Page 21 of Until the Last Star Fades

“Ah, that’s a big if, sweetheart. Don’t worry, everything will work out fine, you’ll see.”

I hope so. I’d do anything for you, Mom. Anything.

Dominique returned carrying several bags of clear fluids. “Okay, Maggie, got your usual. Anti-nausea and anxiety meds first, then the chemo drugs.” She hung the bags on the IV stand.

“I’ll get more popsicles.” Riley inhaled deeply and headed to the kitchenette.

• • •

“Whoops!” Riley’s boots kicked something across the tiled entranceway of Maggie’s Staten Island apartment. She peered over the groceries in her arms and leaned her shoulder into the door, keeping it open for her mom. Several pieces of mail, now scarred with dirty tread marks from Riley’s winter footwear, fanned out on the floor. FINAL NOTICE in red block letters screeched across one business-size envelope; another sneered OVERDUE. A few more envelopes made up the scattered mess, but they were face down and Riley couldn’t tell who they were from without stooping down. “Mom, I worked a double shift yesterday. I can—”

“No, you have rent to pay. I’m just a little late in my payments, no need to worry.” Maggie stepped out of her boots, hung up her coat, and walked into her pokey kitchen.

Riley followed, leaving the single bag of groceries on the counter.

“I know you’re living on cereal and apples.” Reaching into the bag, a quick laugh left Maggie’s lips. “I’ll whip together a green salad, chicken fingers, those smiley face potato things you love, and you can tell me more about North Dakota. Those winds are picking up outside—I don’t want you catching the ferry too late.”

Riley returned to the entranceway and kneeled down, picking up an envelope—an insurance letter, probably demanding a deductible before they’d cover the cost of treatment. She picked up another—a heating bill. Even with her coat on, the chill of Maggie’s apartment made Riley shiver. “But Mom—”

“No! Riley…please. I want to celebrate your good news with a home-cooked meal before the nausea kicks in. Just let me be your mom tonight, okay?”

“Okay.” Riley stood up, ready to help any way she could.

Eleven

A week and a half later

Late for class due to Casey’s insanely complex Starbucks order, Riley tilted hood-first into a bone-chilling gale, careful not to wipe out on icy Astor Place. “I don’t think you should worry, Case. People will show! Tribeca is always sold out and your documentary’s fantastic. I cried twice!”

“Yeah, but you’ve volunteered at a dog shelter for years—you get it.” The snowy gust roared with evil intent, swooping down between the buildings, sending discarded coffee cups airborne and forcing Casey’s gloved hand on a rescue mission, saving his flat cap—a gift Piper brought back from London the previous year—before it blew away. “But some festival goers might be all, ‘No-kill animal shelters are SO five years ago.’ Documentary lovers can be jaded. I should know—I am one!”

“But Tribeca wouldn’t have accepted it if it wasn’t good or important.” Riley sniffed behind her scarf. “It gave me goose bumps. You can tell you put your heart into it.”

“And many tears and sleepless nights.” Casey sighed. “If it raises awareness and saves even one dog, I’ll be happy.”

“I bet it’ll save tons of dogs.”

Casey smiled and leaned into the wind, employing a death grip on his venti quad, no whip, coconut milk, extra hot mocha with caramel drizzle, extra vanilla syrup, and dark chocolate curls. He regularly skipped meals to feed his caffeine addiction. “Hope so. God, it’s going to be a long month.”

Don’t let him dwell. Cheer him up. Riley’s eyes settled on his wool coat. “Case, you’re looking very Harry Styl-ish today. That coat looks like the one he wears in the “Sign of the Times” video.” Her warm breath was snatched away by another blustery attack.

“You think? It’s secondhand, but that’s what I was going for. Cheers, mate!” Casey religiously followed Harry Styles online, copied his sartorial choices (the best he could with his student budget), and wore his brown hair exactly like him. Currently, it was short back and sides, and long and swept back at the front. “His clothes are pukka.”

“Case! I’d roll my eyes, but I think they’re frozen. You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Using British slang. It’s insulting to real British people.” Like Ben, I’d bet…wherever he is.

“Who? Piper?” The wind whipped up again, and Casey braced himself against Riley. They barged across the Astor Place-Broadway intersection, the traffic signal already flashing its red ‘stop’ hand. “She finds it endearing.”

“So endearing, she calls you Brit Twit—to your face. How would you like it if Piper pretended she was Mexican?”

“Wouldn’t bother me at all. Live and let live. I may have been born in the Bronx, but my soul belongs to Britain—and anyway, Mom thinks her granddad’s ancestors came from England, so I have some claim.”

Riley’s phone began to sing. She yanked off a mitten, a smile rising from her bundled scarf. “Hey, Mom! Were you in the shower when I called?” The snarling wind bit into her bare skin, sending searing throbs through her hand and twisting her grin into a clenched wince. “Whatever you do, don’t go out. My face feels like it’s about to shatter and fall off.”

“I just got in.” Contentment hugged Maggie’s voice.