Loving Rosenfeld

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Loving Rosenfeld Page 21

by Leighann Hart


  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  He folded his hands atop the desk like a seasoned mafia boss. “Would this have something to do with that girl in the picture on your desk?”

  It begins and ends with ‘that girl in the picture.’

  Peter had planned on being polite, not vulnerable, while in his boss’ presence. Both had been ushered out the window with the provocatory question.

  “What? You think you’re Sherlock Holmes for making such a profound connection?” Sinking in the chair, he decided to indulge the older gentleman if it meant he could soon return to the pity party of sulking at his desk. “She’s moving to Michigan.”

  “That’s rough. I’m sorry to hear it.” Mr. Roberts manufactured a heavy nod. “I’ve never seen you so enthusiastic about your work as you have been the last year. I can’t help but think she contributed to that. And your slightly cheerier demeanor has been a nice perk.”

  Peter rose from the visitor’s chair. Heat coursed through his body, urging him to tug at the collar of his shirt for relief. Firing a finger at the ground, he said, “Did you invite me in here for a pep talk or to make me feel like shit? Because I’m getting mixed vibes here.”

  Mr. Roberts’ unruly white eyebrows drew together. “Kid, I asked you to come in here because I have something rather important I’d like to bring to your attention.”

  “Losing my girlfriend wasn’t enough of a blow? Now I’m getting laid off, too?” She was never your girlfriend. You made sure of that. “Do you know how much student debt I have hanging over my head? Actually, nevermind the student debt, do you know how much I’m still paying off in medical bills? Our insurance here is shit, Cliff.”

  “Son, I didn’t call you in here to lay you off. And, yes, I agree with you on the insurance. We’re looking into some new options.” Chuckling softly, he steepled his fingers and leaned forward. “Listen, Peter, I want to make you editor-in-chief.”

  The hair rose on Peter’s forearms and bumps sprouted on his skin, breeding a sweeping, tingling sensation.

  A promotion? He had no idea how much Gloria made, but it must have been pretty decent since she drove around in something considerably nicer than his piece of junk SL2.

  The thought alone of rubbing the elite position in his father’s face dulled his aching, pseudo-breakup hangover.

  “What about Gloria?”

  “She’s leaving. That new husband of hers is PCSing to Texas. You’re the natural choice to replace her. You have the seniority, anyway, so I don’t anticipate any pushback around the office if you take the position. So, kid, what do you say?”

  Jaw clenched, he hovered in the doorway. Any other day, Peter would have jumped out of his skin at the offer—and his acceptance should have been a no-brainer. He had worked his rear end off at this paper for the last 14 years.

  Was it what he wanted: to further engage himself in a nocturnal, 50 plus hour a week career which kept friendships and any chance of a love life at bay?

  But Ryleigh had infiltrated the formerly impenetrable walls of his hectic life, and perhaps, eventually, someone else would come along and do the same.

  Peter squeezed his eyes shut as a knot twisted itself in his stomach at the fleeting thought of her; the young woman who had made him feel like he was living, truly living, in a world in which he had previously only existed.

  The one he had been too foolish to keep.

  When he opened his bloodshot eyes, a storm surge of tears clouded his vision. Tears he did not dare let fall.

  “I don’t know.”

  The job offer distracted from his pathetic state of self-loathing for about four minutes. Four minutes.

  That was all it took for the emptiness to reclaim his chest and a fresh wave of tears to build behind his eyes.

  Tongue wedged between his teeth, Peter keyed in commands on the outdated copy machine, punching in the wrong code three times. Keeping Ryleigh out of his thoughts long enough to concentrate on the simplest tasks proved impossible.

  A searing ache ripped through him, its intensity suggesting she had died rather than was moving away.

  How could Cliff spring a promotion on him at a time like this, when he was grieving the loss of his still very alive ex-not-quite-girlfriend? Had he no compassion?

  Nausea clawed its way up his throat, and Peter regretted not taking the night off. Hell, he should have taken the entire week off to mourn Ryleigh’s absence.

  The repetitive whirring of the copier led his delirious mind astray. So what if he took the job? He would still work for the same small paper, with the same hours and the same shitty insurance in the same, sleepy Connecticut town in which he had squandered his adulthood. Peter had enough money to get by, and while it would have been nice to pay off his student loans at a more expedient pace, and perhaps acquire a reliable car, he found that financial freedom was no longer his most earnest desire.

  What would he have been working toward, exactly? Why should he rush to pay off the mortgage to a home he would, undoubtedly, share with no one?

  Because the one person he could envision living with was getting on a plane the next morning.

  Oxygen refused to completely fill his burning lungs when he accidentally caught sight of the illuminated coffee shop below. The lights from the copy machine flashed behind Peter’s closed lids as his breathing shallowed.

  How could he have let her go so easily?

  She made herself vulnerable in professing her feelings and he had essentially laughed in her face. And yet, in that cruel moment, Ryleigh did not walk away. She remained at his side, even though he ruined their intimacy, despite his shouting and talking down to her, and through his breakdown as he laid bare his most hideous scar.

  In spite of all of that, Ryleigh still loved him, still found something of value within him. What had he given her in return? Unreciprocated feelings, a broken heart, and an unofficial no-contact order.

  “Any day, Rosenfeld,” came the irritated intonation of Allison, their prissy finance columnist. Her gaudy cobalt, rhinestone-buckled high heel impatiently tapped on the cheap carpet.

  Allison’s thick Jersey accent jarred his brain into focus. The machine blared its continuous beep until Peter retrieved the papers from the tray and reset the digital menu. He turned his back to her, affixing a paperclip to the stack of documents and keeping his head down as he ducked out of the room.

  Upon returning to his desk, Peter became lost in the framed photo of Ryleigh and himself, captured by Charlotte at graduation. At the last moment, he had placed his hands on her hips, resulting in a candid picture recorded mid-reaction. She looked up at him with an open-mouthed grin, burrowing her fingers between his while he met the camera’s eye with a crooked smile.

  Sitting there in his office, he could still feel the weight of her in his arms, still smell that fruity perfume that drove him wild, still hear her soft, teasing voice: ‘Are you getting sweet on me?’

  The fire crackling in his chest roared with an unbridled strength the longer he studied the photo. Peter had made the biggest mistake of his life.

  His pulse accelerated as he regarded his phone’s display.

  7:26.

  Peter lunged out of the desk chair, killed the lights, and fumbled with the set of keys to lock his office. A fluttering sensation in his stomach propelled him through the hallway, paying no mind to odd looks from passing colleagues.

  All that mattered was finding Ryleigh.

  He came across his boss chatting with Ms. Walters at the reception desk, muscles tightening as he considered the job offer. Not that there was anything to consider.

  Not anymore.

  “I quit,” Peter said, as if it was not a loaded statement, and barreled past them toward the elevator.

  Mr. Roberts cast him a slack expression. “I realize you’re under quite a bit of duress, but quitting seems a little—”

  “Can’t talk, Cliff. I have somewhere to be.”

  Repeatedly pressing the elevator’
s button, he waited for the polished chrome doors to slide open.

  After several seconds of bottled impatience, Peter opted for the stairs, descending their flights at a neck-breaking pace. He had to get to the Bransons’ house, stat, for he could not go another minute with these waves of unspoken words threatening to inundate his insides.

  When Peter stepped out onto the street, he froze. A light summer breeze sailed through his curls, but it was not responsible for the anxiety pricking his skin.

  Though it was past closing, The Roast was lit up and a small group of people, most of whom were employees, were gathered inside.

  And then he saw her.

  The warm light in the shop bathed across Ryleigh’s angelic face and added a layer of ambiance to her obvious boredom. She stood on the edge of the group, sporting frayed shorts and a hole-infested t-shirt, full lips closed around the straw in her frozen coffee.

  Peter nearly dropped to his knees at the sight. But his relaxed muscles and easy breaths carried him to the other side of the pavement.

  He noticed Kendall wrapped in one of Jake’s tattooed arms and his heart thumped harder as the real reason for her text clicked into place.

  That matchmaking little bitch.

  Approaching the glass storefront, some of his previously steady confidence faltered. His knuckles gently rapped against the window, startling those inside.

  Something tore at his chest when Ryleigh’s gaze landed on him, her eyes brimming with hurt and lips slightly parted, like she was on the verge of tears.

  Peter pushed on the front door.

  Locked.

  Ryleigh had sacrificed an enthralling night of stuffing her face with dark chocolate and crying over sappy rom-coms to attend the intimate going away party; emphasis on intimate.

  Jake held onto Kendall like she was his center of gravity, and she looked at him as if he was the reason the sun rose each morning. Mr. and Mrs. Connor, the owners, sat at a cozy table for two, nursing lattes and playing footsie. And though Oscar and Andrea had exchanged few words, they had been eye-fucking each other since his arrival and would likely vanish to the bathroom at any given moment.

  Maybe if Peter had slept with me, this wouldn’t hurt so much, because at least then I’d understand on some fractional level how everyone else in the room feels.

  Her stomach hardened and she clutched her plastic cup until it audibly crushed, prompting her to lessen the grip.

  What was she even doing there?

  The more Ryleigh thought about her presence in The Roast, the more absurd it became. There she was, holding a frozen coffee, mingling with a group of people whom she would never see or speak to again—well, other than Andrea.

  She was confident the chocolate and cheesy movies would have provided better consolation than the current PDA-fest surrounding her.

  Every so often, Ryleigh looked over at The Chronicle, curious eyes insistent upon betraying her aching heart. Was Peter thinking of her, or had he lost himself in work, unfazed by her departure out of his well-rehearsed life?

  Moisture blurred the building out of focus.

  You can’t lose it. Not here.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” Mrs. Connor announced. Everyone raised their caffeinated beverages in anticipation as she proceeded, “Ryleigh, it’s been a pleasure having you as a member of our team this past year. The regulars won’t be the only ones who miss you. I know you’ll do great things in Michigan, and I want to wish you luck in whatever it may bring. And if you need a letter of rec, I’m always here. To Ryleigh.”

  Plastic and paper cups bumped together, lacking the pleasing ‘clink’ of glassware typically following a toast. Ryleigh raised her coffee in half-enthused participation.

  As thoughtful as the party was, she hoped it did not carry on much longer. Her ability to hold it all together was dwindling at an alarming rate; she wished that the unavoidable breakdown heading her way staved itself off until she reached the safety of her car.

  A rhythmic tapping on the window caught everyone by surprise, but no one more than Ryleigh, whose sweating drink nearly slipped out of her slackened grasp when she identified the source of the noise.

  Seeing Peter standing beyond the glass made her shriveled heart reanimate and jump into her throat. And despite the dark circles and gauntness sharpening his already severe features, he was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

  Curiosity guided her toward the entrance. They had already said their goodbyes, what the hell did he want, to revel in the satisfaction of ripping her heart out a second time?

  Pulse quickening, her trembling hands struggled to unlock the door, and she almost grew regretful once the key twisted and she found herself on the sidewalk, a dangerous five feet away from the man who still gave her butterflies.

  The man she was not supposed to see after last night and whom she may never see again.

  Ryleigh bit her lip, glancing around the quiet street. “What are you doing here? I mean, how did you even know I was here?”

  “I didn’t. I was on the way to your house and then I saw you in the shop.”

  Her neck stiffened. “Peter, you can’t play games with me. We’ve already been through this once and it was painful enough. Why were you going to my house?”

  Pushing the sleeves of his dress shirt up his forearms, he blew out a concentrated breath.

  “Because I’m done being an asshole. All I’ve done is push you away the last few weeks, and maybe it took me too long, but I realized it’s because I’m terrified of losing you.” Peter spoke with urgency, as if he were being timed.

  The butterflies in Ryleigh’s stomach multiplied, their spasmodic wings tickling the victimized organ.

  “So terrified of losing you, that I just quit my job.” Pausing, he repeated it like he was unveiling the bombshell to himself. “Holy shit, I quit my job.”

  “You said that.” An accidental laugh slipped through her stern armor. A shrug repaired the crack as she prompted coolly, “Where are you going with this?”

  Peter took a few steps toward her, leaving a shoe’s worth of room between them. He gazed down at her, red eyes ablaze with yearning, and a weakness invaded Ryleigh’s knees. She fought to stay afoot as he went on.

  “What I’m saying is, I can’t picture the rest of my life if I let you get on that plane tomorrow and pretend to feel nothing. The thought of being without you … I don’t want that to become my reality, because I can’t imagine losing my best friend.” His voice shook on the last bit, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he glanced at the night sky. But the glorious forces of gravity soon returned the focus of his feverish eyes to Ryleigh. “If you’re going to Michigan, I’m going, too.”

  Had she heard him correctly?

  Surrounding noise and action swooshed by in slow motion. Inhabitants of downtown Harris carried on with their business, oblivious to the peculiar pair anchored outside of The Roast, staring at one another without a singular word passing between them.

  “Why?” Adrenaline flooded her brain, coaxing any ounce of doubt to the surface.

  A crooked smile hoisted its way onto Peter’s face.

  “I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I didn’t think it was possible to feel this way. When I’m away from you, I feel sick. I get lightheaded whenever I see you. My stomach knots up and I can’t breathe.” He paused, exactly as she had during her confession. “You’re all I think about.”

  Never had Ryleigh seen him more serious, devoid of any trace of sarcasm or humor. Flames engulfed her ears as she reeled at the borrowed dialogue. Peter had recited her romantic admission verbatim.

  Amid the animosity that night in her bedroom, he had memorized her words as if they had been chiseled into his stony heart rather than fleetingly spoken.

  “I love you, Ryleigh.”

  Tears sprung to her eyes as she jumped into Peter’s unprepared arms, and he stumbled backward slightly while adjusting to support their combined weight. A commotion of applause an
d squeals erupted inside the shop, flooding the street with a muffled hum of celebration.

  Any background noise faded into the ether when Peter’s fingers tangled in her hair and he dipped his lips down to meet hers.

  But no sooner than their lips brushed, someone vied for attention across the street. An older man with snow white hair bent over to catch his breath, palms planted on his thighs.

  “Rosenfeld,” he shouted, posture straightening thanks to an onslaught of coughing.

  “My boss. Former boss, I guess,” Peter mumbled to her. “Kind of in the middle of something here, Cliff.”

  “Rosenfeld, you don’t have to quit, son.” He threw up his hands. “You have four months of rollover vacation days.” Pointing to the newspaper building, he continued, “So, get your scrawny ass back upstairs when you’re done sowing your oats or whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”

  Cliff pushed inward on the heavy door to The Chronicle, veiled in the arrogance of someone who refused to take ‘no’ for an answer.

  Ryleigh raised her eyebrows, tightening her hold on his neck. “Looks like you got your job back.”

  “I got you back. Everything else is secondary.”

  The laugh lines around his mouth crinkled and happiness bubbled beneath her skin, knowing she no longer had to give him up, because Peter wanted her and loved her and would not have been able to live with himself had he let her go.

  And that was enough. More than enough.

  Heat radiated through Ryleigh’s chest as his mouth covered hers, kissing her like her affection was essential to his survival, that without the reparative caress of her lips, he would perish.

  He slipped a hand into her back pocket and Ryleigh jerked away, gaze flitting from him to the shopful of her former coworkers. “Careful, if you take this much further, it’ll really make their week.”

  His other hand claimed the vacant pocket, grabbing her flesh through the layer of denim.

  “I deserve an Oscar for that performance, or at least a bagel. Do you think they’d invite me in for one?”

 

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