Page 56 of Until the Last Star Fades

“Hey, gorgessssssssss!” the wasted guy slurred, a wobbly hand headed towards her cheek.

Riley smacked it away. “Don’t fucking touch me!” The sudden fury in her eyes deflated the drunk’s bravado.

“For fuck’s sake, mate! Bugger off!” Ben pushed him away and moved closer to Riley, his eyes concerned. “Did he get you?”

“I’m okay…just sticky.” She shook her soaked hand, which was dripping with soda, but her clothes had escaped unscathed. Leaving her empty glass on the ledge, her eyes pored over Ben. He was untouched, too.

He picked up his hoodie. “Use this to dry off.”

“No—”

“It’s old and ratty. Go on, it’s fine.” He placed his hoodie in her hands and shot an annoyed look at the drunk bouncing off people like a loose pinball. “I’m glad he didn’t stain your top.”

“Or yours. That’s a family heirloom.” Riley reluctantly did a quick cleanup and handed back his jacket. “What were you saying about your mom?”

“Oh, yeah, this music.” Ben stuffed his hoodie on the ledge and picked up his beer. “Mum played it all the bleedin’ time growing up. My strange obsession with a-ha is her fault—I even had their first album on vinyl—but in all honesty, I think old music sounds better than the crap that’s out today.” He tilted the beer to his lips then thought better of it, pulling the bottle away. “I know some people think eighties music’s cheesy, but it’s fun and heartfelt. Listen to the lyrics—there’s a lot of truth there.”

“My mom likes it. She calls it memory music.”

“Yeah, exactly. I think the music you’re into at our age kinda stays with you…” Ben swigged his beer and glanced back at the bar. “Want another?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Riley didn’t want Ben treating her on his celebratory night out, and she had already blown most of tomorrow’s grocery money on their drinks. “Some eighties songs are okay, but I don’t really feel a connection.”

“I bet I can find an eighties song that speaks to you.”

Riley laughed. “Good luck with that.”

“I love a challenge, Hope.” He surveyed the room. “You do too, I suspect.”

“You think?”

“Yeah! Making TV programs to help people feel good? Can’t be easy to create happily ever afters, but I bet you’ll be great at it.”

“Aw, thanks. It comes from an honest place—so many times, I wish I could escape.”

“Tell me about it!” A whistle pierced the bar’s speakers and Ben’s ears pricked up. He pointed at his shirt. “Ah, Duran Duran! ‘New Moon on Monday’—one of my mum’s faves.”

“Ha, one of my mom’s, too. Our moms would get along famously,” said Riley. “You must miss your parents, being so far from home.”

“I miss her a lot, but I talk to her all the time. The old man left when I was a year old.”

“Oh, you don’t see him?”

“Nope. He was a rat-arsed bastard back then and probably still is now, if he’s alive. I have no clue.” He raised his beer and paused above the rim. “And I don’t care.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He gulped a large mouthful. “Don’t be. I’m better off rid. He drank, did drugs, sponged off benefits. Never married Mum. She was the earner. She worked damn hard in a biscuit factory—with the hairnet, blue smock, the whole deal—early mornings, extra shifts, but could only afford a bedsit—a one-room rental—in a rough area of Edinburgh. We’d often get meals from a local food bank, but she did her best for me.” Ben picked at the label on his bottle. “He was supposed to look after me while she worked, but one day Mum came home and found me alone in my cot, wailing with a soiled nappy. I’d been left there all day. Apparently, he used the cash Mum saved for baby food on drugs. Anyway, the asshole never came back, so good riddance to bad rubbish.” Raising his beer to his lips, he downed the lot.

“You don’t call him Dad?”

“He doesn’t deserve to be called Dad.” The bruises around Ben’s eyes added a sinister feel to his words. “To me, he’s a sperm donor.” He stifled a hiccup. “Do you get on with yours? You only mention your mum.”

“He’s out of the picture.”

“Dead?”

“Might as well be.”