I am dying, but this is FUN! Riley fought for breath and grabbed Ben’s hand. My legs hurt and my lungs hate me, but I haven’t laughed this hard in so long!
The song was building to its sweaty finish when DJ Bob abruptly plunged into Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time”. Most people groaned and stomped off the dance floor while a few drunkenly fumbled and paired up. The couple at Ben’s shoulder began devouring each other’s faces, their roaming hands getting as much of a workout as their mouths.
A twinge of heat flooded Riley’s chest. Normally, she wouldn’t react at all, but normally Ben wouldn’t be stroking her hand with his thumb. He hasn’t let go. Adorable Ben with the unruly hair and stupid Christmas socks and stubble where no guy should have stubble. The warmth of his finger caressing her skin quickened her breath. Riley, you’re just lonely. Let go. Releasing her grip, she gave him an exhausted smile. “Get that drink now?”
“Yeah, I’m parched.” He smiled back.
They inched their way over to the bar, which was a no bigger than a kitchen counter, and joined the thirsty swarm. Their talk skirted what had just happened, tackling the weather, Piper’s puppets, and favorite alcoholic beverages (a sidecar for Riley, Stella for Ben). After what felt like the longest five minutes of waiting in her life, Riley ordered a soda for herself and treated Ben to a bottle of his fave brew, the grin returning to his face when she pressed it into his hand.
“It’s been too long.”
“Since your last Stella?” She took a quick sip of her soda, walking a few steps over to a claim a sliver of ledge on the wall for their drinks.
“No, dancing like that.” Ben wiped his face with his forearm, removing beads of sweat but not his beaming smile. “Surrendering to the music, forgetting my problems.”
I actually forgot too…about cancer, about Josh. Riley stared into her drink.
“You having fun, Riles?”
“I am.” Her chin lifted along with her voice.
“Really? You don’t have to pretend—”
“No, I am—really! I can’t remember the last time I danced…or went out on a Monday. It’s nice to escape for a bit.”
He took a large swig of beer. “I think we should make this the rule and not the exception.”
“Clubbing on Mondays?”
The smile refused to abandon his face. “No, doing things we’ve never done—or rarely do. We could even make it a competition. You up for it?”
Riley hated being pushed out of her comfort zone. “Depends on what those things are.”
“Nothing illegal—mind you, I wasn’t the one who snuck in here without paying cover, so that’s on you, Hope.”
Nothing illegal, says the charming kleptomaniac.
He set down his beer and took off his hoodie. His t-shirt—a damp Duran Duran concert tee—tucked into the front of his jeans, drew a grin to Riley’s lips.
“Is that one of those retro tees from Urban Outfitters?”
“Blimey O’Riley! What do you take me for? A bandwagon-jumping millennial? This shirt was born in 1984!”
“Wow, it’s in pretty good shape for a relic.” She laughed. “I like the colors. So, what’s with you and the eighties, then? The Pac-Man tattoo, this place—you were wearing a Police tee the other night. You weren’t even born in the eighties.”
“The shirts were my uncle’s. Mum kept them in an old trunk.” He folded his hoodie, piling it behind him on the ledge. “Mum grew up in the eighties, so—”
A drunk dude bowled into Riley, slopping her soda. “Ow, shit!”
Ben swung back around. “Riles?”
“Hey, gorgessssssssss!” the wasted guy slurred, a wobbly hand headed towards her cheek.
Riley smacked it away. “Don’t fucking touch me!” The sudden fury in her eyes deflated the drunk’s bravado.
“For fuck’s sake, mate! Bugger off!” Ben pushed him away and moved closer to Riley, his eyes concerned. “Did he get you?”
“I’m okay…just sticky.” She shook her soaked hand, which was dripping with soda, but her clothes had escaped unscathed. Leaving her empty glass on the ledge, her eyes pored over Ben. He was untouched, too.
He picked up his hoodie. “Use this to dry off.”
“No—”
“It’s old and ratty. Go on, it’s fine.” He placed his hoodie in her hands and shot an annoyed look at the drunk bouncing off people like a loose pinball. “I’m glad he didn’t stain your top.”
“Or yours. That’s a family heirloom.” Riley reluctantly did a quick cleanup and handed back his jacket. “What were you saying about your mom?”
“Oh, yeah, this music.” Ben stuffed his hoodie on the ledge and picked up his beer. “Mum played it all the bleedin’ time growing up. My strange obsession with a-ha is her fault—I even had their first album on vinyl—but in all honesty, I think old music sounds better than the crap that’s out today.” He tilted the beer to his lips then thought better of it, pulling the bottle away. “I know some people think eighties music’s cheesy, but it’s fun and heartfelt. Listen to the lyrics—there’s a lot of truth there.”
“My mom likes it. She calls it memory music.”
“Yeah, exactly. I think the music you’re into at our age kinda stays with you…” Ben swigged his beer and glanced back at the bar. “Want another?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Riley didn’t want Ben treating her on his celebratory night out, and she had already blown most of tomorrow’s grocery money on their drinks. “Some eighties songs are okay, but I don’t really feel a connection.”
“I bet I can find an eighties song that speaks to you.”
Riley laughed. “Good luck with that.”
“I love a challenge, Hope.” He surveyed the room. “You do too, I suspect.”
“You think?”
“Yeah! Making TV programs to help people feel good? Can’t be easy to create happily ever afters, but I bet you’ll be great at it.”
“Aw, thanks. It comes from an honest place—so many times, I wish I could escape.”
“Tell me about it!” A whistle pierced the bar’s speakers and Ben’s ears pricked up. He pointed at his shirt. “Ah, Duran Duran! ‘New Moon on Monday’—one of my mum’s faves.”
“Ha, one of my mom’s, too. Our moms would get along famously,” said Riley. “You must miss your parents, being so far from home.”
“I miss her a lot, but I talk to her all the time. The old man left when I was a year old.”
“Oh, you don’t see him?”
“Nope. He was a rat-arsed bastard back then and probably still is now, if he’s alive. I have no clue.” He raised his beer and paused above the rim. “And I don’t care.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He gulped a large mouthful. “Don’t be. I’m better off rid. He drank, did drugs, sponged off benefits. Never married Mum. She was the earner. She worked damn hard in a biscuit factory—with the hairnet, blue smock, the whole deal—early mornings, extra shifts, but could only afford a bedsit—a one-room rental—in a rough area of Edinburgh. We’d often get meals from a local food bank, but she did her best for me.” Ben picked at the label on his bottle. “He was supposed to look after me while she worked, but one day Mum came home and found me alone in my cot, wailing with a soiled nappy. I’d been left there all day. Apparently, he used the cash Mum saved for baby food on drugs. Anyway, the asshole never came back, so good riddance to bad rubbish.” Raising his beer to his lips, he downed the lot.
“You don’t call him Dad?”
“He doesn’t deserve to be called Dad.” The bruises around Ben’s eyes added a sinister feel to his words. “To me, he’s a sperm donor.” He stifled a hiccup. “Do you get on with yours? You only mention your mum.”
“He’s out of the picture.”
“Dead?”
“Might as well be.”
Ben raised his eyebrows.
“Sorry, that sounds crass.” Riley winced. “We were inseparable, once. I used to be a total
daddy’s girl, but not in a princess-y way. It was sports. Dad was all about sports and put me in hockey and taekwondo when I was three, but hockey was my thing. I loved the sounds: the ksssh-kssh-kssh of skates carving the ice, the crack of the puck striking your stick”—her smile stretched with each memory—“and my favorite, the puck ringing off the crossbar with a CLINK! There’s a freedom with hockey that you don’t get with other sports—flying over the ice, your lungs full of cold, crisp air—ahh, the best.” I miss it. A burn rose in her throat. Don’t… She blinked and looked away, pausing to swallow the bittersweet memories, then turned back to Ben. “He also taught me how to scale the rock walls at his gym when I was five.”
Ben’s eyes widened. “Five?”
“I know, right? I must be part monkey or something. Once I mastered that, we moved to the boulders in Central Park. Bouldering is such a rush.”
“Wow, who are you?” He chuckled. “I was probably eating dirt in the park at that age.”
“I swam, too.”
“Part mermaid, part monkey—a mer-monkey, that’s what you are!”
“You’re got more monkey in you than me! All long arms, skinny legs—”
“You know, that’s really weird ’cause sometimes I do fling my poop at people I don’t like.”
“Ben!” She grimaced, playfully punching his arm.
“Okay, I’m a monkey, but I’m cute with it, right?” He winked.
Riley felt her heart leap. So cute.
“So, you swam competitively?”
“No. Mom almost drowned when she was nine, so she made me take lessons.” She pressed her lips tight. “But sports was our thing—me and Dad, but then he got promoted and we barely saw him.”
“What was his job?”
“He worked at an ad agency, their TV broadcasting division. He often had late edits or sometimes he’d be out schmoozing clients. That’s how he met Mom, at a work party in ’93. She was the creative specialist in the ad department for Barnes and Noble.”
“So, you inherited your love of TV from your dad and books from your mom.”
“Yeah. I think Mom hoped I’d become a writer, but as long as I was doing something that made me happy, she cheered me on. Dad was determined that I’d end up with the USA women’s hockey team, but I made sure that wouldn’t happen.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story.” Riley fussed with her purse.
“I’ve got time.”
“Well…” Riley looked up. “Mom hurt her back when I was nine and had to take a leave of absence from work. Dad wasn’t around much to help—working on budgets, lots of late hours.”
Ben shook his head.
“Turns out he wasn’t just on top of budgets but also a coordinator named Clarissa. He left us a few months later, divorced Mom, and married Clarissa when I was eleven.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. I was devastated. He tore our family apart. I skipped their wedding and rebelled by dumping his last name a week after he remarried. I’ve gone by Mom’s ever since.”
“Hope is your mom’s maiden name?”
She nodded. “I also quit taekwondo and hockey because they reminded me of him.”
“But didn’t you miss it—hockey?”
“Sometimes. I’d still skate with Josh, practice shots in his backyard, and have pick-up games with friends, but I wasn’t part of a league anymore. I didn’t want to make Dad’s dream for me come true after what he did.”
“Makes sense. You’ve known Josh forever then, eh?”
“Since I was eight. We met playing hockey at the community center, went to the same schools, but didn’t date until the summer after freshman year of college. I bumped into him, he asked me out, and the rest is history…” I gotta move this away from Josh. No engagement talk—I can’t stomach it. “So, yeah…Daddy dearest let us down.”
“Does he still live in New York?”
She shrugged. “I cut ties after he married Clarissa and told Mom I wanted nothing to do with him. I probably have half-siblings, but I wouldn’t know them if they were sitting beside me on the subway. Broken families—fun, huh?”
They both stood in silence for a moment, Nik Kershaw’s “Wouldn’t It Be Good” blasting through the speakers.
Riley laughed. “Now that DJ Bob and I have bummed you out…”
“No, it feels good sharing this stuff with someone who understands.”
“It does…yeah.” Riley smiled.
DJ Bob chopped off Mr. Kershaw, leaping into Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy”.
“I LOVE this one!” Ben shouted, his eyes wild. “You in? Real life can wait four minutes, yeah?”
“It can wait all night, Monkey!” Riley laughed and raced him to the center of the dance floor.
Twenty-Four
Lit up by the jaundiced yellow glow of the Funky Town awning, Riley fished her keychain from her purse. “I’m gonna feel it tomorrow. My only exercise is swimming, and I haven’t been in weeks.”
“See?” Ben crammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, his fingers reuniting with a few candy hearts. “Not only am I expanding your social horizons but your physical fitness ones, too! And coming from me, Tragic Mike, that’s saying something.”
“It is.” She laughed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t buy you another beer.”
“Riles, I wanted your company and a natter more than booze.”
The smile lifting his whisper made her blush. Adorable. Charming English guys like you don’t stay single long. She pointed her key at the door, her puffin keychain poking out from her palm. “Well, it’s almost 2 A.M. I should get…”
Ben’s eyes left hers, dropping to his sneakers scuffing the sidewalk. “Yeah, I have songs to learn tomor—today, actually. Can’t show up and forget the words.” He looked up, running a hand through his hair. It was even wilder than usual from his uninhibited dance floor acrobatics. The memory made Riley giggle, and Ben chuckled like he was in on the joke, too. “I had a good time. Thanks for hanging out.”
Riley nodded. “Thanks for getting me out!”
“Anytime.” His eyes traced her mouth, all hilarity vanishing from his warm gaze.
Riley felt every second of his stare, her mouth going dry. I can’t help but wonder what he’d be like, how he’d taste… She glanced down the street. “You okay getting back to Hunter’s?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” He pulled the strings dangling from his hood.
“Good.” Riley weaved on the spot. Should we…hug? I always hug my friends goodbye, but…he didn’t hug Piper. This is awkward!
Ben rubbed his nose, dampening a nervous chuckle. “Well, ’night.” He rolled back on his heels, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “I’ll text you, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Riley gave a kind smile, her final goodbye. “Get home safe.”
Ben backed up, lifting his hand in an overly enthusiastic wave. “You too!”
Riley turned, hiding her giggle as she unlocked the door.
Staring skyward, Ben picked up speed along St. Mark’s Place, his face and neck burning up from the inferno of embarrassment sizzling under his skin.
Fagan! You absolute muppet!! “You too!” What kind of goodbye was THAT? What’s she gonna think? And I should’ve hugged her. I have no problem shagging a girl within an hour of meeting her but didn’t move in to hug Riley good night? It’s just a hug, idiot! Why does that scare you so much?
Stepping off the curb at Third Avenue, a taxi’s horn screamed and Ben leapt back to the safety of the sidewalk, the red ‘Don’t Walk’ hand scolding him to play it safe.
Twenty-Five
A bellyaching laugh rose from Maggie’s couch. “Oh, Sue, you’re killing me!”
Setting a bag of frozen blueberries on the counter, Riley broke out into a smile. It’s good she’s enjoying something. Maggie hadn’t had a lot to laugh about recently, but this call from a former work colleague was brightening her Tuesday afternoon considerably. As much as mother
and daughter liked to swear by ‘third time lucky’, this cancer fight was taking its toll on Maggie’s body as well as her spirit, so any little distraction—a new release on Netflix, a bag of donut holes, or a phone call from an old friend now living in Kentucky—was celebrated and very welcome.
Maggie’s favorite distraction sat beside the blender on the kitchen counter, her birthday gift from Riley—a ‘book of the month’ subscription box, which she worked double shifts to pay for. Just two months into the program, bookworm Maggie was already addicted to the mid-month deliveries, giddy for the next book to be devoured. She couldn’t have asked for a more thoughtful gift from her daughter, but for Riley, the present was something more. The yearlong purchase was an act of faith that said, You’re going to be here a year from now, Mom.
Riley pored over the recipe on her phone one more time. Blueberries, lime juice, balsamic vinegar… Since Maggie’s chemo regime had changed, her taste and smell were off, making eating unpleasant, sometimes impossible, and yet, she’d developed weird cravings for limes and raw snap peas. She couldn’t afford to lose any more weight, so Riley was following the advice of the cancer clinic’s nutritionist, making healthy but easy-to-tolerate smoothies and snacks, like blueberry yogurt parfaits. The ingredients had cost more than her mom had given her, but Riley covered the shortfall without saying a word. Skipping lunch was a small price to pay if her mom felt a little better.
A text invaded her screen. Josh again, fifth text within twenty minutes—another video. Slick with sweat and grunting, he was doing CrossFit handstand pushups against the wall of his college’s gym. His soaked tank top had slipped down exposing his rock-hard six-pack. Someone was whooping and clapping in the background.
Riley couldn’t deny it: Josh, in his flimsy exercise shorts that flaunted every bulge and outline, looked mouthwateringly hot. If she had received these messages last year, she would be texting back, craving a FaceTime rendezvous as soon as she was somewhere private. But, today, his horny onslaught wasn’t turning her on; it was testing her patience. She had already texted back three times, telling him she couldn’t hook up over FaceTime, not with Maggie in the next room and a mandatory four o’clock lecture just hours away. If he kept this up, she’d have to mute her phone.
Until The Last Star Fades Page 15