Page 54 of Until the Last Star Fades

“Yeah, yep.” She smiled quickly. “So, let’s celebrate!” She stretched her neck, angling for a better view down Second Avenue. “Somewhere fun.”

Ben stopped in front of a café-cum-nighttime speakeasy. “Like this place? Shall we check it out?” A chalkboard stood sentry by the entrance with messily drawn daisies and TONIGHT: CIDER WITH ROSIE scrawled across its black enamel. He pulled open the door for Riley and followed her inside to a small bar with a cramped performance space. An earnest bohemian couple was mid-song and plucking tiny instruments, crooning something about a farm and its failed harvest.

“Jesus, lutes!” Ben’s exaggerated look of horror matched Riley’s scrunched-up face. They caught each other’s expression, burst into snorting laughter, and tripped over themselves to make a hasty retreat.

“What the fuck was that?” Ben swept his hair from his eyes. “Did we step through a wormhole to the 16th century?”

Still giggling at their hurried escape, Riley’s expression changed to concern. “Oh my God, I feel bad, though! Do you think they noticed us leaving?”

“No. They’re too busy worrying about the bloody harvest.”

They both creased up with laughter again.

She gets my sense of humor. God, she’s cute when she laughs…

Once Riley had caught her breath, she pointed across the street. “C’mon. How ’bout that Mexican place?”

Ben jigged on the spot, succumbing to the retro-pop still vibrating from the building next door. “Or there?”

“You wanna go clubbing? On a Monday? They’re playing my mom’s music…”

His eyes traced the nondescript black metal door and its small square window. The light inside spilled out onto the pavement in streaky spears. “When’s your first class tomorrow?”

“Not ’til four.”

Yes! Ben pumped the air with his fist. “PERFECT!” He leapt over to the handle, tugging it with gusto, but when it didn’t budge, his eyes shot to a torn note hanging from a single piece of tape inside the window. PRIVATE PARTY TONITE sneered back through glass dappled with a thousand fingerprints. Nooo! Ben’s mouth, his shoulders—his whole body drooped. “Bollocks.”

“Come on!” Riley grasped his hand and pulled him down the street.

Twenty-Three

Two shops down, Riley stopped abruptly outside an ajar door with POST NO BILLS stenciled in white paint, the scent of onions and burnt bacon creeping around its edge. I hope this still works. She turned to Ben and shouted over a surging song chorus. “Watch your step and duck your head!”

Pushing through the door like she owned the place, Riley led Ben into a dingy pocket-sized kitchen. A guy wearing a white uniform in need of a good bleaching fought with a bubbling deep fryer while another in a hair net flattened sizzling burgers into a charred grill. If they minded the invasion, they didn’t say, and Riley didn’t ask. She dashed through, dragging Ben around a cluttered steel counter, a yawning server texting on her phone, and towers of oversized pickle jars. They popped through a swinging door into a cramped corner, home to four chrome and vinyl booths that had seen better decades. The worn seats didn’t faze the college-age clientele though; they sat shoulder to shoulder downing cheap beers and tapping away on Apple’s latest must-haves.

Riley paused long enough for Ben to shout in her ear. “Snuck in before, Hope?”

“All through freshman year.” She eyed the lazy legs and feet snaking out from the booths, blocking their escape route. “Glad to see the tradition continues.”

Still holding hands, they stepped over the booth-bound obstacle course and through a fence of boisterous drinkers clogging the bar’s nook, hitting the dance floor as the DJ sloppily cut off “Bizarre Love Triangle”.

Dancers frowned and shouted obscenities. “Aw! What the fuck, man?” “Not great, Bob!”

“Bob?” Ben chucked, his eyes flitting around the claustrophobic dive. “That’s got to be the least showbiz DJ name ever.” The impatient tempo of synth drums burst from the speakers and Ben froze, his eyes collapsing into smiley crescents. “No wayyyy!” He leaned in toward Riley’s ear, his smile flirting with her hair. “That’s my ringtone! ‘Take On Me’…a-ha?! Bloody brilliant! C’mon!” He pulled her into the crowd and released her hand.

Jumping up and down, the impossible happened—the higher Ben bounced, the wider his grin stretched. He closed his eyes, shutting out everything but the urgent synth-pop, singing every word like his life depended on it.

Why is he so into this music? He wasn’t even born when it came out. Riley danced tentatively by his side, more interested in watching her friend let loose than breaking a sweat of her own, although the floor was jammed so tight, perspiration already dampened her clothing. She checked her phone quickly—no texts from Maggie, all clear—and tapped Ben on the arm. “Thirsty?”

Eyes half closed, he shook his head. “Soon.”

Once the song faded out, they zigzagged through the crush seeking celebratory drinks, but a rousing guitar calling all revelers snapped Ben back to the dance floor like he was tethered with an elastic band. “Oh, DJ Bob’s on a roll! It’s Billy-pissing-Idol!”

Riley laughed and rejoined the throng, mesmerized by Ben’s endless energy for pogoing and flailing, letting loose…

“Dancing with myself, oh, oh!!”

…and shouting the lyrics as loud as his lungs would permit. Ben dances like a little kid who’s had too much sugar. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks…