“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?
Her eyes darted to the sidewalk and her fingers tugged the closure on her cross-body purse. Zip zip zip! Back and forth. She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, biting it like that single word had said way too much and she wanted to reel it back in. “So, you hungry? Where you wanna go?”
“Anywhere we can have a drink and a chinwag.”
“Okay! Let’s go…this way.” She swiveled to the right, leading Ben towards Second Avenue.
“How was uni today?” asked Ben.
“Good. Lots going on with graduation next month, but that’s boring. Tell me about your job! Piper said you’re singing on Broadway! Oh my God, BEN!” She squeezed his arm.
He smiled at her hand on his upper arm, his eyes hopping to hers. “Actually, Piper got it wrong. It’s a singing waiter job ON Broadway. We serve food and perform musical numbers.”
“That place at West 53rd?” Ben nodded and Riley’s hand returned to her purse strap. “It’s been around for ages. You’re literally singing for your supper.”
“I am!” He winced. She thought I was in a Broadway musical. “I know it’s not a proper acting job…”
“Ben, it’s a start—a good one.”
“I hope so.” He stared at a guy on a bike up ahead weaving back and forth on the sidewalk.
“What was the audition like?”
“Different, nerve-racking. We had to sing in the restaurant in front of the artistic director and customers. Luckily the diners seemed to like me.”
“What did you sing?”
“I started with ‘City of Stars’ from La La Land, then did Rent’s ‘Seasons of Love’, but they cut me off—oh, careful.” The cyclist, refusing to get off the sidewalk, increased his speed. Ben gently clasped Riley’s arm, guiding her out of harm’s way.
She glared at the speeding bike. “I hate when adults cycle on the sidewalk. I always try to force them back onto the road where they belong.”
An amused smirk crinkled his eyes as he let go of her arm. “Your feisty is showing again. Like it.”
She smiled at Ben. “So, why did they cut you off mid-song?”
“I was the fifth person singing that Rent tune, so they asked me to do ‘Take What You Got’ from Kinky Boots. It’s a song two blokes sing in a pub. I had to do both parts.”
“Ooh, I like that one! Sounds like typecasting was going on there—British actor, British character?”
“Yeah, they had a British bloke, but he took a job on a cruise ship. They didn’t want an American doing a dodgy accent, so they were keen. I moved on to the restaurant and customer service job interview stuff straight after. By late afternoon, I got the call—job was mine.”
“This is amazing.” Riley leaned in. “You’ll perform, be in the middle of everything. You might even serve someone who could help your career. Casting agents have to eat, too. I think it’s great.”
“Cheers, Riles. Hey, you should come by! They have amazing waffle fries.”
“You had me at potato!” She giggled. “When do you start?”
“Thursday. Hopefully my bruises will have faded so I won’t put diners off their chicken parm. My first five days will be training. By the third, I’ll be singing, and on the fifth, I get my own serving section. It might be multitasking hell. God help me if I dump a sloppy joe in someone’s lap. I really need tips—the wages aren’t great.”
“Turn on that cheeky British charm and you’ll win them over no problem.”
“You think?”
“You’ll become a favorite in no time.”
She really thinks I can do this. “I don’t want to blow it. I’m going to spend this week swotting up on all the Broadway songs I don’t know.”
“I’m happy you’re staying.” She smiled.
“Me too.” His eyes lingered over her lips. Riley, if you gave me a sign, I SO would…
They strolled in silence past several stores and a crowd of chatty students leaving a bubble tea shop.
“I had a bit of a wander after my audition. I was too wired to head back to Hunter’s, so I faffed around Times Square.”
Riley flashed a sarcastic smile. “Yeah, ’cause Times Square is relaxing.”
“It was bonkers! I thought Piccadilly Circus was barmy with the screens and people darting everywhere, but Times Square…” He blew out his cheeks. “Total sensory overload, but cool, too.” His hands settled in his hoodie pockets. “Oh! I got you a present.”
“A present?”
“It’s also an apology for almost spilling your engagement news to Piper.” He pulled out a colorful wrapper folded in half.
“Fun Dip!” Riley laughed, clutching it to her chest. “I love this stuff. How’d you know?”
“That morning in your flat—you lit up like a Christmas tree when you saw it.”
“We grew up with it. Tastes like Kool-Aid powder, but sour—in a good way. Did you try it?”
“You think my tongue is naturally blue?” He stuck it out then laughed. “The candy stick was the best part.”
“I know, right? Thank you!” She rooted around in her purse, removing a small pink box to make room for Ben’s gift.
“More candy?”
“Yeah, say hello to dinner.” She shook colorful candies into her hand. “Want some?”
Ben squinted. “What are they? Pieces of chalk?”
“They’re candy hearts. They’re available around Valentine’s Day. See? They have sayings.”
He scrunched up his nose. “They look stale.”
“The candy or the sayings?” She smirked and stepped around a row of wheelie recycling bins blocking the sidewalk. “Here.” She grabbed Ben’s hand, pouring a bunch into his palm. “Erika stocked up for her wedding but then found out she could custom order her own messages. She was about to chuck ’em.”
“You should’ve let her.” He nudged the candies with his finger, flipping them over. “We have Love Hearts back home. They’re bigger, better looking. Riles, these are crap.”
“Taste one!”
“Why would I pop something so hideous in my mouth?”
Riley giggled.
Ben looked up, flicking his hair from his eyes. “What?”
“I said that to Piper once, but it wasn’t about candy…”
Ben broke into a laugh. Should I go there? Yeah, go on. “And despite that, you still said yes to Josh?!”
Scrunching her eyes, Riley burst into full-on laughter, giving him a playful shove. “Benjaminnnn!”
Still giggling, he picked up several hearts, reading the sayings aloud. “Nuts 4 U, 1 On 1, Pugs &…Kittens? What?! What the actual fuck?”
Riley laughed and traded the box for her phone, tucking the candy into her purse. “They don’t say ‘what the actual fuck’.”
“Well, they should do!” He hid the hearts in the pocket of his jeans. “I’ll find you the real deal, the British ones. Once you go Brit, you just can’t quit…but tell that to Piper. I was probably her worst date since the bed bug bloke.” He glanced across the road at a drunk guy yanking his equally wasted friend from a mound of leaky trash bags. A chuckle left Ben’s lips as he swept the candy dust from his hands and with it, his conversation with Riley. Silence swallowed up the air around them. Oh, shit. Did I cross a line? He peered sideways, testing the temperature, but Riley wasn’t shooting daggers or shaking her head in annoyance. She was staring at her phone. Hmm. “Riles?”
She turned her head suddenly, stuffing her phone in her jacket. “Uh, yeah?”
“It’s not
weird, is it? That I went on a date with Piper?”
“No. Do you feel weird?”
“No.” He toyed with the strings dangling from his hood. “I just don’t want you to think I was letchin’ after your friends.”
“Pip asked you out, Ben. If anyone was letching…” She cleared her throat.
“I hope I didn’t hurt her feelings.”
“As long as you didn’t diss her puppets, she’ll be fine.”
Approaching the intersection of St. Mark’s and Second Avenue, the flashing red ‘Don’t Walk’ hand halted their progress. Riley fiddled with her purse’s strap. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, anything.”
They waited for a few cars to pass then ran across the street, a speeding taxi honking at their heels. Ben raised a protective arm, shielding Riley until she skipped over the curb.
“How can you work here?” She veered right, heading south on Second Avenue. “Do you have a green card?”
“I have an H-2B visa from an indie film I finished in LA two months ago.” His eyes drifted to a homeless man up the street who was brandishing a squeaky-wheeled shopping cart, its metallic whine competing with a thumping synth-pop song emanating from a building up ahead. I know this old song. “The project wrapped early and my visa was still valid, so I stayed for pilot season and picked up an advert for crisps.” Got it! New Order, “Bizarre Love Triangle”. Haven’t heard this in ages.
“Ben Fagan, potato chip pusher—I approve!”
Bobbing his head to the song’s irregular drumbeat, a cocky smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I’m a natural, me! All those prawn cocktail crisp sarnies—”
“Sarnies?” Riley scrunched her eyebrows.
“Sandwiches made with spongy white bread, tons of butter, and prawn cocktail crisps—chips. I lived on those things growing up.”
“Prawn…like shrimp? Fish-flavored potato chips? That’s your go-to?”
“I don’t follow the crowd, Hope.”
“Me neither. I’m a Funyuns fan.”
“Fun-what?”
“Funyuns—onion-flavored rings. When I was tiny, I wore them like bracelets. Not exactly the most sophisticated of snacks, but I like them.” Riley swerved around a half-eaten burrito splattered on the sidewalk.
“I reckon there’s nothing cooler than liking what you like, doing what you want, even if the crowd thinks it’s uncool. Be true to yourself, be your own person.” The song’s verse melted into a shimmering chorus and Ben slipped into a head bopping, close-eyed sway, his lips mouthing, “Say the words that I can’t say”…until a honking taxi popped him back to reality.
Riley smiled. “Think you’ll do more commercials?”
“No, I need a regular gig. That’s a stipulation with this visa. You get it for a specific job for a specific timeframe. They’re pretty strict about what you can do.”
“So, that stripper job—you must’ve been paid under the table.”
“So under I was practically lying on the floor!” He chuckled.
“Needs must, huh?” Riley raised an eyebrow.
“Exactly.”
“How much time do you have?” Riley pulled her phone from her pocket again. “I mean, before the visa expires.”
“Another month, but the diner manager is filling out the forms so I can get an extension. Foreign restaurant workers get this visa all the time. Hopefully, I can stay until mid-November, and if all goes well and the diner wants to keep me, they can request another extension. I still want to find proper acting work, though, and when that happens, the production would file for my next visa. Things are looking up!”
Riley peeked at the screen and tucked it away again.
Why does she keep doing that? It’s like she’s here, but part of her isn’t. “You okay?”
“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…
“Hope, c’mere!”
Screw it! I don’t care either!
Riley joined in, swaying her hips and tossing her hair. Ben laughed and clutched her hands, encouraging her to jump higher, to sing louder, his smile bright and reassuring. “Go on, Riles!”
She jumped and giggled, breathlessly shouting the chorus with Ben, letting their inner goofs rise to the surface as their cheeks ached with glee. “Dancing with myself, oh, oh, oh, OH!” They howled with laughter, playfully punching the air as they shook their heads until the room was a blur of colorful twirls and swirling light. If students were staring, the pair had no clue—and they didn’t care. A few times they stumbled and bounced off each other, releasing more giggles and leaping about.
Until The Last Star Fades Page 14
