For once, coffee was not his number one priority. Something more pressing vied for that coveted spot on his agenda. Peter yearned to hoist her onto the kitchen island and finish what they had come agonizingly close to actualizing the night prior. But that desire was lethal, poised with the ability to hurt them both. He could not, in good conscience, send her off to UMich a fragile mess because he had been too weak to suppress some carnal urge.
Who was he kidding? He would be the fragile, inconsolable mess, likely falling into another five-year dry spell.
“I don’t want your sugary, vegan creamer,” he teased, planting his palms on the cool countertop. “You guys don’t keep milk around? Don’t tell me your parents are dairy-free, too.”
Ryleigh offered him the mug of black coffee. “Here’s the thing: there is milk in the fridge, but it’s unopened. My dad’s going to go all CSI on my ass if they come back and there’s milk missing.”
“I’ve certainly pissed off your dad enough for one lifetime.” Peter added a splash of the questionable creamer to his coffee. He brought the mug to his lips, eyes cutting to Ryleigh amid the tentative first sip. “If the world’s supply of milk bottomed out, I might drink this. That’s a hefty might.”
She hoisted herself onto the counter, and he irrationally wondered if she had eavesdropped on his filthy thoughts. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“Someone woke up alone in an unfamiliar bed, is more like it.”
Ryleigh plucked at her ratty t-shirt, shrugging, “I couldn’t sleep.”
He dared to ask a question he already knew the answer to. “Would this have anything to do with what happened last night?”
“It’s a combination of things, I guess.”
Peter dropped his voice, hand covering her thigh. “You can be honest with me, Ry. We can discuss this like adults.”
“Right, but—”
Ryleigh swallowed hard, fingertips twitching. It pained him to see her this way; the last thing he wanted was for her to think her emotions were invalid.
She sighed before biting the center of her lip.
“It’s just, and I don’t mean to be harsh, but what’s the point? Why should we hash these things out if we aren’t building a foundation?”
She’s right, you know. Her timid truth bomb struck with the impact of a cannonball.
A few weeks. That was all they had.
Peter did not wish to withdraw interest of any kind from her, because that voluntary surrender signified the imminent end of their involvement. His stubborn, lovesick brain refused to acknowledge the concept of letting Ryleigh go.
Part of him worried that in doing so, he would lose himself. He had no intention to revisit that treacherous low.
“You’re right.” The two words knocked the air from his lungs, a sucker punch of bad karma for betraying his frail heart.
“My dorm mate’s going to hate me right off the bat. I packed three giant suitcases,” Andrea joked. She was rooted in the same spot on the floor that Peter had occupied when he shared the gruesome tale still haunting Ryleigh’s dreams. “You’re more of a minimalist. This shouldn’t be hard for you.”
Fretting over what to pack was the least of her concerns. In three days, she would be on a plane moving out of state, leaving behind a man she now knew to be suicidal.
That sobering detail dulled the excitement of narrowing down which jeans she should bring along to her dorm.
With trembling hands, Ryleigh folded an indigo sweater and placed it in the open suitcase atop her bed. She gave it a second look before tossing it into the designated donation pile on the floor. “I’m surprised you’re over here. I thought you’d be clinging to Colin until the second he left for Indiana.”
“We decided it would be best to go ahead and break up, or ‘say our goodbyes’ as he put it.” Andrea flashed air quotes. “It wouldn’t have made sense for us to keep this going. We’ll be too far apart. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll miss him, but it is what it is, you know?”
Ryleigh marveled over her fashionista friend’s sudden onslaught of wisdom. “Careful, you’re starting to sound like our mothers.”
What did everyone in her life have against long-distance relationships? They had worked for plenty of couples.
Sure, maybe there was a degree of selfishness involved: staying in a situation and making it work was far less emotionally taxing than letting go of someone for whom you harbored undetachable feelings.
“What about you and paperboy?” Andrea winked. “Is he tagging along to the airport or anything?”
“No. We both agreed that would be a nightmare. I’m stopping by his place later to return a few things and say goodbye.” Her ribs compressed, an excruciating sensation that had been gaining momentum all week.
The second she boarded the plane, any semblance of her and Peter’s togetherness would shatter. They had lost.
“You seem pretty bummed. Are you sure you’re good with this?”
“Honestly, no, I’m not. I feel like my whole life is on the verge of falling apart.” Ryleigh buried her face in one of the many throw pillows littering the unmade bed. It brought her decidedly less comfort upon realizing she could not remain in that solace of linen forever. Peeking from behind the pillow’s corner, she whispered, “I told Peter I loved him.”
“Shut up, you didn’t.” Her friend sprang into motion, channeling the urgency of an emergency responder. Well, hot goss qualified as an emergency in Andrea’s book. In a flurry, she was at her side, ready to pry for details. “What did he say?”
Ryleigh licked her lips, shoving her arms beneath the pillow. “He didn’t exactly reciprocate. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“As in he has baggage. And I don’t mean to shut you out, but if we keep talking about this, I might lose it because I’m still processing that night.”
“At least you told him how you feel, Ry. The fact that he hasn’t said it back doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the same way.”
A stupidly hopeful flutter brushed against Ryleigh’s heart. If that’s true, if he loves me … But it did not matter much. Not now. They were an exponential number of ifs away from figuring this out.
And they were out of time.
Her cell phone vibrated on the dresser. After rubbing her face into the pillow, she padded over and checked the message.
“You know what they say, speak of the devil,” Andrea smirked.
Ryleigh penned a quick response and brought up a music streaming app before retiring her phone to the tired piece of furniture. The first few piano key strokes of Crying Like a Church on Monday filled the room with its gloomy brilliance.
“It’s not Peter. It was Kendall. They’re throwing me a little going away party tomorrow night at the shop once they close. Do you want to come?”
Fanning herself, she said, “Definitely. It’ll give me an excuse to finally chat up that hot male barista I’ve been eyeing since you started working there.”
“Jeez. I guess Colin is yesterday’s news. And I hope you’re not referring to Oscar because he’s an asshole.”
“Yeah, but he’s a hot asshole.”
“God, which part of the brain is responsible for making women lust after guys who will inevitably treat them like shit?” Ryleigh balled up a pair of sweater tights and tossed them at Andrea.
“Probably the same part that drives young girls to date guys who are old enough to be their daddy.” Her highlight-dusted nose wrinkled. “Oh my god, you don’t call him that in bed, do you?”
She concentrated on folding a stack of cardigans, fighting hard to ignore the heat enveloping her ears. “We’ve only been in bed together once. If I had to guess, I’d say kinky nicknames aren’t really his thing.”
Pondering Peter’s preferred bedroom salutations when she was on the brink of losing him was a great idea. Totally.
“Did you run out of skips or something? This sounds like reject funeral music.”
On
e of the knit cardigans fell from Ryleigh’s hands. She aimed a finger at Andrea. “Gregg is a lyrical genius. How dare you insult the beautiful music he’s gifted the world.”
“Beautiful? Are you nuts? This is a song somebody throws on in the background when they’re getting ready to off themself.”
“Andy.”
Quietly, in the darkest recess of her mind, she wondered if Peter had played the seductively depressing album when he had his pill and alcohol sponsored foray into death.
With each passing hour, Peter’s chest became tighter, greeting him with an ache of infinite depth. He studied the clock in an obsessive manner through his bleary eyes, willing the ticking hands to cease their sluggish movement.
Peter’s normal routines had fallen to the wayside. His condo appeared to have been invaded by a group of unruly teenagers; an endless parade of unwashed clothes and dirty dishes cluttered the space.
The fluoxetine bottle on his nightstand had been empty going on a week, but he did not see the point in going to the pharmacy to get it refilled.
He would have suffered with or without the medication.
Things felt far from complete with Ryleigh, and yet he had resigned himself to saying goodbye. It was, of course, the logical thing to do. She was a charismatic stranger who had somehow drifted into his tranquil tide, but now the current was ripping them in different directions.
Because fate was a tease who never put out.
A key twisted in the lock, jolting Peter out of his comatose state; as he got his wits about him, he realized he had not the faintest clue how long he had been lying on the living room floor. He compelled himself to sit up and straighten his clothes. Surely, the forged effort to appear put together did little to conceal the devastation annihilating every cell in his body.
“Oh, dear.” Ryleigh froze as the door shut behind her, clutching Peter’s decrepit student newspaper sweatshirt and New Radicals CD. Had his been intact, the image would have broken his heart. Instead, it grounded him in reality, forcing him to acknowledge that she was leaving.
Leaving Harris. Leaving Connecticut. Leaving him.
“Why didn’t you just burn everything?”
Setting the items on the coffee table, she crouched beside him. The familiar rings of liner circled her eyes. Those bewitching eyes he looked into for close to a year, the ones he was minutes away from never seeing again.
“Because I love you, and I value your possessions, silly man.” Ryleigh ruffled his tousled curls. Their weight exacerbated the messiness. “You could use a haircut.”
A subtle redness capped the tip of her nose. Though, her immaculate cosmetic mask discredited the notion that she had recently wept.
“I thought I’d grow it out like that thing from The Addams Family after you leave.”
She plopped onto the couch—oh, the couch. How could he ever sit on that thrifted beast once she left? Memories of them were ingrained in its weathered fabric, preserving every kiss, every embrace.
Too bad it was inanimate and therefore incapable of receiving the memo that he did not wish to remember such things.
A smile coiled onto her lips. “You mean It.”
“What?”
“You said ‘Like that thing,’ but Thing is the severed hand. You were thinking of It, cousin It.”
He joined her on the couch and their hands converged, fingers intertwining perfectly, as if they had been molded for each other. The touch, however subtle, sent much-needed waves of comfort throughout Peter’s wrecked systems.
“You’re spending our last evening together lecturing me on The Addams Family tree? Shouldn’t we be discussing more pressing matters like, I don’t know, say for instance, who’s going to make my coffee with you gone?”
“You don’t have to worry about that. Just ask for a pump of vanilla when you go to the shop.”
“Dammit, girl, I knew you were poisoning me. Why’d you do it? Confess.” He pulled her into his side, thumb stroking her shoulder.
The coconut fragrance of her shampoo wafted up to him, making his stomach roll. It smelled like a tropical vacation from hell; she was preparing to jump on a flight and leave him stranded on a deserted island.
“I thought I’d put your coffee purist notoriety to the test when we met. Vanilla’s the most neutral syrup we have, so I went with that. I totally expected you to storm the shop and yell at me that first day, but you didn’t notice the flavor. And when you showed up the next day and told me how much you liked it, I kept adding it.”
“That’s beyond fucked up.”
She gazed up at him. “You should be thanking me for upping your cappuccino game.”
“I’ll thank you in five years when I contract heart disease or type 2 diabetes, you sadistic brat,” Peter mumbled.
Ryleigh stretched her neck to meet his lips, but when they connected, it felt like someone had cracked open his sternum and ripped out his barely beating heart. The pain transfused in their kiss far outweighed what Heather had dealt him. And perhaps a bit of fury hid behind the torment, because while he had no control over what Heather did to him all those years ago, he had a choice on that couch.
But he chose to say nothing.
Instead, Peter savored the kiss he knew would be their last while his heart clenched, knowing that no one else would ever be able to kiss him in that earth-tipping, breath-ceasing way again.
When the pressure expanding in his chest became too much, he pulled away and slipped into his patented indifference. He buried his head in his hands to collect himself before straightening and fixing her with a no-nonsense look.
“You should major in prolonging, you have a real knack for this. Seriously, though, it’s probably for the best, for both of us, if you go ahead and go.”
“Alright.” Ryleigh swiped at her eyes. The dampened hand moved to cup his cheek as she conjured a perfunctory smile. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself. Take your medicine, and stop eating microwave meals.”
He leaned in to steal one last kiss, muttering against her mouth, “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
Peter refrained from lacing his hand in hers as they made the short trek to the front door. Shoulder pressed to the wall, he stared down at her sullen face, and his organs knotted like a scout master had done a number on his insides. He knew he should have said something, but there seemed to be no words for a moment like this, entrenched in the bitterness of preliminary separation.
“Can I call you sometime?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. No calls, no texts, no e-mails, no tweets, no whatever it is you Gen-Z kids do.”
Nodding, a laugh ripped through her hushed hysterics. Her fingertips brushed across the doorknob as she turned to look at him over her shoulder, “A part of me will always love you, Rosenfeld.”
It took everything within him to manufacture the two words that would give her the impetus to walk out the door.
“Goodbye, Ryleigh.”
Peter was the furthest thing from present when he returned to the office the next evening. He had not touched anything resembling work, nor had he even bothered to turn on his computer.
The previous day’s edition lay on his keyboard, marked with a sticky note which read, ‘One for the history books.’
Asher’s first front page piece.
And while his chest should have swelled with faux fatherly pride, any capability of experiencing joy, even if on behalf of others, had been stripped from his limbic system.
Head on his desk, he looped the cursed New Radicals album on his phone. This music used to foster productivity; the despondent, impassioned melodies carried him throughout the day. Now, the songs he had listened to for years sprouted new meaning.
Upon hitting shuffle and hearing Gregg Alexander’s wailing vocals, Peter knew he could never ‘just listen’ to these tracks again. The melancholic tunes had been imbued with the effervescent spirit of one Ryleigh Branson.
Hands trembling in his lap, he recalle
d how she had sung along to every meandering word of I Hope I Didn’t Just Give Away the Ending on the drive to their paint and sip date.
With each note came a memory of her, flickering in his mind like the faintness of a dying flame.
It was only a matter of time before she burned out.
The music reduced to a low volume as a text came through. His knee bounced, breath accelerating while wondering if Ryleigh might have been the sender. He had given her no-contact rules, and it was no secret the girl had a penchant for rebellion.
A heaviness weighed on his weak frame upon opening it and seeing that it was not from his suburban princess. She’s not yours anymore. Never was, technically.
K: Get your mopey self down here and grab a cappuccino.
On the house.
P: Unless it’s laced with formaldehyde, I’m not interested.
But thanks, Ken.
“Pete,” a barbaric voice sounded, coinciding with a knock on the doorframe. Mike. What did that bastard want? “Boss wants to see you.”
Any scathing response escaped him.
With each step toward Mr. Roberts’ office, he regretted departing from the solitary haven of his own. His throat felt like it had been mangled by a wood chipper after a sleepless night of hysterical sobbing. A Visine bottle jostled in his pocket as he went, patiently waiting to douse his bloody eyes every six hours on the dot. He was in no condition, mental or otherwise, to socialize. But Cliff cut his paychecks so he thought it best to comply with the unexpected summoning.
Stopping short of the ominous door, Peter drew in a sharp breath before entering.
“You wanted to see me?” he asked, shutting the door.
“Take a load off, kid.” Mr. Roberts signaled to the leather armchair in front of the grandiose mahogany desk. He had called Peter ‘kid’ when he first started working at the Chronicle. The bizarre resurrection of the nickname had him wondering if a new wave of layoffs was being doled out. “I don’t like nosing around in people’s business, but I noticed you’ve been a little off lately.”
Loving Rosenfeld Page 20