spectacles. “The one that said, ‘A pediatric dentist office without child-friendly decorations is terrifying. Parents may as well take their kids to a haunted house?’ You honestly thought that was a winning quote to include in your article?”

  Peter grimaced as the damning line was recited.

  “I give members of this community a chance to voice their point of view. Who am I to suppress their opinions?” Ryleigh kicked his knobby ankle, inciting a wince from its receiver. “I apologize that I, no doubt, offended you. I hadn’t been with the paper long, and I was still feeling out my voice. What made you go into pediatrics?”

  “I’ll be asking the questions tonight.”

  Ten minutes into dinner and they’re at each other’s throats. Ryleigh hung her head low, peeking at Peter through her mascara-coated lashes.

  Charlotte, aided by a gratuitous gulp of red, tried to keep the dinner from careening off its track. “Ryleigh tells us you’re from California. Which part?”

  “Santa Cruz. It’s about an hour from San Francisco. I’ve been here since 2005.”

  “And was that after high school or college?” Dexter asked, hijacking the polite turn in conversation. Amicability was not on the menu tonight.

  “College.”

  “And you have what, a bachelor’s, a master’s?”

  “Bachelor’s.”

  “And how many families’ dinner tables have you sat around convincing parents that you aren’t a threat to their teenage daughter?”

  Oh my God. This is a nightmare.

  Cold sparks of shock hit Ryleigh’s core as a heaviness burrowed in her stomach. Peter stared at his plate as if it were an exquisite work of art, while Charlotte cast a nasty glare in her husband’s direction.

  “This wine is fantastic, by the way. And it’s appropriately aged.” Dexter shoveled a piece of broccoli into his mouth and presented their guest with a hard look. “Would you mind going up to your room, pumpkin? I’d like to speak with Peter, alone.”

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing with my daughter, but I intend to find out.” An unsightly vein throbbed in a grotesque manner on Dexter’s temple. “I’m permitting you this chance solely because Ryleigh doesn’t have a habit of making poor decisions, and quite frankly I’m mystified by all of this.”

  The men remained at the dinner table, seated opposite one another. Peter likened the situation to a suspect being taken to a police station for questioning.

  Did chasing happiness qualify as a crime?

  Ryleigh had gone to her bedroom, as ordered by her father; a princess locked away in a tower. He had a sinking feeling his rescue efforts would fall short.

  “Your concerns are valid. Believe me, I realize the circumstances are unusual.”

  This was his chance, his one chance to prove his worth to Dexter, and the outlook for the remainder of the evening was grim.

  He scoffed, flaring his nostrils like a fire-breathing dragon. “That’s certainly one way to put it.”

  Why did you think this was a good idea? Why did you agree to this? Can’t you see his mind is made up? Peter placed an elbow on the table and rested his cheek against his outstretched hand, formulating a response.

  “Look, Mr. Branson, I’m not here to bullshit you. I’m not going to fabricate anything for the sake of getting on your good side. What I will tell you is that I’m an honest guy, and I hold Ryleigh in high regard. You should know, she and I are just friends.”

  He ignored Peter’s ad-libbed
but heartfelt speech.

  “Just friends? Well that smoothes everything over, doesn’t it? That makes all of this alright in your book? Justification. There’s a word you need to familiarize yourself with. How did this even happen?”

  “It was a mutual thing,” Peter stated without any frivolous extrapolation.

  So much for ‘honest guy.’ Ryleigh had pined for their togetherness, or their ever fluctuating lack thereof. But he could not divulge to her father of all people that she had been the instigator.

  “Mutual,” he repeated, rubbing his arm, perhaps staving off the temptation to pulverize the other half of his face. The imagined threat made Peter flinch. Dexter stood and brushed off his slacks. “I’ve had all I can handle for one evening, I’m afraid. You can show yourself out.”

  An unsettling chill snuck into the home as he departed through a door on the other side of the room.

  Trudging through the hallway, Peter felt foolish for showing up. Perspiration ran amuck beneath the trappings of his dress shirt. Two hours earlier, he had questioned Ryleigh’s importance to him. Now, he grew hysterical over the prospect of her disappearing from his life. His brain conjured every possible defense to block out the thoughts that were trying to penetrate the delicately constructed fortress.

  Chill until you get home, you can make it.

  “Nice seeing you again, Peter,” Charlotte called from the kitchen as he passed in the hall.

  “You too, Mrs. Branson.”

  He did not give in to the voice in his head urging him to stop and ask Charlotte why she had thought it wise to bound herself in holy matrimony to a raving lunatic.

  Nearing the staircase in the living room, he froze upon encountering a pair of small, arched feet sticking out from the bottom step. Peter inched forward, revealing himself to the eavesdropper. He shot his thumb backward, “How much of that did you hear?”

  “Enough.” Abandoning her spot on the steps, Ryleigh joined him at ground level. “Can I walk you out, at least?”