Until The Last Star Fades

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  “Yeah…” Pulling out his phone, he deflated in his seat.

  Riley packed away her phone and tugged on yellow mittens with TAXI stitched down the hands. Eyes darting to Ben, she pressed her lips together. “Ben, you’ll be fi…” A heavy exhale left her lips. “Look, I know New York can be overwhelming, so I’ll give you my number—for emergencies only, ’kay?”

  Result! “Really? That’s brilliant! Cheers, Riley!”

  She rattled it off and Ben typed it into his phone, a smile lighting up his face. “When I’m back on street level, I’ll text you so you’ll have mine.”

  “Sure.” She nodded, standing up to corral her suitcase. “On Canal, I think you need to head toward Mercer Street. If you pass McDonald’s, you’re going the wrong way. You want to head toward Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  “So, burgers—bad. Donuts—good. Got it.”

  “It’s been nice meeting you, Benjamin. Welcome to New York.” She joined the cluster of people waiting by the doors.

  “It’s been awesome meeting you, Riley. Welcome home.”

  With a quick wave, she was gone.

  Four

  Crossing Third Avenue to St. Mark’s Place, Riley checked her phone one more time. New texts had arrived since her last peek ten minutes earlier.

  Her boyfriend, Josh King: Babe, missing you! with a photo of two pugs dressed as leprechauns.

  Piper: Are you close? This weather’s aggravating my asthma. Hurry!

  Josh again: Everyone’s buying me drinks! #MVPperks

  But still nothing from cute Ben. Riley hoped he wasn’t lost somewhere, wandering solo through the slush and noisy packs of shamrock-wearing partiers, his mother’s pink case in tow. New York City could feel so lonely when you were on your own. Maybe he was downing pints in a Soho bar and fighting off women who loved his accent; she hoped it was the latter.

  Hood up and head down, Riley weaved through the boisterous Saturday night crowd, their phones glowing bright in the night and their heightened sense of anticipation electrifying the air with a primal, youthful energy. Their laughter, imbued with a carefree spiritedness, triggered Riley’s FOMO. An ache squeezed her chest. The excitement of a fun evening out, of no worries weighing you down—what’s that like? I wish I could remember.

  She hid her frown, replacing it with a more weekend-appropriate grin. Smiley Riley, her classmates called her thanks to her sunny, upbeat personality and her fun social media feeds, which told a happy tale of walking shelter dogs, her job at Sephora and internship at BBC Studios, and life in New York City. She had achieved excellent grades in college, had three ride-or-die friendships in Piper, Casey, and Erika, and a mom who made Lorelai Gilmore look like a parenting slacker.

  But Riley’s put-together persona and outer cheeriness had become a well-rehearsed act, honed to near perfection. Underneath the happy-go-lucky façade, the real Riley was hurting and treading water, struggling to stay afloat amid tumultuous waves of sadness and despair.

  Riley’s feelings weren’t new. Her mom, Maggie, first noticed something wasn’t right during Riley’s junior year of high school. Hanging out with Erika and their friends, her fun-loving daughter was happy and energetic, but when they weren’t around, Riley seemed adrift, slipping into a downward spiral of hopelessness. She lost interest in things she loved like reading, playing board games, and researching family trees with her mom, her indifference leading to hours spent alone behind her bedroom door. Every time Maggie asked what was bothering her, Riley denied anything was wrong, but she eventually agreed to see a psychologist if her mother would stop nagging. The diagnosis was a surprise: smiling depression. “That’s a thing?” Riley had asked the therapist. The strange dichotomy fit her perfectly, though: smiling on the outside, hiding her dark feelings inside. That was the thing—Riley never looked depressed. Always neatly dressed, always encouraging and thoughtful toward others; none of her friends had a clue.

  After a dozen therapy sessions, Riley said she felt better and stopped going. Favorite activities resumed with her mom and she spent less time alone, but she still experienced crushing bouts of feeling lost, sad, and lonely. Riley vowed to control her emotions without therapy or involving Maggie—she refused to become a burden for her mom—so she pledged to be shiny and smiley even if she was hurting and battling a nagging emptiness inside. Her illness would remain invisible. No one likes a Debbie Downer. Keep it together, girl.

  Faking it, Riley believed she had fooled everyone and wanted to keep it that way. Her mask never slipped, but today on the bus, had Ben—somehow—seen through her façade? ‘You’re really bummed. Something’s bothering you. Let me cheer you up.’

  Her eyes left her phone, landing on her four-storey building and its zigzagging fire escapes a few doors away. Located above the blindingly bright yellow awning of Funky Town, an East Village shop with an extensive selection of heavy metal t-shirts, her apartment—lovingly labeled ‘the shoebox’ by Piper—offered a cramped yet convenient home on the fringes of NYU’s campus. It also placed Riley in the midst of what had arguably been New York City’s hippest street, once upon a time. Today, its quirky glory was faded and grimy, its rebellious counter-culture vibe relegated to its remaining hold-outs—vintage clothing stores, piercing places, and bong shops—but there was no debating the street’s illustrious pedigree. In its heyday, hippies, punks, and famous trail blazers like artist Andy Warhol and singer Debbie Harry had guaranteed St. Mark’s place in pop culture history.

  In the midst of the karaoke bars and tattoo parlors, Riley spotted Piper Paisley scrolling through her phone, its screen lending a harsh glow to her pretty face. Wrapped in her pink faux-fur coat and wearing a sparkly silver mini-dress and oversized plastic sunglasses—at 8:15 P.M.—Piper looked like 1960s New York it girl, Edie Sedgwick. Her bleached blonde pixie cut and pointy-toed three-inch heels left no doubt that she was channeling Andy Warhol’s famed muse from head to toe, but on her own terms. She accessorized her outfit with a devil-may-care joie de vivre few college seniors could pull off. Eyes closed, lost in her favorite Japanese pop—Pizzicato Five—trilling through her headphones, Piper was oblivious to the merrymakers spilling out of an Irish pub, lobbing offers of drinks from across the street.

  “Piper.” Riley’s mitten nudged her friend’s fluffy shoulder.

  Piper bucked to attention. “What the f—?” Her glossy sneer stretched into a crooked smile. “Yay! Finally!” She yanked away her music and sunglasses, revealing heavily kohl-lined eyes, another Edie signature.

  “It’s your fault. You sent me on a wild goose chase for gingerbread spread and cheesy crackers.”

  “Did you get them?”

  “Sold out.”

  Piper sighed.

  “How’s your asthma—” Riley’s phone broke out into Sia’s “Chandelier”. Her eyes dipped down to the lit screen. Josh.

  “Yo, Pink Lady!” Across the street, a tall guy wearing an oversized felt St. Patrick’s Day hat flicked his cigarette to the curb and hollered over the passing cars. “Looking at you, I feel like the Republic of Ireland—you know why?”

  “God, where’s this going?” Snapping her gum, Piper jutted out a sparkly hip.

  Riley searched her tote for her puffin keychain. “No clue.”

  The guy pointed at his khakis. “Looking at you, my dick is Dublin!” His friends howled with dirty laughter.

  Riley grimaced. “Nice to see your future husband decided to join us, Pip.”

  “Ugh.” Piper groaned, following Riley to her building’s brown metal door. “How do I attract these losers?”

  “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.”

  “No, we’re discussing North Dakota.”

  “Piper—”

  “That’s Josh, right? Calling again? He’s so predictable, so annoying.”

  “He feels bad,” said Riley. “I barely saw him. All he did was eat, sleep, hockey—repeat.”

  “Like I said, predictable…and annoying. At least you got something out of it—God, I miss sex.”

  “We only did it twice.”

  “But he made sure you came, right?” asked Piper.

  “Pip…!”

  “So, that’s a no, then—”

  “He had early morning practices.”

  “Like that’s an excuse for ignoring your needs. Did you go with him?”

  Riley shook her head. “His coach has a girlfriend ban before a big tournament. He thinks the players won’t sleep, so I couldn’t show up.” She tortured the block of cheese, pressing it hard against the grater’s metal spikes. “It’s my fault. I should’ve visited another time.”

  “Wait, wait—everything you’re saying is total crap AND grounds for dumping.” Piper set down her drink and counted on her fingers. “Selfishness between the sheets, hiding you away from the world, putting a stupid sport ahead of you? That�
��s three strikes—you’re OUT!”

  “Wrong sport, Pip.”

  “Oh, whatever!” Her voice spiked. “You ignored what we discussed, so what was the point of going to North Dakota? To be ignored? Better get used to it, Rye. PuckHead loves his hockey stick more than he loves you—fact.”

  “Please, dramatic much?” Riley laughed, sprinkling cheese on the potato chips. Piper always went way over the top with digs at Josh. “He needs to focus on playing well so the Wild’s scouts—”

  “Rye, stop it.”

  “What?”

  “Stop making excuses, convincing yourself you’re happy with him. You did the same thing at Christmas.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Hello? Last fall? After every FaceTime call? You’d complain—‘Josh doesn’t listen, Josh changes the subject when I mention LA’—Every. Single. Time. Then he came home for Christmas, and I don’t know what magic he worked on you, but you babbled on about how amazing he was, walking shelter dogs with you, going skating—”

  “Things were good at Christmas. He was like old Josh—”

  “Yeah, but most of the time he’s new Josh: self-absorbed, pushy, and increasingly arrogant. You finally clued in after winter break. All the doubts—”

  “Piper—”

  “You said nothing had changed—Josh hadn’t changed. God, the earache you gave me! I was so relieved when you said you’d dump him on spring break.”

  “I never said I’d dump him.” Riley yanked a spoon from a glass stuffed with cutlery.

  “Not in so many words—”

  “No, what I said was, I might suggest we take a break.”

  “Whatever. The reason’s the same: you’re not happy with him.”

  “Not all the time, no, but I think that’s normal.” Riley cracked open the salsa and swirled the spoon around the half-empty jar.

  “Oh, come on!” Piper rolled her eyes. “Any guy who puts his career plans before my best friend can go fuck himself—not you!”