Loving Rosenfeld Read online

  “Always,” she sang.

  Peter locked the front door to his condo, depositing the keys into the pocket of slacks so recently ironed that they were warm against his thighs. The contents of his worn leather messenger bag jostled as he galloped in descension of the steps. October’s palette of warm-toned colors had splattered itself across town, and with the recent decline in temperature the walk to the newspaper office became somewhat appealing. Anything to avoid risking his hunk of junk car falling to pieces in the middle of a busy street. Though, busy was the last word one might conjure when asked to describe Harris.

  A timid autumnal breeze greeted him as he opened the door at the bottom of the stairwell; the cool air whooshed inside to mingle with the building’s artificial warmth. Peter wore his signature attire: a dress shirt, slacks, belt, argyle socks, and beaten up brown loafers which were in desperate need of replacement. He readjusted the uncomfortable weight of his work bag, fishing inside an outer compartment to make sure he remembered his cell phone. Not that anyone ever called him besides his mother.

  Few people littered the path to the office. A tall woman in athleisure struggled to keep control of an eager golden retriever, who sniffed Peter in passing. Had the keen canine detected the shower he opted to skip? An elderly man rocking a fedora ambled along clutching two brown sacks of groceries. He struggled to keep the hat on his bald head in the blustery weather. An enraged lawyer spewing legal nonsense into an earpiece bumped elbows with Peter, offering no apology as they went their separate ways. Time is money, the lawyer might have said.

  Exchanging niceties with strangers was not his forte. This had been a problem when he first started working for the Chronicle. Offering a casual hello to someone on the street and interviewing someone for an article were distinctive ball games. The second scenario had procedures in place to ease Peter’s anxiety. A glimpse of the person was granted pre-interview; bits of information, their name, their relevance.

  The unknown is what troubled him.

  After seeing the man with the groceries, he made a mental note to hit up the 24-hour market later that night. His refrigerator and pantry looked as if they had made it out the other side of an apocalypse, barren and destitute wastelands where food had once resided.

  Fingers curled around the entrance to the Chronicle, though he stopped short of pulling it open. Peter glanced across the street at the buzzing coffee shop. Could he breach his weeklong protest? His vacant stomach pointed to a resounding yes.

  Peter swallowed his pride and entered the crosswalk. As he conquered each of the white rectangular bars, the reason for his protest of the shop resurfaced at the forefront of his mind. Shame shadowed the recollection. What a cranky bastard he had been. You owe Kendall a grand apology after that scene you caused.

  The mind-numbing whirring of the blender drowned the noises within the shop. When Ryleigh cut off the ear-grating appliance, the ruckus inside the cafe resumed in all its glory, volumes and tones contrasting like a band out of time. Headache medicine would have been a useful companion during her shifts at The Roast; she never had the foresight to bring any along. Cue the suffering.

  She poured the caramel freezer into a plastic cup, but she tipped the blender mouth too fast and some of the frozen coffee spilt along the outer walls of the cup, pooling on the counter. Ryleigh snapped a lid on it, dropping it off at the pick-up area where a uniform clad, private school princess awaited its arrival. The teen stuck up her nose, shooting Ryleigh an ‘are you serious’ scowl.

  “Um, can I get a napkin?” The girl enunciated napkin as if it were two words, an overkill of emphasis. Ryleigh sucked in a cheek, teeth gnashing on the tender flesh. Customers did not often annoy her, but these Mercedes driving, Ralph Lauren wearing, Ivy League chasing snobs made her blood boil without fail. She scooped up a small stack of napkins and relinquished them to the girl who thought her prep school queen bee status extended to this civilian coffee shop.

  Upon clocking into work, Ryleigh fell into the barista role as if it were second nature. She slid her apron on in the blink of an eye and set to it. That $11.00 an hour would not earn itself. Sure, the shop could be a breeding ground for migraines, and some of the customers were a handful—a select few were several handfuls, including this abhorrent ‘napkin’ girl—but she loved the hours she spent in the cafe.

  Ryleigh lost herself in the fast-paced rhythm of the job, finding comfort in the level of attention it required. The focus she dedicated to fulfilling incoming orders temporarily relieved her of burdensome thoughts surrounding school, homework, and the granddaddy of anxiety: college. But as she fell into the melodic, repetitive task of making drinks, her stress dissipated.

  That stress returned with astonishing urgency as a familiar man entered the shop. Pressure bottled in her ribcage, poised to explode like an aggravated aerosol can. Peter the coffee purist entered the cafe, boasting the nonchalance of someone who thought they owned stock in the establishment. What an act to follow the prep school princess. If the scene from Ryleigh’s closing shift bore any indication, this interaction would be a nightmare.

  But the Peter who presently stood in the shop seemed nothing like the man who had pounded on the storefront window. A billowy cloud of sereneness hung around him, making his presence less intimidating. Perhaps that serenity would meet an abrupt end whenever he opened his mouth to order. Ryleigh jumped at the toaster oven’s high-pitched dinging. Regaining composure, she stole another glance in his direction. A weathered bag sat anchored to his shoulder, left hand glued to its strap as if it were a lifeline.

  Good, he’s going somewhere. Maybe I won’t have to put up with him long.

  An unwelcome realization wiggled its way into her subconscious: he was not unattractive. At this, Ryleigh’s heart raced and head swam, all major organs competing in a triathlon to manage this unexpected observation. Peter crouched by the half-size refrigerator containing premade items. Precious few details were on display with his back turned: the vertical seam on the rear of his dress shirt, the battered heels of his shoes. The chestnut, windswept curls stood out against the rest.

  Pesto and turkey on ciabatta in hand, Peter approached the counter. His vacant stare traveled past Ryleigh to the kitchen space like she did not exist. A discernible redness clung to his waterlines, exhaustion at its finest. He pushed the boxed sandwich toward her. “Is Kendall around?”

  "No, she’s off.” The normal confidence in her tone faltered. Ryleigh wished her co-worker would have swooped in to take the order, but Oscar dallied in the storeroom collecting inventory. She blinked in rapid succession, disappointed when he did not vanish.

  Peter’s gaze flickered between her face and silver-plated name tag. “You’re new, right?”

  Words evaded her but she saved the interaction by employing a swift nod. Ryleigh averted her eyes from the man towering over the counter, afraid that a peep at him might turn her to stone. Why did her first transaction with a regular customer have to be with him—this good-looking, yet possibly deranged, guy?

  "I'll take a bagel and a medium cappuccino. 2% milk steamed at 180." He rummaged through his back pocket and produced a wallet in worse shape than his shoes. “And the sandwich, obviously.”

  Ryleigh fought the urge to verbally question his carb intake, striking it as inappropriate conversation to broach with a semi-stranger. She had three weeks of coffee-making experience under her belt. The prospect of preparing an espresso drink for this maniac of a man ranked above the realm of terrifying.

  She punched in the order. "What kind of bagel?"

  Peter leaned across the counter, face poised a dangerous foot away from hers. A hint of his heady cologne permeated the air. He lowered his voice, giving way to a hoarse whisper. “I don’t remember specifying, so that would imply I expect a plain bagel, yeah?”

  Threads of self-satisfaction were woven with such care into the retort, a twisted grin should have succeeded its deliverance. Who does this guy think he is?

  "We
have plain, everything, raisin, blueberry, and chocolate chip," Ryleigh stated, ignoring his condescending tone and waiting for him to make a selection.

  "Chocolate chip?" Do people seriously order that?" he asked, borderline offended by the creation of the flavor. Peter adopted a pained expression and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

  The persistence of his attitude amused her. She had to suck in her cheeks to prevent a smile. "They're popular with children, mostly."

  "Plain. No cream cheese; it makes me sick." He swiped his debit card, pushed a few buttons on the payment pad, and vanished the wallet.

  "Can I have a name for your beverage?" Ryleigh plucked a permanent marker from the bucket of sticky, syrup-covered writing utensils. She seized a paper to-go cup from the towered stack beside the register, almost scrawling his name on the cup before he spoke.

  Nice going. That would’ve been great.

  The corner of his mouth twitched. "You ask a lot of questions."

  "Only the necessary ones.”

  "Peter." He regarded the barista with a curious gaze, scrunching his forehead to forge wrinkles. Ryleigh scribbled on the cup and set it off to the side, pretending to not notice his studious look. Those sleepy eyes bore into her, as if to channel additional acknowledgement. Don’t fall for it.

  "You can wait for your order at the end of the counter, sir." She motioned to the drink pick-up area.

  Peter’s lips formed a trained smirk. “You really have no clue how often I come here, huh?”

  “Like you pointed out, I’m new.” Ryleigh bit her tongue as the words flew from her mouth.

  His face neutralized, lips parting as if to speak but hesitation winning out. Peter fiddled with the cuffs on his dress shirt. While she had welcomed the sleepy stare, this new look had her on edge. He brought a hand to the back of his neck, “That was you, then, wasn’t it? Last week?”

  If you’re referring to your meltdown, then yes.

  “No hard feelings.”

  “I’m not usually like that. Rough night.”

  Why had he taken the time to explain his behavior? Kendall had warned against his douchebag tendencies, but the extension of an apology seemed to contradict the alleged persona. Ryleigh mulled this over as she popped the bagel into the toaster.

  As the espresso brewed, she caught a glimpse of Peter admiring the pastry case. He leered at the treats with an unnatural yet endearing degree of lust. This man had a love affair with carbs.

  She slipped a temperature gauge into the milk-filled steaming pitcher and placed it under the frothing wand. The hand on the gauge made its steady rise. Ryleigh cut off the pressure at precisely 180 degrees. Her chest tightened upon realizing she had to surrender the order, thereby getting rid of the handsome customer. At least he’s a regular.

  "To-go for Peter."

  "If your cappuccino skills are any good, I’ll have to kick Kendall to the curb."

  The faint smile Peter gave as he grabbed the coffee and bagel rendered Ryleigh to a pool of pink, glittering goo. Within seconds, he was gone, fading from her memory with the annoying agility of a mesmerizing dream.

  She could withstand a parade of private school brats if 10 minutes of her shift were dedicated to serving him.

  Peter wedged his foot in the path of the closing elevator door, slipping inside while he had the chance. Lydia, their opinion editor, retreated into the corner, as if Peter’s presence posited danger in the tight space. He had zero fucks to give about Lydia and her opinion-based bullshit columns. The only thing that mattered in those 22 square feet? The piping hot cappuccino; the torch that would guide him through the night ahead.

  He blew through the oval cutout on the lid in anticipation of taking the first sip. Peter tried to brace himself for the worst-case scenario. Trusting a bull in a china shop had a greater chance of success than having faith in a new barista to not screw up your coffee order. The scalding hot cappuccino cascaded over his tongue like the finest silk; espresso and milk mingling together in luxurious harmony. Perfection. Had Lydia not been in the elevator, Peter may have elicited a moan at this blissful, inaugural sip.

  “Damn, that’s good,” he whispered.

  The key difference between the work week and the weekend? Peter traded the stuffy office-mandated slacks for sweatpants. Keeping busy on days off justified the neglect of the social and romantic sectors of his life. Extra assignments meant no time to stress about dating, which equaled no worries. He held a black belt in the fine art of rationalization. Peter would rather die single than unleash his scarred heart onto the vicious battlefield known as love.

  Muffled strumming of an acoustic guitar resonated among the sofa cushions, breaking the dead silence of the condo. Peter waded through the feather-stuffed fabric until he located his cell phone, retrieving it from its mysterious hiding place. Checking the caller ID would have been an unnecessary formality.

  He answered without pretense. "Hey, mom.”

  "Peter," Janet cooed, "how are you, darling?"

  "Amazing." He emphasized each syllable, achieving the cadence of a bored cheerleader.

  "Oh, please, don't bore me with all the details.”

  His mother accepted his tempestuous attitude, affectionately calling him her ‘little storm cloud’ as a teenager; his father did not find the act amusing and bemoaned the world for having dealt him a moody son.

  "You know me, always working." He dragged out the last half of the sentence while sifting through the piles of paper crowding the coffee table. Peter cradled the phone against his shoulder, thumbing through the stacks. The paper in question surfaced—a xeroxed police report. He jumped at the chance to report within the crime beat, likening himself to a suave detective in a noir film. Though, Harris’s general lack of miscreants made this opportunity scarce.

  "It's the weekend. You need to go out and have fun. Go for a walk, get some fresh air." Concern and sincerity cried out through Janet’s rather calm insistence; a friend on the surface and a worried parent drowning below.

  She's just looking out for you. Relax.

  "The paper doesn't cease circulation for the sake of me having a weekend to myself, mom." The exaggeration did not aid his cause. There was no fooling his mother.

  "I happen to be aware that you’re off Tuesdays and Saturdays, Peter Zayn Rosenfeld.”

  Countless memories were tied to the cadence of his full name rolling off her matriarchal tongue. Of these mischievous incidents, Janet discovering his stash of dirty magazines in college took the cake. She uncovered the tasteless publications peeking out between the mattress and boxspring while changing his sheets. ‘Don’t bring this kind of filth into my home. Look at it on the internet like everyone else in the 21st century,’ she had said.

  "I know very well they don’t expect you to work from home on your days off."

  "What else am I supposed to do?" Eager to change the subject, Peter asked, "How's dad?"

  Awful as it may have been, he did not care one bit about his father’s well-being. The inquiry slipped out on pure reflex, a standard branch of his and Janet’s conversation whose deviation never lasted. Gideon Rosenfeld had been a difficult man to grow up around; the supreme leader of ball-busting fathers. Every decision Peter made? Wrong. Every interest he had? Misguided. Even as an adult, he remained a victim of Gideon’s unyielding scrutiny.

  "Your father’s great. He’s out back staining the deck." A bullet had been dodged. Peter would live to see another day. "Your father and I have been throwing around the idea of coming down for the holidays. If that’s alright, of course. We understand you’re busy with work, honey, but we miss you something awful."

  "You're coming here for the holidays?" Peter echoed, processing the repeated phrase. "My place is pretty cramped, but we can make it work."

  The thought of playing host to his family’s holiday festivities incited near cardiac arrest. What choice did he have? He could not tell his mother no. Peter had managed to avoid his parents the last three
Christmases. Not that he disliked their company, but Christmas with the Rosenfelds was an ordeal and a half. Peter and his father engaged in raucous shouting matches and tallied up the KOs while his mother wept into her umpteenth glass of cabernet sauvignon.

  "I’m so glad to hear you’ll have us. It's been too long, dear," Janet shrieked into the receiver.

  Two years qualified as ‘too long’ in her book.

  A couple of summers ago, he visited them for a week that felt more like a month. He was in no hurry to recreate the terror that plagued every parental visit; rehashing the same tired, unchanging subjects.

  Peter did not have much to show for his 13 years of post-college independence. Once he had a few years of experience at the Chronicle, the plan had been to move to a larger metro area, somewhere he could advance his career. But Peter developed an attachment to Harris, a city where people minded their own business, where he could exist in the background. A larger city would mean more people, summoning an influx of uncomfortable situations: improv proposals for dates, invitations for drinks with co-workers.

  Consensus? Not worth it.

  A tightness enveloped his chest. Soon, his belligerent complacency would be on full display to the two most important people in his life.

  "I can't wait to see you guys." A metallic taste spread in his mouth, as if blood had been stolen in penance for the lie. Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. "I’m going to let you go. I'm finishing up a few things."

  "Okay. Enjoy your weekend, sweetheart. I love you."

  "Love you too, mom." Lips pressed into a thin line, he hung up.

  The drive across town to Sherman’s Drugs always filled Peter with immense dread. This monthly journey meant venturing into the suburban side of Harris, a place infested with picture-perfect families, luxury vehicles, and high-class homes; a cookie-cutter hub overrun by hot-shot CEOs and their tanning bed bunny wives.