Page 4 of Until the Last Star Fades

“You’re fun to tease!” He laughed. “Why’d you stop playing?”

“Why’d you get drunk and board an airplane?”

“Ahhh! I was celebrating.”

“What were you celebrating?”

He smirked and narrowed his eyes, not answering her question. “A hockey-playing WAG. I would’ve guessed sociology student…maybe languages? Never a WAG.”

“So…you’re saying I’m not hot enough to be a WAG—”

“Hey, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m sure you are…underneath that scarf and…” He scratched the dark stubble on his chin. “Jumper.”

“Jumper?”

His bandaged hand waved in her general direction. “Your sweater.”

“The English have strange names for things.”

“I’m Scottish, actually.”

Riley shook her head. “My best friend’s dad is Scottish—you sound nothing like him.”

“I was born there”—he shifted in his seat—“but grew up in England.” He tapped his finger against his generous lips. “Nah, thinking about it—you’re too classy to be a WAG.”

“Obsessed much? Are you a wannabe soccer—oh, sorry, football player?” Riley’s thumb flipped the corner of her book. “Do you play?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Would it turn you on if I did?”

“Yeah, right!” She chuckled sarcastically.

“Back home, WAGs are all flash, no substance. You know: cosmetic surgery, high heels, designer frocks—totty with a taste for living large.”

“Nice.” Riley curled her lip. “Good to know stereotypes are alive and thriving over the pond. Heaven forbid women be celebrated for their brains instead of their breasts.”

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just saying how it is. I’m not saying it’s right…”

“Well, good.”

She opened her library book, drawing their exchange to an abrupt close. They sat quietly for several minutes, their silence invaded by more Fleetwood Mac, cars honking outside the fogged windows, and a restless baby sobbing a few seats ahead. Riley’s phone buzzed on her lap with a text from her mom.

All good here. Say hi to Piper. Love you. x

Looking up from her phone, she saw cute Brit guy’s attention had drifted to the snow globe world passing by outside, and his fingers were toying with something on his right wrist above the bloody bandage. Wide-eyed, he seemed a bit lost. “What happened to your hand?” Riley searched through her tote, unearthing her reusable water bottle. Two crumpled candy wrappers floated to the floor.

He leaned over and rescued them. “These must be good—”

“They’re peanut butter cups.” Her hand reached impatiently.

“Mmm!” Beyond her grasp, he examined the empty brown paper cups and orange wrappers. “Two packs and not a crumb left? Someone’s greedy—”

Riley snatched them from him, hiding the evidence in her bag. Greedy? You should talk, drunk boy! Her glare made him turn away, his smile vanishing. She sipped her water and got lost in her Instagram feed.

Neither spoke for a few minutes. The guy reached into his jacket, fumbling with the zipper on the hoodie underneath. Riley scrolled through photos, her annoyance melting away, replaced by embarrassment for being a grump. It wasn’t this guy’s fault she was stressed, drained, and feeling bluer than her Levi’s. She glanced across the aisle, catching his eye as he sat back in his seat. His muted grin grew as she asked, “So, where are you coming from?”

“I’m an actor. I flew in from LA—you know, pilot season?”

“LA?” Riley’s face lit up with genuine interest. California, its palm trees and sea breezes, swimming in the ocean whenever she desired—her dream life. “Did you like it?”