Having Rosenfeld (Rosenfeld Duet Book 2) Read online

  Cruel? Perhaps.

  They had not spoken since the explosive holiday visit the year prior. Peter believed the extended silence had been beneficial, serving as a sort of cleanse for his weary mental state. Yet, as he sat at the gate in Logan International, he found himself wondering if the universe meant for this to be their moment of reconciliation. The stars had aligned for Ryleigh and himself. Maybe it had come time to bury the hatchet with his father, as well.

  Or maybe the old bastard had rolled over and died and they need not worry about a reconciliation.

  Sinking further into the seat, his fingers sifted through his curls. “Mom, I want to know what’s going on. I do. I need you to take a deep breath for me and try to calm down, alright?”

  A possible ‘mmmhmm’ resonated, followed by some heavy-duty sniffles that would have made the director of a tissue commercial proud. And while Janet manifested composure, Peter developed a thickness in his throat—guilt rearing its ugly head for not being there when his mom clearly needed him. However illogical that guilt may have been, it was unrelenting in its assault of his defenseless heart and mind.

  “Sweetheart, your father had a stroke.”

  “Oui, oui, would you care to add some brie?” Ryleigh adjusted her mandatory crimson beret, attached to her head with nothing more than two bobby pins and a pinch of good faith.

  The public humiliation she faced each shift at Le Croûton was not worth $9.65 an hour, a downgrade from what she made in Harris.

  Alas, it was a job. More importantly, it was within walking distance of campus.

  “No, thank you.” The blazer-clad woman hid a snicker behind the lid of her latte. Bitch.

  “It’ll be out shortly.” Ryleigh handed her a cobalt numbered placard along with her dignity.

  Her poetry journal peeked out on the ledge below the register, begging for attention in its tempting placement. Among the swarm of stickers on the bedecked cover, Ryleigh’s eyes landed on the illustrated Blink-182 rabbit and her heart fluttered. Every time she cracked it open to pen a new verse, she skimmed the heartfelt letter from Peter, always grinning upon the sight of his formal signature.

  The opportunity rarely presented itself to bang out a verse between customers. With the cafe being in the heart of downtown, near the university and plenty of workplaces, a lull in foot traffic was almost unheard of. Outside of her 15-minute break, Ryleigh considered herself lucky to get a few lines written. She saw a chance to exceed the typical quota, with the woman in the blazer having migrated to a table and not a soul standing in line or approaching the storefront. Fingers itching to breathe life into the words stewing in her mind, she reached for the journal, only to retract them prior to seizing the coveted object.

  Not until you switch.

  She hated asking for favors, but this instance was non-negotiable, and she had sworn to herself to get it over with that day; otherwise, she would have agonized about it the rest of the week.

  Mouth drying out, Ryleigh shut her eyes and siphoned a calming breath before turning to the boy on her left who kneeled on the ground, unpacking boxes of napkins. His oversized uniform swallowed his gangly body, and he wore thick-rimmed glasses that were comically too large for his narrow, pimpled face.

  “Ezra, is Kayla on break?”

  Blinking slowed, his magnified eyes fixated on her as a flush tinged his cheeks. The intensity with which Ezra regarded Ryleigh made her uncomfortable. He looked at her like she was some prized, collectible action figure he was dying to take out of its box. She tugged on the hem of her striped shirt, ignoring the idea that he possessed some kind of schoolboy crush on her.

  “No.” He pushed the ridiculous glasses up the bridge of his brittle nose. “She’s on bread.”

  “Can you handle the register for a few?”

  Ezra sprang to his feet like a summer weed invading a freshly mown lawn. Enthusiasm painted itself across his face but it failed to mask the base coat of desperation. “No problem, Ryleigh.”

  She cringed at the way her name sounded in his pitchy, not yet fully enhanced by testosterone voice. It made her miss hearing Peter’s scratchy, seductive inflection whispering in her ear. A shameful warmth spread in her midsection.

  You’re at work! Get it together.

  She swept toward the rear of the kitchen, the location of the dreaded bread station. The cramped room was a cornucopia of carbs; baguettes, croissants, brioche, you name it. Ryleigh swore she gained a pound each time she entered the space from the smell alone. Her hands tingled at her sides upon thinking about how much Peter would love that room, how he might have locked himself inside and never left.

  Kayla was slicing her way through a mountain of asiago bagels, their pungent odor polluting the air. “Please tell me they sent you back here to help.”

  “Don’t tell me the slicer is broken again. Ivan has you back here doing this alone?” Ryleigh snagged a bread knife from the magnetic strip on the subway tile backsplash. The prep stations in the cafe were too meticulously designed to only be seen by its employees. They were minimum wage workers, not Michelin star chefs, for Christ’s sake.

  “Yeah, you know Ivan,” she mumbled.

  By her third bagel, Ryleigh’s mind wandered. Ezra was probably making a mess of things at the register, seeing as he was a fairly new hire and generally incompetent. Anxiety inducing as it may have been, she could not delay her burning inquiry. “Will you cover for me on Friday? I’ll take your Saturday morning shift.”

  “Do you have a hot date I’m for some reason unaware of?” Kayla set the knife on the worn cutting board, casting her twinkling obsidian eyes at Ryleigh.

  She was much closer to Kayla than Min-ji; and yet, her coworker was oblivious to Peter’s existence. The topic had been avoided as long as possible, but there was no skirting around it now.

  “You could say that.” Ryleigh inhaled with unsettling vigor. “I’m going to Detroit to pick my boyfriend up from the airport.”

  “Boyfriend? We’ve been work buddies for how long and, until now, you’ve neglected to mention that you have a boyfriend?” Her forehead creased, wrinkling her russet brown skin. Turning back to the bagels, she shook her head. “And here I thought you were going to die a studious virgin.”

  Is it that obvious?

  Her ovaries may as well have shriveled up on the spot.

  “I wanted to tell you. I’ve been trying to keep a low profile about it since I moved here. He’s ... older.” Ryleigh transferred her stack of sliced bagels to their designated bin.

  “Alright, you have my attention. How old is this guy?”

  She shut an eye, fearing the impending response. “36.”

  “That’s not so bad. My cousin dated a guy who was 30 years older than her. It didn’t work out, but that’s not to say it was because of their age difference.” Kayla’s painted red lips blossomed into a smile. “I’ll cover your shift. Enjoy your time with your secret boyfriend. How long is he in town for?”

  “Forever.” Ryleigh realized how stupid the response sounded once it left her mouth. Toes curling in her flats, she clarified. “He’s moving here.”

  “Damn, so this is serious, then?”

  Serious. Ryleigh considered the definitive word. Peter loved her. He was committed to her. So committed, he was moving hundreds of miles to be with her. He had sacrificed the stability of his job, sold his condo, uprooted everything.

  All for her.

  Though the physical aspect of their relationship was a far cry from ‘serious,’ it would soon be a nonissue. The thought left Ryleigh more queasy than exhilarated. Her hypothetical sex butterflies were quickly squashed when Ivan, their manager, ducked his head in the bread room. He took his position at Le Croûton a little too seriously, sporting a self-grown, meticulously manicured, thin, curly mustache.

  The employees did everything to stifle their laughter when he made his rounds, and it had become an obligatory practice to poke fun at him the second he left the room.

  “Ms
. Branson, would you care to explain why you thought it wise to leave Ezra ‘The Klutz’ Herskowitz in charge of the register? Need I remind you this is an area of the store for which young Mr. Herskowitz has not yet received training?”

  Ryleigh surrendered the bread knife. “Sorry, sir. Ezra told me he could handle it. It won’t happen again.”

  He pointed a finger at her, but the silly mustache ruined any intent of intimidation. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  Once Ivan disappeared from the doorway, Kayla rubbed her pointer finger and thumb together, pretending to stroke the curl of her imaginary moustache. Ryleigh’s hand shot to her mouth, resulting in static laughter.

  Giving her best impersonation of a French accent, Kayla said, “I expect to hear of your romantic endeavors come Monday.”

  The White Stripes blared from Peter’s phone as he kneeled on the floor of his new bedroom, grappling with the instructions for a shelf which he had purchased solely because the reviews claimed it was easy to assemble.

  What a load of shit.

  The hopeless project made him think twice about his abhorrence of liquor. He would certainly need some, or the help of everyone on payroll at HGTV, to survive the task.

  Irritating as it may have been, the shelf was for Ryleigh, not himself, and that was enough to guarantee he would see it through to its end.

  His chest ached for lying to her about his early arrival, but it was better this way. Peter had been free to conduct all of his settling in errands sans her distraction. Not that he did not want to see Ryleigh; she lived at the forefront of his mind, where she proudly reigned as the supreme victor over all of his other thoughts.

  Staying away from her since arriving in Ann Arbor had proved damn near impossible. He was overwhelmed with the urge to turn up on campus or at the charming little cafe where she worked. Peter cursed himself for maintaining that he was in Connecticut. While he hated the recent peddling of dishonesty, Ryleigh’s shock upon surprising her Friday would undoubtedly absolve any guilt he presently felt.

  As he tried to decipher the directions for step three, his phone’s FaceTime ringtone overpowered Jack White’s angsty vocals. A wave of panic flushed through him, not knowing how he would explain away the obvious background change if Ryleigh was the one calling. But a quick glance at the display revealed it was his mother.

  Heart rate calming, Peter accepted the call and angled the phone atop the now empty box the shelf had come in.

  “Hey, mom,” he greeted, eyes flickering from her to the infuriating instructions. His stomach knotted as he spied the stacks of thrifted books beneath the windowsill; he wondered whether he could pull the intended surprise off in time.

  A somber smile tried, and failed, to lighten Janet’s face. “What are you doing, sweetheart?”

  The inquiry imbued a heaviness in his limbs. What he was tinkering with should have been the least of her concerns. She had been tasked with playing housemaid to a husband recovering from a stroke, after all.

  “Mom,” he sighed, “don’t do that thing where you worm your way into every detail of my personal life to avoid burdening me with your emotions.” Setting aside the packet of directions, he continued, “I promise, whatever I was doing before you called doesn’t outrank being here for you.”

  She manufactured an unenthusiastic nod. Hand pressed to her throat, she shot him a pained look that pierced his heart. “But you’re not here.”

  “I know,” Peter said softly, “and I am so sorry.” He grabbed the phone and moved to sit against the foot of the bed, body sinking to the carpet in time with his pride. “Really, I feel awful that I can’t fly out. If it weren’t for the timing with the new job—”

  “It’s not your fault, honey. I have no doubt in my mind you’d be here, if you were able.”

  Her subdued sniffles filled what would have been an uncomfortable silence as Peter calculated his next talking point.

  Eyebrows pulling together, he ventured a tentative, “How is he?”

  The phrase sounded insensitive even to Peter’s own ears; not ‘father,’ not ‘dad,’ but ‘he,’ as if he were some thing hardly worth acknowledging. It was not leaps and bounds away from how he viewed the man who had done a half-assed job of raising him.

  Learning about his father’s stroke had not led him down a path paved with lachrymosity, but Peter’s lack of reaction toward the life-threatening event had troubled him. Was it that his hatred of his father ran so deep, it rendered Peter incapable of sparing him any sympathy?

  “He’s doing a little better. Still kind of foggy, but the doctor says that should pass. I’m taking him to his first physical therapy appointment tomorrow.” A genuine smile hoisted the corners of her mouth, much better than the forlorn one she had exhibited earlier. “You should’ve heard the fit he threw when I told him he had to go to P.T. Classic Gideon.”

  If there was one thing Peter and his father had in common, it was that they were both incredibly stubborn.

  “Yeah, that sounds like him. I’d take that as a good sign, right? He’s still in there. Maybe he’s having a hard time resurfacing, but he’s in there, somewhere.”

  Fresh tears glistened in Janet’s eyes. “I hope you’re right.”

  Peter bit his tongue in order to steady himself at the sight of his mother crying. “Chin up, buttercup. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

  “When did you get so wise?”

  “One of the many byproducts of aging, I guess.”

  “Alright. Enough of this glum stuff.” Janet wiped at her eyes and then rested her chin in her open palm. “Have you seen her yet?”

  His teeth skimmed his bottom lip, concealing a grin. “Friday. That’s when she thinks I’m getting here. I’m going to surprise her after her last class gets out.”

  Had Peter not memorized Ryleigh’s course schedule by heart, the plan would have surely backfired. He could not, in good conscience, allow her to embark on a trip to Detroit when he had been here the whole time, waiting for the proper moment to arrive before they were at last reunited.

  “How romantic,” she swooned. “I still can’t believe you left Connecticut. I thought you were going to grow old and die an unwed hermit.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, mom.”

  As per usual, Janet was right.

  Peter found himself in a new city, preparing to start a new job, and arguably in his first committed relationship. In many respects, it felt like he had been handed a new life, as if the universe had spit him out and he had been reborn, as if all of the hurt and emotional turmoil of the last 15 years had been leading him to this moment.

  To their moment.

  Friday afternoon, Ryleigh’s focus continued to stray from the lectern, sizing up the clock hanging over the anthropology T.A.'s desk. Each passing minute felt like its own ice age.

  She rubbed the nape of her neck, scribbling a test date in her behemoth planner. The ridiculous number of hearts she had drawn on today’s calendar space stared back at her; the innocent illustrations signified the importance of the day and left her tingling from head to toe. Ryleigh traced the sketches with her capped pen.

  In a few hours, she would be in Detroit. In a few hours, she and Peter would be reunited.

  Those facts hit her like drumsticks, banging away on her heart with no mercy. The strength of the reverberation in her chest should have incited a fit of trembling.

  Anticipation and harried excitement swirled in Ryleigh’s gut as she lost herself in the squares of January’s grid, too overwhelmed by the truth of what would come once she left campus to notice that class had ended.

  “This is the part where we leave,” came a familiar, silken voice, making Ryleigh jump in her seat.

  Her muscles remained stiff as her beats per minute stabilized. Students filtered out of the room, some acknowledging the professor as they went. Once her shock subsided, she turned to address the person who had disrupted her daydreaming spell, disgusted beyond measure to uncover that it was D
aniel Reyes—a fellow freshman and genuine thorn in Ryleigh’s side since the commencement of fall semester, when they had been tragically placed in the same statistics class.

  She stowed her books and planner in her rucksack-style bag before fastening its latches, staving off addressing Daniel until it was on her shoulders. “Shouldn’t you be lurking in a computer lab somewhere?”

  Ryleigh moved past him with a passive-aggressive biceps brush, not finding a reason to hang around and wait for his answer. Her eyes touched base with the dark side of her skull when she heard him trailing behind her as she headed for the exit.

  Daniel appeared at her side and ran a hand over his gel-saturated cedar hair. “Oh, come on. You don’t know my schedule by now? This cuts deep, Ry.”

  They descended the wraparound staircase, which in that desperate moment seemed to mirror the infuriating mysticism of a funhouse contraption, as if three more steps appeared in place of each one they conquered.

  She bit the inside of her cheek with such force that it should have drawn blood. “Please, don’t call me that.”

  “Aw, my bad. Is that what your boyfriend calls you?” He held his goatee-shrouded chin high as they galloped down the staircase, eventually reaching ground level at which point Ryleigh had to restrain herself from kissing the sweet ground that would soon free her of the irritant at her side.

  Though Daniel knew she had a boyfriend, he was privy to zero details beyond that. Ryleigh had hoped in revealing this piece of information that he would cease his incessant pursual of her. Much to her chagrin, it had the opposite effect.

  “Yes, that’s right. That’s what my boyfriend calls me, and my best friend. Last I checked, you’re neither of those.” Ryleigh yanked open one side of the double doors leading outside, wishing she could slam it in Daniel’s smug face.

  “You’re pretty feisty for a white girl.”

  Pausing on the last step coming out of West Hall, her body tensed, shoulders rising and falling with the passage of a shallow exhalation. “Listen, Reyes. My name is not ‘Ry’ and it’s definitely not ‘white girl.’ It’s Ryleigh. Do you need me to spell it for you? Would you like a demonstration of its pronunciation? Ryleigh. Nothing else. Capisce?”