“Don’t remind me.” He claimed the opposite end of the couch and unlaced his loafers. Nodding at the plastic-wrapped red blooms on the coffee table, he said, “I’m messing up already. I should be the one giving you roses.”
"Men can get flowers without feeling emasculated.”
Setting her textbook aside, she snagged a cookie from the foil-covered plate. Ryleigh buried her cowardice and straddled his lap like it was nothing. His muscles stiffened as she settled in, arms limp at his sides in a silent protest of uncertainty toward the arrangement.
Her excessive readjustments were more a means of torturing him than seeking personal comfort.
Peter managed to squeak a comment past his comatose veneer. “Surely you have better things to do leading up to a date than baking cookies for a crotchety, old reporter. I’m genuinely concerned for your social life.”
She edged the treat into his mouth.
“My social life is bordering on nonexistent. Save your concern. And you’re not old.”
“I’m on the wrong side of 30. You don’t have to stroke my ego. But I guess I appreciate your valiant effort. FYI, this is infinitely better than what my ex unwittingly gifted me for my 21st.”
“Which was?”
He presented a crooked grin. “Syphilis.”
She loved the way his teeth came together to form neat rows, combined with the juxtaposition of their uneven bottom edges. Her pulse had to think twice before continuing its steady rhythm.
“You’re so disgusting, it’s almost sweet. I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“Guess you’ll never know.” Peter laid a hand on her yoga pant sheathed leg. His palm parked on her thigh, transfusing heat to her through the thin cotton barrier. Ryleigh reined in all of her focus so as not to let her eyes roll into the back of her skull. “Are you wearing these to dinner?”
“News flash, takeout is on the way as we speak, courtesy of my one-day modeling career. I didn’t think we’d make it to dinner.”
“How’d you figure that?”
She spoke while unfastening the first few buttons on his gingham shirt. “Because this is the first time we’ve been alone since you’ve given in to my girlish charm. And it’s your birthday, so we should celebrate.”
Lust pooled in her abdomen at the pronounced tightness of Peter’s khakis. Heat flooded her cheeks as she sat perfectly still atop him, his desire pressed into her through their combined layers of damnable fabric.
Ryleigh had next to no exploits with guys, but some sort of foreign, sexual wisdom came to light around Peter. It was as if his reluctance brandished her with confidence. She caught his earlobe between her teeth and swore he sighed.
His eyes opened, honey drizzled on stone.
“Come on. We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Did you or did you not proclaim in the middle of a crowded room that you would give us a chance?” Ryleigh eyed the wispy, sable hair on his partially exposed chest. “I didn’t know this was hiding under your dress shirts.”
He laughed. “Why do you think I keep my shirts snapped up to the collar? I can’t risk repulsing the general population.”
“Or attracting freaks like me, apparently.”
“You’re not repulsed?”
She released a hot breath against his neck, nose grazing the inflamed skin. “No, I don’t think ‘repulsed’ is an accurate portrayal of what’s happening in my underwear.”
That electric utterance was the only encouragement he needed. His tongue swept into her mouth, every movement interwoven with the confidence of someone who had time and experience on his side.
A current of pleasure ripped through Ryleigh as his thumbs massaged the inside of her thighs. He was dangerously close to where she wanted him to be. His fingers trailed over the topside of her leg, traveling to her backside. Every hair on her body raised when Peter’s hand slid beneath the band of her yoga pants to ensnare one of her bare cheeks.
“I thought you said you were wearing underwear?”
“It’s a thong, moron. They’re a must if you wear a lot of yoga pants. No panty lines.”
“Thanks for the visual,” he mumbled between kisses. “I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time wondering what kind of panties you wear.”
“God. Hearing you say ‘panties’ is way hotter than it should be.” Ryleigh leaned back and bit her lip. “Is that what you think about when you’re getting off to my picture on your nightstand?”
His head dropped to the top of the couch, directing his embarrassment at the ceiling. “In an ideal world, you wouldn’t have seen that. You were in my bedroom?”
“For a minute.” She worked on the rest of his buttons, each release of the plastic hardware dousing gasoline on the fire between her legs. “You know, if you wanted nudes for your birthday, all you had to do was ask.”
“I haven’t slept with anyone in five years. Do you think I possess the courage necessary to make such a demanding request?”
“Five years is better than not at all.”
“You’re a virgin?” Peter’s rough voice went quiet. He enunciated the assumption as if her sexual status was a betrayal.
“Is that so shocking?”
“No. I don’t know. I didn’t … I didn’t expect it.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re comfortable with yourself, confident.”
Ryleigh traced the trail of hair that disappeared below his beltline. “It’s because you make me feel comfortable and confident. Inside, I’m as terrified as you are about all of this. I think I’m putting pressure on myself to make a lasting impression on you since I’m leaving in a few months.”
“Trust me, I’m in no danger of ever forgetting you.”
He grabbed her hips, but instead of pulling her in for another round of kisses, he airlifted her off his lap. She dropped her shoulders to shield her shrinking heart.
“Where are you going?” Ryleigh asked when he migrated toward the hall. Her fingertips grazed the space where their bodies had sealed together like the inseparable Lovers of Valdaro.
“To take a cold shower.”
A sinful assortment of street tacos arrived while Peter was showering. She deposited the brown, stapled bag on the dinner table and resumed her perusal of his extensive CD collection.
Most of the albums predated the 2000s, and though she listened to her fair share of old music, she only recognized a fraction of the artists housed on those melamine shelves.
Dropping to her knees, Ryleigh retrieved several cases, admiring the bizarre artwork on their covers. There was something enigmatic about the disarray of the library. Perhaps some strange legion of order existed among those shelves, but she did not know Peter well enough to discern any subtle categorization.
Not even the sound of the bathroom door opening pulled her from her merciless snooping.
“I know you’ve probably never heard of these little discs,” Peter said, grabbing one for emphasis, “but these are CDs. A long time ago in a world not so different from our own, this was the way to listen to music.” He crouched beside her, donned in a t-shirt and sweatpants. She kicked herself for staring at his forearms. “Hard to believe, I know, but trust me: this was it.”
“Oh, fuck off.” Ryleigh snatched the case from him. “Is it awful that I find your sarcasm attractive?”
“Is it awful that I find your inaugural use of ‘fuck’ attractive? Since when do suburban princesses use such foul language?”
“It must be your bad influence.”
“Bad influence? I suppose I’ve earned that label. Speaking of, where do your parents think you are?”
“I didn’t exactly tell them I was leaving.” No doubt her parents would be furious whenever she returned home. Like I need a reminder. She utilized an imaginary tamper to banish the harsh truth from the undercurrent of her thoughts. “If they go poking around for leads on my whereabouts, my best friend will vouch for me. She’s a solid alibi.”
His mouth hid b
ehind his hand, speaking through his fingers. “Does it bother you? Lying? Sneaking around?”
“It’s a trade-off. Seeing you makes it worthwhile.”
“I couldn’t have gotten anything past my mom in high school if I tried. She was the school nurse, and she had her two fingers on the pulse of gossip as much as on her patients. We’ve always been unnaturally close, though.”
“Yeah, my mom and I were close until I started working at the shop.” Factor in our tight, conflicting schedules and add a middle-aged man to the equation and that basically sealed the decline of our relationship. Ryleigh, desperate for a subject change, performed a sweeping gesture over the CD shelves. “I must know, which is your favorite?”
“No competition there.” Peter rose to his full height, ascertaining the prized disc in an instant. The mustard yellow artwork featured nothing more than a man clad in head to toe denim rocking a bucket hat—the pre-Y2K accessory alone tipped her off that it was a ‘90s relic.
“New Radicals. Never heard of them.”
“You’re breaking my heart.” He clutched his chest in faux discomfort. After a moment of hesitation, he added with a slight shrug, “I’ll loan it to you.”
Ryleigh nodded, fingers trailing over the spine of the case. The medicine bottle tossed pebbles at the window to her subconscious, vying for further reflection. She had invaded a private sector of his life. A very private sector, judging by a reluctant internet search she had vowed not to conduct. Peter cupped his face, gloomy eyes trained on her. Meeting his gaze made her stomach carry out olympic-grade somersaults.
Those dismaying gymnastics bullied her to submission. “Peter, are you alright?”
“Excuse me?”
“Earlier, when I went into your bedroom, I-I saw your medicine.” The breath Ryleigh drew in failed to satisfy her greedy lungs. “I realize I’m completely overstepping a boundary here. I shouldn’t have infringed on your personal space.”
A pitiful, strained smile tugged at his lips.
“At first I wasn’t going to look it up, because I felt guilty, but I caved. I had to know. When I found out what it was for, well, I felt even worse. I had no idea that you were—” She exhaled, body crumpling. “Please, don’t think I expect an explanation. It must be off-putting just hearing—”
He formed an ‘X’ with his arms, a nonverbal command for her to halt the incessant jabbering. Peter employed an emotionless stare, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“I was searching for a cheap way out of an unpleasant situation, and I sought help afterward.”
The oversimplification left her gaping like a codfish.
“Did you just casually imply that you tried to ...” She did not vocalize the words, for then they would become true.
“So, what’s for dinner?” Peter questioned as if they had not been discussing attempted suicide seconds ago.
His dismissal made her blood run cold.
“Tacos.”
Ryleigh kept careful watch over him as he unpacked the brown takeout bag like the disturbing yet vague conversation had not taken place. He must have perfected his mask of apathy over the years; Peter wore his signature look of indifference all too well.
Her insides shattered. That expression she had often beheld with adoration suddenly struck her in a much different way, for now she knew it was a front.
Ryleigh had fallen asleep during their third movie. Waking her up and sending her home would have been a wiser choice. It would have been the ‘adult’ thing to do. Peter could not bring himself to disturb the peaceful sight of her slumbering in the crook of his arm.
Tiptoeing through the hall, he peered into the living room to see if his company still lurked in the catacombs of dreamland. He edged closer, matching his steps with the subtle rise and fall of the blanket animating each of her passing breaths. Peter perched on the arm of the couch, captivated by the girl who had thrown his existence out of whack.
Her balled-up fists clutched the blanket, its gathered soft fabric resting under her chin. Tousled waves splayed atop the pillow; the effects of her hair gel waned, resulting in slight frizziness. Traces of black liner clung to her lash line, fading to gray from overextending its wear. Night’s rejuvenation plumped her already full lips, flooding them with a pink a few shades darker than their natural color.
How could someone be this gorgeous with day-old makeup clinging to their skin and yesterday’s clothes on their back?
She shifted, presumably to lay on her side, but misjudged the margin of clearance and tumbled off the furniture. Ryleigh’s eyes sprung open like shutters that had been pulled too tight upon making contact with the floor. Peter let out a low, steady laugh as she tried to untangle herself from the sea of blankets which had swallowed her whole. A muffled groan resonated amid the mound of cotton.
“Good afternoon, sleeping beauty.”
He nearly died when she emerged armed with narrowed, bleary eyes. Peter had become a sadist for those blue daggers. She scrubbed a hand across her face and pushed to a sitting position. His mouth went dry as she discarded an inaudible yawn, regenerating like a Disney princess. Baby birds may as well have chirped and circled her head during her delicate stretches.
“What do you find beautiful about drool-crusted lips and ratty hair? Please elaborate.” Ryleigh found her footing and folded the wrinkled comforter. She halted on the fourth fold. “Did you say afternoon?”
“It’s 1 o’clock. That’s p.m., unless you have an alternate definition of afternoon.”
Kneeling by the coffee table, she flipped her phone over and muttered under her breath at the one and two zeros on the lock screen. “Why didn’t you wake me up sooner?”
“I haven’t been up long.”
“What kind of lunatic sleeps until the afternoon?”
“Someone who works 50 hours a week, and gets home after midnight.” Peter slid to the floor, keeping enough distance between them not to spy on her cellular activity.
Rather than angle the phone away from him, Ryleigh turned to nestle into his side. Traces of fruity perfume lingered on her clothes. “Is that why you don’t date? You’re one of those guys who’s married to his job?”
“Work is the only way I stay sane.”
“You could stand to have some fun every now and then.” She tipped her head and he seized the opportunity to steal a quick kiss. Her thumb zigzagged in a series of movements on the phone’s display to pull up an e-mail. “Can you believe this?” Ryleigh gestured to the maximum brightness screen. Why doesn’t she just stand outside and stare at the sun? “Housing e-mails in March? I haven’t even graduated.”
Leave it to an ill-timed University of Michigan e-mail to diffuse his post-birthday euphoria.
“Any wisdom you’d care to dole out on dorm life?”
Peter anchored an arm around her midsection. “Nope. I lived at home all four years of college. Wear shower shoes and employ your common sense, you’ll turn out alright.”
“Solid advice.”
“Are you working today?” He stroked her waves like they had been in a relationship for years, one in which these types of gestures were performed out of subconscious regularity.
Even in this moment of tenderness, Peter knew she was not his to have. Not forever. Ryleigh was nothing more than a roadblock on the miserable, winding path of his terminally single life.
She corralled the study paraphernalia crowding the coffee table and stowed them in her backpack. “No. Actually, I’m supposed to be meeting a friend later. We’re going shopping for prom dresses. Nauseating, right?”
“Prom, huh? I bet half the student body is in competition to be your date.”
“Do I detect jealousy? That’s cute.” Her hands cupped either side of his face. “I’d rather slit my throat than attend a formal dance with an idiotic, 18-year-old boy for company.”
Was he jealous? Is that why his stomach burned at the idea of her with another guy? Jealousy could not plant its invasive roots. It was a gateway emot
ion to love and attachment, two things he could never connect to Ryleigh.
She had shimmied halfway into her backpack straps before swinging the bag around to unzip the main compartment and retrieve something from its depths.
A sheepish smile formed while she fiddled with a strand of her hair. “I almost forgot to give you your birthday present.”
Peter accepted the gift, shredding the paper as he spoke. “You’ve already given me more than I deserve. You didn’t have to go through the trouble of—” His gaze darted between Ryleigh and the small, unwrapped box. “A Tascam? I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”
“The guy at Best Buy convinced me that it’s the tour de force of recorders. Do you love it?”
“Of course, I love it. It makes my old recorder look like a piece of shit. Well, it is. I’ve had it since college and it’s a miracle it’s held up this long.” He scanned the specs on the packaging, feeling like an ecstatic child on Christmas. “This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me.”
“Maybe it was a selfish gift. I wanted you to have something tangible to remember me by.”
A noxious cloud of fictitious pressure smothered him, neurotic smoke rings of needless analysis. The phantasmic fumes insisted he needed to reciprocate the gesture.
“Let me see your keys.” He curled his fingers several times as if to say ‘hand them over.’ Eyebrows furrowing, she edged toward him and surrendered the coveted item. Peter looped his spare key onto her ring. “Now you don’t have to break into my place.”
Ryleigh raced to the second floor in a mad dash effort to escape her father’s megaphone of doom projecting from downstairs. You are so dead. But as she climbed the final stairs, her heart flitted in assertion.
One night with Peter was well worth any consequences that were to be hurled at her.
Once in the safety of her bedroom, she popped the borrowed New Radicals CD into the disc drive of her laptop. An upbeat tempo kicked off the opening track. She regarded the gleaming new addition to her key ring, a shining symbol of defiance. A harsh rapping on the door punctuated the lead singer’s melancholic wailing.
Loving Rosenfeld Page 14