Having Rosenfeld (Rosenfeld Duet Book 2) Read online

  This is a work of fiction, Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Crooked Hart Press, LLC 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  First paperback edition August 2021

  Images © DepositPhotos – Igor Vetushko

  Cover Design © Designed with Grace

  Copy Edits by Justin Williams

  Interior Formatting by Nikita Malone

  ISBN 978-1-7376130-2-2

  “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

  -William Shakespeare

  Contents

  (Re)United

  She’s On Bread

  Right on Time

  New Guy

  Disruptions

  Mismanaged

  Surprises

  Bones

  Body Bag

  Have We Met?

  The Reyes’

  Missed Calls

  A Proposition

  Dirty Laundry

  Rite of Passage

  You’re That Guy

  Like Adults

  In Print

  Where’s Zayn?

  Clean Fun

  No Promises

  Third Call

  Landline

  California

  Author’s note:

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Travelers rushed past the unmoving trio who took up valuable floor real estate in Logan International’s check-in area. A few passersby gave them pointed frowns or exaggerated sighs, as if the terribly busy, stone-cold Bostonians could not be bothered to spare a second of sympathy for a man embarking on a new chapter of his—thus far unnoteworthy—life.

  Any anxiety toward this departure had been stripped from Peter days ago, when he had arrived in Boston to stay with Kendall and Jake ahead of his big move. Palms slick with sweat, his anticipation to board Flight 4772 intensified as he beheld the couple before him for perhaps the final time; for soon, he would have exactly that—someone to wrap his arms around and display to the public like a proud fisherman showing off his unbelievable catch, as Jake did with Kendall.

  Adjusting the strap of his duffel bag, Peter’s gaze bounced from the United check-in counter to Kendall, who had adopted a somewhat empty stare as she burrowed into Jake’s side.

  An unexpected ache pulled his chest taut at being faced with leaving Kendall behind. He had spent an excess of time at The Roast, having nothing but time to whittle away between his extended vacation from The Chronicle and Ryleigh’s unfortunate absence. In that time, he and Kendall had managed to restore their friendship to its former glory, the lingering tension from their failed sexscapade at last forgotten. Up until her decision to move to Boston and abandon him, anyhow.

  Tears almost pricked his eyes, but he forbade them from surfacing, not wanting Kendall to weaponize the slightest slip of his societally unmasculine vulnerability.

  “You know, I don’t have any regulars here who complain about their drinks as often as you did. I almost miss it,” Kendall teased while a quivery smile captured her lips.

  Peter produced a low, subdued laugh. “I don’t know, those soccer moms are pretty particular about their skinny vanilla lattes.”

  Laughter quaked through her shoulders and she wiped the corners of her eyes, which she would have undoubtedly denied were tearing up prior to the burst of amusement.

  Jake pressed a kiss to her bang-shrouded forehead, moving away from her and Peter. His thumb gestured in the direction his feet were guiding him. “I’ll give you two a minute. I’m going to wait in the car. Have a safe flight, man.”

  He did not fault Jake for the swift exit. Who would stick around to watch their girlfriend say her goodbyes to someone who once defiled one of her skirts?

  Nose wrinkling, Kendall admitted, “Yeah, he’s a little jealous of you.”

  “That’s the most irrational thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Jake’s an artist. Irrationality is his brand.”

  After consulting the time on his lock screen, Peter looked at her with a degree of reluctant finality. “I should probably get going.” He tucked a hand into the pocket of his joggers, the other one reaching for his suitcase handle. “Thank you, for everything. I’m glad we got to spend a few days together before I left.”

  Kendall cupped her ear and turned her head to the side. “I’m sorry, did Rosenfeld the snarky coffee purist just express gratitude? Love really does change people.”

  Tongue pinned between his molars, he studied the ground for a beat before shifting his focus back to the gloating woman. Peter held out his arms, fingers beckoning her to accept the embrace. “Come on, if you make me miss this flight, I’ll write the nastiest Yelp review of your new coffee shop and mention you by name.”

  Her arms circled his waist as she glanced up at him with pursed lips and shook her head. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Oh no?” Peter asked once she broke away.

  “Nah, you’re too much of a pussy.” Rosy faced from her wild grin, Kendall backpedaled toward the same sliding doors Jake had exited through, expertly navigating the ceaseless stream of people. “Good luck with Ryleigh, by the way. You two were meant for each other. Written in the stars and shit.”

  Once she was out of sight, a tremulous beating ruled Peter’s heart as he wheeled his suitcase toward forever.

  Or rather, what he hoped would be his forever.

  Despite the horrendous congestion of the airport, nary a soul lurked in line at the United desk. He stepped up to the counter and slipped his ID to the tanning bed blonde manning the desk. Her jarring neon pink lipstick made Peter consider his need for an eye exam.

  “Just checking the one bag?” she asked, glittery shadowed eyes flitting from his suitcase to the computer screen as she retrieved his flight information. “It’s $35 if you are.”

  “And if I’m not? How much is it then?”

  His sarcasm slipped right over the blonde’s dense head. She regarded him with furrowed brows before returning to the computer with a slight frown. Peter lifted the suitcase onto the scale, and the digital display proclaimed that it was just as underweight as he was.

  “Detroit, huh? You got family there?”

  Thoughts scrambling, his stomach clenched. There were few things Peter loathed more than small talk; that, and it was the late afternoon and he was running on zero caffeine, rendering him completely useless in any agreeable social capacity.

  He shook his head. “No, no, I’m uh, moving, to be closer to my girlfriend.”

  “You can do better than a girl from Detroit, honey.” She conjured the saddest puppy dog eyes, and he thought for a moment she might do something hideously obscene like extending an invitation for charity sex in the nearest bathroom. The blonde passed him his boarding pass, hand lingering on the paper as he reached for it. “Good luck out there.”

  Nodding stiffly, Peter maintained a tightness in his jaw while consulting her name tag.

  “You know what, Daisy, you’ve been such a delight. Is there some kind of customer service form I can fill out?”

  She waved a hand in dismissal. “You just made my day, Mr. Rosenfeld. If you go to United’s website, you can fill out a customer care form.”

  “I’ll certainly do that. Have a wo
nderful evening.”

  Biting the inside of his cheek, Peter immediately pulled up the form as he stalked away from the check-in counter, not so accidentally clicking ‘complaint’ rather than ‘compliment.’ God forbid sweet little Daisy get reprimanded.

  Oops.

  As he made the trek toward TSA, a familiar smoky yet nutty fragrance danced through the air, seducing his depleted well of dopamine. A jolt shot through his body at the mere thought of a cup of coffee, and what it would do not only for his mood but his nerves. Head shifting every which way like a crazed stray in search of a bite to eat, Peter located the source of the sinful smell: Dunkin’, the pride and joy of Massachusetts. Even though he did not care for chain shops, the illuminated orange logo called to him as if it were the gates of Heaven.

  His debit card materialized before he reached the counter, stupefying the teenage boy working the register.

  “Medium cappuccino, 2% milk, steamed at 180.” Nearly forgetting, he tacked on, “Oh, and a pump of vanilla.”

  Ryleigh lurked in the cave of her loft bed, flipping through her colossal civics textbook which occupied more than half of the unfortunately small though free university-issued desk. The pitifully sized piece of furniture served as an inanimate reminder that college was meant for partying rather than studying.

  Pathetic as it may have been, she had done little else besides schoolwork since her arrival in August. So, Ryleigh made the limited space work; she stacked plastic crates to the right of the desk, acting as storage units for her excessive academic accoutrements, which Peter teasingly referred to as her ‘nerd tower’ during their many FaceTime sessions.

  The section she was reviewing on the Articles of Confederation became unreadable as her roommate, Min-ji, initiated one of her infamous bubble gum smacking tirades. You’ve been living together for a semester. You should be used to this by now.

  But Ryleigh was not used to it.

  Each jarring pop of the gum willed her to chuck the textbook at the wall. Next year, I’m applying for a single.

  Resigned to the knowledge she would not be getting any quality studying done, her focus wandered to the precious array of items lining the back of her desk. A copy of The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton, a Christmas present from her parents. A lavender coffee mug which read, ‘I’m a poet and I know it,’ that Andrea had given to her years ago and now corralled Ryleigh’s disconcerting number of pens and highlighters. Her eyes lingered on the framed photo of Peter and herself, one of the candids they had taken after the bridal expo back home. In it, she kissed his cheek and he displayed an awkward grin, as if he had consciously posed for the photo.

  Nausea brewed in the pit of her hardened stomach the longer she studied the image. Sitting at the desk every evening to do coursework was both joyful and painful when faced with that frame—the former because it reminded her of the few wonderful memories they had shared, and the latter for the ever-expanding hole in her heart as their separation persisted.

  A month earlier, Peter had a particularly successful interview with the head of The Ann Arbor Times, a paper whose office happened to be a stone’s throw away from campus. And though he had spoken rather optimistically about having secured the position, no official word had come. Yet. Ryleigh had learned to not get her hopes up where his seemingly unending job search was concerned. He had been encouraged by several other opportunities over the months that ultimately did not pan out in their favor.

  Invisible ropes practiced shibari on her submissive lungs as she made a fruitless bid to return to civics.

  No sooner than Ryleigh had reacquainted herself with Shay’s Rebellion, her phone rang overhead in her bed, sheets muffling the ‘extra, extra’ ringtone that never failed to conjure a drumming in her chest. She scaled the ladder enough to retrieve the device and tapped the green icon.

  “Hey. How’s work going tonight?” She balanced the phone between her ear and shoulder while climbing the remainder of the ladder, lying on her stomach once she reached the bed.

  “I’m not at work.” Peter paused for a few seconds that she could have sworn lasted an eon. “If you’re nose deep in a book or otherwise engaged, I can call back.”

  Her insides contorted like an intricate balloon animal. He had something to tell her, something important judging by the apprehensive undercurrent of his tone.

  Out of habit, she asked, “Is everything okay?”

  “More than okay. Hey, are you free on the 24th, by chance? I need someone to pick me up from the airport. You’re my top choice.”

  Ryleigh sprang up, head colliding with the ceiling. She winced and cradled her skull, spawning an odd look from Min-ji. “Peter, if you’re joking, I swear to God.”

  “Would I call to punk you about something like this? Come on, you know me better than that.” Giddiness coursed through her at having riled him, if only slightly. He went on, “The Times called this afternoon. They want me to start at the end of the month.”

  The weight of his statement settled in, and bliss threatened to capsize Ryleigh over the loft bed’s railing. Now that would have given Min-ji sufficient cause to stare.

  This was their green light, the one in a million chance they had been waiting for. In one week, Peter would be there with her. No more depressing video chat sessions. No more late-night, tear-filled phone calls.

  Her throat constricted, mangling her words. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Shit. My parents are trying to get through. I’ll text you, though, okay?”

  “Peter Zayn Rosenfeld, don’t even try to reduce this moment to texting. Just call me back later when you get a chance.”

  “Alright. I love you.”

  Every time he uttered the sentiment, he drew a bucket from her bottomless well of shock and awe. It reminded her of how far they had come, and how hard she had fought to force his hand on the front of love. And still, whenever Peter spoke those coveted words, they felt like a victory whose significance never waned.

  “Love you, too,” she said before disconnecting the call.

  Min-ji shifted onto her back in the twin bed, gazing at Ryleigh. Her short, bottle-blonde hair fanned out around her heart-shaped face. “What was that about?”

  Insides vibrating, Ryleigh grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest. “He’s moving here. This month.”

  Since starting at UMich, she had kept her relationship with Peter under lock and key. Min-ji Yang was the lone soul in Ann Arbor who was privy to their involvement. Ryleigh had not planned on telling her, if only to spare herself the inevitable judgment, but one could only hide so much from someone with whom they shared a 180-square-foot space.

  “It’s about time.” Min-ji did a slow clap and let her hands fall amid her constellation-covered comforter. She had an unhealthy fascination with astrology and constantly chided Ryleigh for being ‘way too Virgo’ whenever she declined Min-ji’s invitations to social outings. “Now you can get laid and I won’t be kept up half the night with your gross phone sex.”

  “Talking to my boyfriend late at night doesn’t automatically equate to a sexual context.” Ryleigh’s aflame cheeks betrayed the confident statement.

  Studying rendered unappealing, she chewed the inside of her lip while settling under the covers; those blankets did little to shield her from the swirling storm of emotional turmoil she now faced. The playful jab from Min-ji struck a chord within her. Sure, Ryleigh sent a suggestive picture on occasion, but they had kept their relationship fairly innocent in light of their long-distance status. She wanted them to discover each other in real time, not through technological portals.

  As she lay on her side and stared at the wall, her breathing slowed. While she would never admit it to anyone, especially Peter, Ryleigh was embarrassed of her ever-present virginity. When she navigated the campus day after day, she felt like a lame high school kid, excluded from the thriving biome of sexual activity.

  The train of thought inescapably led to her recounting the disastrous night she tried to sle
ep with Peter. The night she had learned so much about him, about his past, the moment when everything regarding his confusing behavior toward her had clicked into place. Ryleigh wondered, fleetingly, if they would encounter the same sexual challenges, or if he would give himself willingly to her, knowing that she would never hurt him as his ex had.

  And then it hit her, rather suddenly, that she need not form theories about the dynamics of their intimacy, because that part of their relationship would soon be actualized. The wonderful knowledge cocooned Ryleigh as she slipped into an accidental sleep, suspended in a dream in which she did not have to fight so hard to recall Peter’s gentle touch, soft lips, and maddening scent.

  Any trace of a blissful rush Peter may have gotten via the caffeine evacuated his bloodstream in a hurry when he accepted the call from his parents’ landline and heard the eardrum-rupturing shrieks of a distraught Janet Rosenfeld.

  In fact, she was under such duress, she failed to produce even the briefest greeting, the apparent shock diminishing her motherly inclination to inquire about the well-being of her only child.

  His heart rate tripled, and it had little to do with the espresso buzz. Inhaling a slow, deep breath through his nose, Peter employed a calm tone. “Mom, what’s going on?”

  “It—” Janet began, succumbing to a sea of sobs after one tiring syllable. “Your father, honey, he—”

  More sobs; horrible, screeching sounds that made Peter flinch away from the receiver. Admittedly, he was more concerned with his mother’s ability to complete a sentence than what ailed his father.