“Yeah, but we should make a break for it before your dad comes shuffling through to kick my ass—again.” Peter laughed despite the pain radiating in his chest.
His distraught dream girl led them out to the porch. Night swallowed the neighborhood, putting the evening’s noises to rest. A half moon hung in the sky and cast silvery light on Ryleigh’s perturbance.
“It’s safe to say your dad wasn’t too impressed with me. I can’t believe he remembered that godforsaken article. That didn’t help.”
She regarded him as if he had uttered the most imperceptible thing in the world.
Ryleigh gestured between their bodies. “Peter, what are we? I mean, what is this? Because I overheard your distinction of ‘just friends’ and I’m not cool with that. I’ve waited patiently in your friendzone long enough.”
He could not refute the truth. Cue the excuses.
“You’re leaving in August.”
“Why can’t we have until then? What’s stopping us from making the most of the next seven months?”
“I’ll tell you why. I can’t give myself to you knowing that before fall hits, you’ll be gone. In a few weeks, I’ll be 36 and I’ve been in one serious relationship. One.” He flashed a finger. “I can’t even kiss you without carrying around the guilt of someone serving a life sentence.”
It had all become too much. Their feelings, their families, their fate. His cynical obstinacy and her naive fragility. The cosmos had pulled out all its stops to drive a wedge between them. Yet, they were still fighting for this, each in their own way.
“You can try. We can make it work”
“Try? What more do you want from me?” His temperature rose to match his agitation, a matchstick burn striking the base of his neck. “I came here to work things out with your parents and I sat, politely might I add, through your dad’s ridiculous interrogation.”
Her eyes glassed over, filling with tears as her lips trembled. She stared at him with a blankness that suggested she was at a loss for words.
Once her emotions caught up, Peter stood no chance.
“I want you, you idiot,” Ryleigh enunciated through gritted teeth. “All of you. I want to be yours.”
Peter despised covering The Bridal Expo, yet he wound up with the assignment every year. It was coordinated by boutique dress shop owners and middle-aged mothers, the latter inviting their daughters to participate in the show and crossing their fingers that it may bring them good fortune to tie the knot. As much as he would have loved to dive into that load of superstitious nonsense, he had been sent to extract an economic angle.
There were but two bridal shops in Harris, rendering them natural-born rivals. They may have been in the business of love, but at the end of the day, they were both in the business of making money.
Knotted owner Angelica Hughes monopolized the left side of the room. The other side showcased offerings from The One, owned by Theresa Dawson. Rows upon rows of white and off-white dresses occupied rolling racks. The stuffy, itchy garments showed off their beads, glitter, pearls, and sequins, begging to be purchased. Peter tried his best to avoid looking at any of the prominently exposed price tags. One year, he nearly fainted upon discovering an innocent looking gown was comparable in value to a month of his salary.
Models stood on circular platforms at each boutique’s display, giving them the appearance of fragile dolls. Each woman wore a different style of dress, its name on a sign at the model’s feet, making it easy for the shop owners to provide visual examples for the expo’s attendees.
Peter approached Mrs. Hughes, pulling out his recorder and taking a sip of the now cold cappuccino he carried.
“I’m Peter Rosenfeld, with the Chronicle.” He flashed his credentials. “Would it be alright if I ask you a few questions about your involvement with the expo?”
“You’ve been covering us for what, 10 years or something?” Mrs. Hughes shook her head, waving a hand in dismissal. She twisted the stack of gold bracelets on her wrist. “I know who you are, sweetheart. No need for formalities.”
“Sorry. Second nature.” He launched into interview autopilot with the click of the record button. “What can you offer attendees of the expo that they can’t get at your boutique, Knotted?”
“I run a 15% discount on all of my gowns for this event. It might not seem like a lot, but 15% savings starts to add up when you’re making a large purchase like this.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a diminutive model with skin as colorless as her dress climbing onto one of the round platforms. She whirled around to face the crowd, petrified like a deer in headlights. Biting down on his curiosity, he pressed onward, “Last year, did you notice that your participation in this show led to higher sales?”
“It’s hard to say. I do most of my business in the fall, and that stays pretty consistent.” Mrs. Hughes retraced Peter’s gaze to the awkward model. “My, my, she’s gorgeous in that gown.”
He terminated the recording. “Excuse me for a moment. I think I know that mermaid.”
Ryleigh relinquished a $5 bill from her wristlet in exchange for a shiny plastic button marked ‘Harris Bridal Expo 2019.’ Feminine energy stifled the room. The civic center bustled with groups of women of every age and relation, all diamond rings and designer handbags. She felt out of place in her ripped jeans and dirty sneakers.
Finding Peter amid the herd of women should have been a non-issue. Still, a superpower to detect testosterone would have proven useful.
“She’s perfect.” A woman with big hair and pearl earrings pointed at Ryleigh, assessing her features. A second woman, donning an awful leopard sweater, stood by her side.
“Perfect for what?” Ryleigh glanced around to ensure she was the one to whom they were referring.
The pair of older women took the polite inquiry as an indication of interest. They each grabbed one of Ryleigh’s arms and guided her toward the rear of the building.
“One of our girls couldn’t make it; she has horrible food poisoning,” Leopard explained as they ushered her through a set of black double doors.
Women in their 20’s and 30’s squeezed and shimmied into the confines of wedding gowns in the hidden room. Some were getting their hair and makeup done; most of them acted as if they would rather be somewhere else. She did not blame them; hitting up a bridal event was the last way she wanted to spend her Sunday, but she was here for the greater good, to reiterate her romantic convictions to an oblivious journalist before her longing and his denying drove them mad.
“It’s good of you to step in,” Pearl added.
Not like you gave me a choice.
A dress was thrown over her head and her waves were glazed with a shameful amount of hairspray, sparing Ryleigh no time to formulate an argument as to why she could not volunteer to be a glorified mannequin for the afternoon. She fanned a hand in front of her face to dispel the cloud of aerosol fumes, coughing while being tugged along yet again by the two older women.
Leopard swiveled Ryleigh’s shoulders to face the proper direction. “Your platform is the one marked ‘mermaid’ for The One’s display.”
Keeping the flared bottom of the dress off the floor as she trudged toward the display, she was at least thankful they had left her ratty sneakers on; anytime she wore even the smallest of heels, Ryleigh made a fool of herself. The dress pinched her hips as she stepped onto the platform, causing her to squinch.
“This is ridiculous,” she murmured, smoothing out the prickly lace material.
Her throat went dry when she turned to face the crowd, spotting Peter at the other boutique’s display. She considered escaping through the exit in the far corner of the room, anything to prevent him from seeing her in this get-up.
But it was too late.
“Are you out of your mind?” Peter demanded. A camera with a faded leather strap hung around his neck. He noticed her eyeing it and tacked on, “Short-staffed. And thank God I’m the one taking pictures, or you’d be plastered all over the paper wit
h the other girls. Imagine if your parents saw that we were at a bridal expo together. I’m sure that would go over real well.”
“I wanted to see you,” Ryleigh said, the five words begging him to forgive her unexpected presence. The benign phrase softened him, relaxing his posture.
The platform she stood on almost brought them to eye level. Peter picked up on details within her face he had previously overlooked: the feathery quality of her brows and a tiny, heart-shaped birthmark on the bridge of her nose.
“How did you know I was here?”
“Ms. Walters told me you were covering the expo, and I thought you wouldn’t mind if—”
Peter threw his hands in the air. “So now you’re best friends with the receptionist? I don’t believe this.”
“You’d be surprised what kind of information I can coax out of people with a half dozen Long Johns and my luminous smile.”
“Were you at the same dinner? I didn’t exactly earn your dad’s seal of approval. Unless your goal is to see me gutted and hung up in the town square, I think you should go.”
The speech required unbelievable strength. Peter did not want her to leave, but he knew it was for the best. He would have loved nothing more than for her to remain, to steal glances at her in that beautiful gown while carrying out his interviews, enamored by Ryleigh’s radiance from afar.
A crowd formed near the pair, drawn in by their public love quarrel. Among them were the two boutique owners.
Mrs. Hughes chimed in, “It’s about time you settled down, Peter. Is this the lucky girl?”
“I’d be a dead man before her father let that happen.”
Several gasps erupted from the onlookers.
“I don’t care what he thinks.” Ryleigh squared her bare shoulders. “I’m not going to cut you out of my life just because my dad has a problem with us.”
Us. Had he made such an impression on her to warrant the use of this intimate personal pronoun? The answer was a resounding yes. Each flitter of her shadowed lids inaudibly beckoned for a proclamation of commitment. Perhaps the wedding dress had gotten to both of their heads.
“You know how you asked me what we were that night? What we’re doing?” Peter inched toward her to generate some separation from the gathering gaggle of people infringing on their private moment.
Every curve and minor imperfection of Ryleigh’s face had him moonstruck. He could not be held responsible for whatever tumbled from his mouth.
“I can’t give you an answer, because I don’t know. All I know is that, if I don’t at least give whatever this is a chance, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.” Peter dropped to one knee, holding onto her hands. “Ryleigh Branson, will you do me the incredible honor of saving myself from eating copious amounts of Chinese food out of paper boxes on my birthday, and join me for dinner?”
Her lips quivered, accentuating the slight dip in the center of her chin. “You know I will, you dork.”
Ryleigh sat at the table alongside her parents, who were unaware that this morning’s meal would be served with a heaping side of satisfaction. She drank her orange juice and fought to contain a smug smile as her father flipped through that day’s edition of the Chronicle.
Unease filled the breakfast scene, any plausible avenues of conversation dashed before they could be vocalized. The fallout of the dinner party had left her relationship with her parents tense and fractured. Peter was worth the brief period of familial dysfunction.
“Ryleigh Colette Branson.” Dexter gripped the newspaper and crumpled its edges. Bingo.
She feigned ignorance, discharging her lividity on the toast she buttered. “Yes, daddy?”
“What’s this?”
He slid the paper across the table. Ryleigh did not spare a glance at the picture, she had a copy of it saved to her camera roll, along with some candids she and Peter had taken together after the expo. Charlotte glimpsed at the page long enough to gleen why her husband was upset.
The headline of the article in question read, ‘Love Abounds at 2019 Bridal Expo.’ Ryleigh’s picture accompanied the piece, with the incriminating ‘photo by Peter Rosenfeld’ clinging to its edge.
“A bridal event? What, do you think this is funny? Have I not made myself clear? I don’t want you associating with this creep. Period.”
“Peter’s a great photographer, don’t you think? He’s an even better kisser.”
Dexter snatched the paper. “That’s it, no phone. Hand it over.”
“I thought you might say that, so I signed up for my own plan, which I’m paying for with my own money that I earn from my job.” Ryleigh rose from the table, yanking her backpack from the chair’s post. She paused in the doorway that led out to the garage. “Peter’s a great guy, and he respects me. There’s no reason for you to keep bitching about him.”
Her parents flinched as the door slammed.
“Did she say, ‘bitching?’” Dexter pinched the skin at his throat. “What are we going to do about this, Charlotte?”
She thumbed the picture. “Look at her face, Dex. Maybe it’s love.”
“Love? Please, she’s just a kid. Why’d you let her get on birth control, for God’s sake? You don’t think that’s emboldened her to pursue something like this?”
Charlotte shrugged, gathering the empty plates from the table. “At least if she finds herself in that situation, she’ll be prepared.”
“How are you not infuriated over this?”
“I’m not over the moon about it. I’ve accepted it for what it is. Ryleigh won’t be living under this roof forever. After the summer, she’ll be off at school. Do you want to spend her last few months at home fighting over some guy?”
“What are you suggesting? That I turn a blind eye?”
“You need to look at this from a more logical angle. She’ll be states away from him. What are the odds of this fling surviving? He’s a passing phase.”
Dexter cogitated on this for an extended period, finally dissenting, “I still don’t like it.”
“I’m not asking you to like it. I’m asking you to give her some space to make her own choices. She’ll never know what it’s like to fall if we’re always there to catch her.”
P: Should be heading out in 20. I’m going to swing by my place and change.
R: can’t wait! i’ll hit up your guest parking and we can walk to dinner.
* * *
Unbeknownst to Peter, Ryleigh had already been in his condo for an hour, thanks to the glorious stupidity of a spare key he kept under his doormat. Vanilla extract and peanut butter permeated every square inch of the home as cookies baked away in the oven. She had enough foresight to bring the ingredients from home, premeasured. And thank God she had. His pantry was the textbook definition of barren.
Being alone in his place stirred something unfamiliar within her. The air of unease made the passages in her history book blend together to create an abstract display of incomprehensible proportions.
Three glasses of water and restless legs proved to be a miserable combination for sustaining the study charade. She wandered through the narrow hallway to the bathroom, but her bladder’s insistence waned upon noticing the adjacent, half-open door.
His bedroom.
You can’t go in there. Don’t be ridiculous.
Sweat broke out on the soles of her feet in a bid of physiological dissuasion. Ryleigh knew she would be better off returning to the dining nook, checking on the cookies, getting a jump on her history paper—anything but entering that room. But her stubborn feet vetoed any movement. They remained glued to the spot, cementing her mere inches from the devilishly enticing cracked door.
It did not creak as she pushed it, but rather it swung silently to rest against the doorjamb. Standing there in Peter’s bedroom, Ryleigh felt as if someone had taken a rolling pin and made quick work of her insides.
She surveyed the space in a singular sweeping glance, convinced that he would be none too thrilled to come home to a surprise gues
t rifling through his things.
Disappointment struck when she eyed the pristinely made bed; she had expected unmade and inviting. Her fingertips glided over the wrinkle-free comforter on the way to the nightstand. It played host to items which were innocent enough: a weathered paperback with a receipt in place of a bookmark, a bottle of water, a digital alarm clock.
The picture Peter had taken of her at the bridal expo peeked out from underneath the book, edges jagged from being ripped straight off the page. Her chest fluttered with longing when she made the connection to its dubious placement.
A white-capped shaker of prescription pills stationed on the corner demanded her acknowledgement. Prying into something so personal was verboten. Curiosity funded her reluctant pivot, gravitating toward the tangerine bottle instead of the door.
Fluoxetine.
Tempting as it were, she refrained from conducting a quick internet search on the medication. Reading the label had unleashed a Pandora’s box of guilt, set off by the invisible, undefined line Ryleigh had crossed upon seizing the pills.
The bottle tumbled out of her hands as the oven emitted a repetitive trio of beeps. “Shit.”
She replaced the medication on the nightstand, exactly as Peter had left it, and shut the door precisely halfway.
Her heart raced at a record-setting trillion beats per minute when he unlocked the front door. Ryleigh held steadfast to her curled up position on the corner of the couch, monstrous textbook nesting on her knees.
"You really shouldn't keep a spare key under your mat. What if I had been a serial killer?"
“Jesus.” Peter dropped his keys and work bag. Terror painted itself across his sharp face. Damn, even scared Peter is hot. “Congratulations. You’re the first girl to burglarize her way into my place to stage a birthday surprise. I’m not sure if I should be flattered or freaked out.”
“Happy birthday, handsome. I’d like to take this opportunity to point out, you’re exactly twice my age now.”
Loving Rosenfeld Page 13