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The Grim Reapers: A small percentage, but some ‘friends’ would tell stories about so-and-so who fought cancer, had chemotherapy, and then died. Seriously, how does that make me feel better?

The Ghosters: The worst of all. Friends Riley thought were reliable and empathetic who would hear the news and—poof!—vanish.

The most recent ghosting happened the previous November. A friend of Riley and Piper’s had just moved in with her boyfriend and invited them over for a game night. They were getting ready when the call came through—Maggie was in the ER, doubled over in horrific pain. The doctors were running tests with plans to admit her as soon as a bed became available. Piper stepped in, calling their friend to cancel, and sat with Riley until morning when the heartbreaking diagnosis was made—a recurrence of ovarian cancer, Stage 3C.

A day later, Riley called their loved-up gal pal to apologize personally for the sudden cancelation. The girl insisted it was “fine, really” and promised to have Riley and Piper over another time, but months passed and a do-over never happened. In fact, no texts, no emails—nothing, not even a check-in to see how Riley or her mom were doing. Maybe the girl didn’t know what to say, maybe Maggie’s illness slipped her mind, or maybe Riley’s situation brought up feelings about her own parents’ mortality? Perhaps she just wasn’t a kind person to begin with and Riley never saw it. Whatever it was, Riley had no clue. The girl’s hasty exit from her life came at the most vulnerable time, leaving her feeling disposable, a burden, unimportant. No wonder she chose to shut people out or fake it, only sharing happy aspects of her life.

As she mulled over what to type, her phone woke up again.

You stayed 2 celebrate?

Ben clearly didn’t know that she never made it to Minnesota or the championship game, let alone party with Josh post-win. And maybe it’s better that way…

She typed quickly. Yeah! And paused. The less time embellishing the lie, the better. Hey, how’d the interviews go? Bakery or Broadway? She hit send.

The beaming face with smiling eyes emoji popped up on her phone again with Broadway, baby!!!

“YES!” She bounced in her chair, forgetting where she was until two guys at the far end of the wooden table cleared their throats loudly. Her fingers raced to answer.

CONGRATS! Tell me everything.

Three dots danced up and down on her screen—Ben was composing something.

Meet now?

Now? She paused. Makes sense. Most Broadway musicals were dark on Mondays. She typed and hit send.

Ok. Need to drop off my stuff @home first. Meet me at mine in 30?

His answer was immediate—the thumbs-up emoji.

Twenty-Two

“Shit!” Ben’s shoulders met his ears. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He squeezed a small stone in his hand, trying to play it cool. The concerned stares of people strolling past on St. Mark’s Place scorched his skin, the yellowy-purple bruises under his eyes surely adding a menacing backstory to his questionable behavior. Don’t look at me! Look at that bloke over there, pissing in the shop’s doorway.

He had one try left. Hit her window. Make this one count. He lobbed the stone into the air, but it fell short just as Riley appeared, nose to glass. She pushed her window open and leaned over the screen-free sill with a sudden intake of breath.

The bruises…I should’ve warned her.

A soft smile lifted her cheeks. “Forgot how to text, Fagan?”

“Forgot to charge my phone, and your door’s buzzer doesn’t work.”

“Argh, sorry. I’ll be right down.”

Ben moved closer to her front door, watching late-night shoppers, bags bulging with collectibles, leaving the tiny comic book store across the street. Just shy of 10:30 P.M., the evening air had cooled considerably from the stickiness of the day, making a jacket—or in Ben’s case, his purple hoodie—a necessity. He inhaled a deep breath, excited to see Riley. Within moments, she appeared in dark jeans, a t-shirt, and flats, her denim jacket hugging her curves.

“Hi.” Closing the door behind her, the smile remained on Riley’s lips but slowly abandoned her eyes. “Aw, Ben, your poor face. Piper told me.”

“Yeah. Good thing purple’s my fave color, right?”

“It looks sore.”

“No, worst is over. Now I’m just ugly.”

“Hardly!” With a hint of giddiness in her voice, the word leapt from her lips and stole Ben’s breath.

Wait? Really? REALLY? Did she just…flirt with me?