Page 42 of Until the Last Star Fades

“Riley, I’ve come this far, and I’m not giving up. For one thing, there’s a wedding next year.” Maggie squeezed Riley’s hand. “I’m not kidding myself. I know it’s going to be hard, but life’s boring without a challenge, right?”

She says that like she’s about to learn Chinese or take up triathlons. Riley nodded. I can’t show how scared I am. I can’t pull her down. I have to work harder to pretend everything is fine.

“The new chemo cycle starts in four days, so until then, I’m doing whatever I want, which means eating ice cream, lazing in PJs, and binge-watching The Crown and Lairds and Liars. I could listen to their accents all day. I’d love to visit Britain and see everything for real.”

“England and Scotland?” Be positive, Riley! “We’ll go next year when you’re feeling better! See where they film Lairds, visit the Queen, have fish ’n’ chips with deep fried Mars bars…go see puffins!” Riley fell easily into an old game Maggie had introduced when she was little and feeling down, discussing the perfect—albeit imaginary—getaway: the places they’d go, what they would see, what they would eat. Anemic finances meant none of these trips had ever happened. Riley always hoped the day would come when the two of them boarded a flight to Europe, credit cards be damned—and today she felt it more than ever before. “We could channel Harry Potter and visit Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross station, see the crown jewels, and pose with Big Ben.” Ben… Her smile stretched a little farther.

“So many castles, so little time.” Maggie laughed. “Will Josh come too?”

“No!” The smile slipped from Riley’s face. “Girls only, right?”

Maggie got up from the couch.

“Where are you going?”

“I read that goals are more likely to be met if you visualize them every day.” Maggie tore the ‘Saturday, April 7’ paper square from her small page-a-day calendar beside the telephone. She flipped the paper over, writing ‘Hope for Britain 2019’ in her elegant penmanship. Maggie’s handwriting belonged in another era, all sophisticated swirls and delicate curves, drawing compliments from everyone who saw it. She pinned the paper underneath a purple and white NYU magnet she proudly kept on her fridge. “Done!” Her fingers lingered, tracing photos of Riley atop a large boulder in Central Park and on the Santa Monica pier in California. “You should be heading to the airport soon, honey,” she said quietly. “Josh’s big game—”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Riley scratched her unwashed hair. “I’ll text him after. He’ll understand.”

Maggie smiled softly at the photos and looked over her shoulder. “Should we text Piper? Get her back here for cookies and ice cream?”

“Definitely.” Riley pulled her phone from her parka.

“Great! I’ll get the bowls ready.” Maggie disappeared behind the kitchen wall, taking Riley’s grin with her.

Eighteen

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and…Wednesday—and nothing from Riley. Ben had sent two texts—How R U? and How was the game?—over the past four days but both messages had gone unanswered, and she still hadn’t accepted his Facebook friend request. Popping a chunk of a black-and-white cookie—a New York City staple—into his mouth, he stopped in the shade of an abandoned doorway on MacDougal Street, shoved up the long sleeves of his blue t-shirt, and slowly typed out another text.

Got 2 job leads 2day. Wish me luck.

Wiping perspiration from his forehead, he continued on his way, greeting the unseasonably hot April day with an optimistic grin. She’ll be chuffed for me. He dawdled through Greenwich Village, glancing down at his phone every few blocks, but his latest message ended up like the others: ignored and relegated to text purgatory. His smile slowly evaporated as a nagging hollowness wrenched his gut. She owes you nothing, Ben. Why would she answer you right away—if at all? You’re setting yourself up for disappointment like every other time—you know that, right? FUCK! He took a deep breath. But…Riley’s different…

Careening around strolling tourists, Ben wanted answers, refusing to believe he and Riley hadn’t forged a friendly connection, refusing to believe she was ghosting him, that he wasn’t someone she cared about even a tiny bit. Maybe something happened? Maybe her Josh bloke got injured? Head down, forcing pedestrians to swerve around him, he typed slowly, but his spelling mistakes riddled the Google search bar. He jabbed the delete key, his frustration growing with each erased letter. Several tries later, ‘ice hokcey championship’, ‘winner’, and ‘Josh’ filled the bar. He hit go and slammed face-first into a rock-hard shoulder.

Shit! Ben spun 180 degrees on impact and his phone flew from his hand, clattering on the pavement. He winced, clutching his nose. “Fuuuuuccck!”

His victim, who could have passed for an Olympic weight lifter, didn’t budge an inch, and neither did the steel dolly he was pushing, stacked high with heavy boxes of beer destined for the pizzeria behind them. Ear-splitting rap leaked from his massive headphones. The mountain of a man glared at Ben, clearly annoyed.

SHIT! This stonking bloke could snap me in half. “Sorry, mate. My fault…wasn’t looking where I was…” Eyes watering, Ben’s hand dropped from his nose. A streak of bright red blood coated his fingers, derailing his apology and leaving him speechless, shuffling backward in a daze.

“Hey!” The delivery guy let go of the dolly and lunged, grabbing a fistful of Ben’s t-shirt, yanking him too close for comfort.

Ben flinched, lifting his hands to protect his face. “I’m sorry, okay?!” Fucking hell, he’s gonna hit me! He held his breath and squinted, dipping his shoulder and twisting away so his throbbing nose was almost out of reach. He did a double take over his shoulder, his jaw falling slack. Only a few inches behind him, two metal hatch doors reached skyward, exposing a square hole in the sidewalk and a bone-breaking drop. Steep cement stairs led downward to the restaurant’s storage cellar, cluttered with sealed boxes and bins of shattered glass bottles. Oh…my God!

“Jeezus guy, watch where ya walkin’!” The man’s Bronx accent fought with Drake, still spilling from his headphones. He swept Ben to a safe corner of sidewalk and released his shirt, which was now stretched at the neck and speckled with red droplets.

Ben let a breath go and a searing jolt of pain exploded through his nose. Jesus! His watery eyes surveyed the drop zone. “Hey, thanks, mate. You saved me—”

“Tourists!” With a hairy wrist, the hulk mopped sweat from his unibrow and shook his head, seeking agreement from the cluster of people stopping to gawk. “This time, a broken beak. Next time, a broken neck—or worse, ya hands.” He snorted, playing to his audience. “How the hell would ya walk and text then, huh?” Onlookers, including several tall, willowy women laughed, earning a crooked smile from Ben’s sweaty guardian angel.

Everyone’s a comedian. Cheeks burning red, Ben dabbed his bleeding nose with the back of his hand. “Cheers, mate.” As if I didn’t already feel like a total pillock.

“No sweat.” Show over, the guy leaned on the dolly’s handles and wheeled its cargo closer to the opening in the sidewalk.

Two attractive twenty-something women carrying modeling portfolios stepped forward, one handing Ben his phone and several tissues. “Aw! Poor you, are you okay?”

Would you two fancy nursing me back to health? A slight smile fought through his pain. “Hi.”