Page 9 of Until the Last Star Fades

“Another bad date last night?” Riley unlocked the door and held it open.

“Yup.” Picking up Riley’s case, Piper carried it inside. “He invited me back to watch a movie. It was—cringe—his own sex tape with two girls.”

“Eww!” Riley checked her mailbox. “So not sexy!”

“Seriously!” Piper set Riley’s suitcase by her feet and stuck a hand in her MoMA tote, pulling out an asthma inhaler. “I hit it off with guys on apps, we chat for freakin’ forever, but then if—IF—we go on a date, they turn out to be shower dodgers, impotent, or fans of dick pics.” She strangled the inhaler, shaking it violently.

“Maybe try a different app?”

“Maybe, but I’ll have to add a ‘no threesomes’ note to my profile. Why do guys think if you’re bi, you’re desperate for a three-way?” Piper stuck the mouthpiece between her lips and plunged the canister, releasing a puff of medication.

“Blame porn,” said Riley, her fingers sifting through a stack of mail and fast food flyers.

“I’ve never had this problem with women.” Stashing her inhaler in her tote, Piper swiped a flyer from Riley’s hands. “Oh, yum! Let’s go grab falafel before bar hopping!”

I can’t afford that. Riley swallowed heavily and stared at two business-size envelopes, a red PAST DUE screaming for attention. I’m drowning. The mail in her hands didn’t go unnoticed by Piper.

“You know what…” She dropped the flyer into the vestibule’s trash can and shifted her weight onto her right foot. “These shoes? Blister fucking central! Can we stay in?”

Piper was lying, but Riley loved her for it. “I can make us nachos?”

“And I have tequila.” Piper patted her tote. “Who needs green beer and drunk fuckboys?”

They climbed several flights of stairs to the third floor, the smell of weed and stale pizza embedded in the wallpaper. Once inside, Riley flipped the light switch and abandoned her Strand tote and pink case by the door. There was nowhere else they could go. Her home wasn’t a really an apartment. It was more like a claustrophobic dorm room—a ninety-square-foot sliver with a communal bathroom down the hall and no kitchen—but at a fraction of dorm room prices. At least the large, curtain-covered window facing the street gave the promise of breathing space beyond the four walls.

Riley hung her parka on the back of the door and removed her boots. She whipped off her sweater, the only way to avoid sweating to death at the hands of the room’s overzealous heater. Pulling down the creeping hem of her tank top, she turned on the faucet of the tiny sink wedged in the corner, the water pipes moaning as she washed the subway off her hands. “Toaster oven nachos coming up!” She tugged open her mini fridge, home to a carton of milk, a chunk of slightly moldy cheese, a jar of salsa, lemonade, and little else. That’ll do. Stretching up on tiptoes, she rooted through cereal boxes, glassware, and dishes hogging two wall-mounted shelves. Her sock-covered heels returned to the hardwood floor, which creaked its displeasure. “No tortilla chips, but”—she held a bag and a box—“I have plain potato chips and Corn Chex cereal—that works, right?”

Piper kicked off her shoes. “After eating Chef Boyardee ABCs the past four days, potato chip nachos are haute cuisine.” She wrestled the tequila from her bag, proudly setting it on the counter hovering over the fridge. Making herself at home, Piper grabbed two glasses and twisted off the bottle’s lid, pouring equal measures. A splash of lemonade and her bartending job was done. “Cheers, lady.” Glass aloft, she backed up, bumping into the ladder that led to Riley’s bed—a twin mattress suspended overhead. Elevating the bed gifted Riley enough space to have a compact loveseat underneath, and across from it, a narrow chest of drawers topped with her PEZ dispenser collection. A clothing rail leaned against the remainder of the wall, plastered with photos of friends and family.

“Cheers, Pip.” Riley swallowed a large mouthful and winced, removing a plate and some foil from her shelves. She didn’t expect Piper to help with the cooking; her place was too cramped to even go there. “Hey, did you order your cap and gown yet?”

“Yup. Can’t wait to rock that tassel.” Piper sucked in her stomach and inched through the tight path between Riley’s hanging clothes and the poles holding up her bed. She set her drink on a plastic milk crate—an improvised coffee table—and swept the blue curtain aside, grunting as she heaved open the window. “Did you?”

“I will after payday.”

Piper spun around, snatching the TV remote. Pointing it at the small television clinging to the wall, she pulled up Netflix, the password to which she’d shared willingly with Riley and their friend Casey. “See this? Season two of Lairds and Liars has been added. My little Scottish heart is dying for another highland fling!”

“Been there, done that!” Riley laughed, arranging chips and cereal on the foil-lined plate. “Mom and I binge-watched. Hope they add season three soon.”

Piper shrugged off her coat and reached under her dress, pulling down her black tights. “Your super sucks. It’s still a sauna in here, gross!”

“He won’t fix anything until I pay the rest of last month’s rent. I might get a second job. I was looking at tutoring or babysitting—”

“With what time? You have to sleep, you know!” Piper yanked the tights from her sweaty feet, her eyes flitting to the TV. “Ahh, Mark Keegan—ooh, I would!” Captivated by the raven-haired Irish actor portraying an 18th-century Scot, she sank into the loveseat, digging her toes into the shaggy throw rug.

“Who wouldn’t?” Riley peeked at the TV, catching her favorite actor. “Even Casey would. His man-crush is out of control.” Despite Casey’s admiration for Mark Keegan, he was wholeheartedly a heterosexual male—albeit one who hadn’t dated or had sex in over two years.

“Well, he’s got to have some fun,” said Piper. “Imagine swearing off booze, sex, and girls? The freak. I know he probably got a hard-on when he heard his documentary was accepted to the Tribeca Film Festival, but come on! Live a little, dude.”

Casey Hernandez was the Hermione to Riley and Piper’s Harry and Ron, the third member of their Tisch trinity. A dog lover, a coffee fanatic, and an expert at winning stuffed toys from claw machines, Casey had dreams of becoming a documentary filmmaker. He and Riley had one awkward date during freshman year but realized they didn’t want to mess up their friendship. Months later, Riley started dating Josh, and Casey began a short-lived relationship with a communications major who broke his heart when she was caught in the restroom of his favorite pub, straddling the bartender. He gave up booze and dating that night, vowing to pour all his passion into his film and television degree, and his volunteer work at an East Village no-kill animal rescue. Skipping St. Patrick’s celebrations, he was busy editing his latest documentary.

Piper stared at the TV. “Have you seen photos of Mark’s girlfriend?”

“Yeah, she’s pretty—and American.” Riley chopped off the cheddar’s moldy corners.

“Lucky bitch.” Piper nodded.

Sia burst out into song from Riley’s phone again. She glanced at the screen glowing beside the cutting board and ignored it, lifting the cheese grater off its hook. “We’ll work on your dating profile tonight.”