Afternoon rain came shyly and gracelessly, a slow procession of drops pit-patting against the sun-warmed concrete and tip-tapping against the hoods of parked cars. Riley didn’t notice the drops until the first struck him on the forehead, so engrossed was he in staring at the ornate Victorian house across the way. He was jolted back to his senses by the drop, and raised a hand to rub the water that threatened to run into his eyes. He glared up at the sky, perfectly groomed eyebrows knit.
“You would,” he said. The sky didn’t respond, unsurprisingly. In fact, Riley shouldn’t have been surprised by the rain; spring in Milwaukee was not a dry season, and the clouds had been threatening all day. As if to reinforce the fact, a thunder clap sounded in the distance. A chill wind brought forth another spray of rain, which buffeted against Riley’s frame full-on, causing him to draw his sweater closed over his chest and start across the street. He set his face in obstinate, dark-eyed decision: there was business to do at this house-- business that was long-overdue, and that had been weighing on his mind for weeks. He was terrified. Each step was bogged down by the fear and uncertainty that plague both the gut and the heart of a man who must beg lost love to take him back. He knew this was a difficult, delicate mission.
Rain fell harder and faster, causing Riley to adjust his pace, curse and run for the shelter of the covered porch. His footsteps were agile against the familiar steps-- the top of which he paused on, fondly remembering how he and Vincent played cards there most nights last summer, drinks in hand, laughter filling the air. Things were different now. He swallowed that memory and moved to the door, where he stared the brass lion-face knocker in the eyes.
“You can do this,” he said to himself. Then, with a shaking hand, he did. Riley banged brass against brass, sending a tinny echo across the empty, rainy streets.
“You can do this,” he mouthed again in a whisper. “Just wait for him to answer, and you can fix things.” There was just enough time in the pause that followed for him to draw his wet bangs to the side, sweeping them out of his eyes, and to begin to doubt again.
This was a bad idea, he thought, glancing down at his woeful bedraggledness. His hoodie was soaked through, and the tee he wore under it coming damp, too. His hair was flat and wet, and, he thought to himself, probably looked terrible. Riley wasn’t smart; he only had his looks, and at that moment, they weren’t top notch.
He panicked; considered bolting. He could just leave the bag-- ditch it, tell the boss he got shook down by some thieves he couldn’t identify. Getting beat up wouldn’t have been implausible. He was just putting together some generic descriptions for the robbers when the pounding of footsteps against hard wood caught his attention, stopping him short. The door swung open and Riley jumped, nearly losing the bag from his shoulder.
“Hey, finally. We called in that order more than an hour ago.” The man who answered the door was tall and thin, with dark, curly hair and horn rimmed glasses. He was attractive in a young Ghostbusters meets Abercrombie model kind of way-- which Riley thought was both weird and irritating-- but this was not Vincent. He stared for a few solid seconds.
Who is this jerk? Riley’s eye twitched at the sheer effort necessary in withholding that thought, and he struggled in silence, working to replace the phrase with something suitable.
“Hey, sorry,” he managed. “Is Vincent here?”
The guy laughed a little, breathily. “Uh, aren’t you just delivering a pizza?” he said.
“Well yeah, I have it here,” he said, pointing to the bag. “But I need Vincent. I mean, I need to give it to Vincent.” All the blood rushed to Riley’s face as he realized how weird and creepy he was sounding. He followed up quickly with, “His, uh, name was attached to the credit card.” The guy rose an eyebrow.
