Until The Last Star Fades

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  She set it down and reached into a cupboard, grabbing the sugar. A sharp twinge rippled through her upper back, her wince morphing into a thankful giggle. The outing with Ben, complete with awkward goodbye, had left her with a souvenir: pulled muscles from their flirty dancing during Salt-N-Pepa’s “Push It”. She felt immediately nostalgic for the night before. The cheesy eighties disco had proven to be a lift she so desperately needed, even if the fairy tale faded as soon as the gaudy awning outside her apartment came into view. Ben was a fun and willing sidekick, and best of all, the words ‘cancer’, ‘debt’, and ‘poor you’ never once fell from his lips. Maybe that was the life hack? Don’t share your greatest fears or worries with your friends, and you too can forget they exist—for a few hours at least. What better way to play make-believe than with an actor, and a hot one at that.

  The bottle of lime juice lit up, illuminated by her nearby phone. Another text. Her shoulders fell. Josh?

  Ben.

  Ben! A jolt of electricity shot through Riley’s veins. She read his message.

  Riles!!! Mission accmplished!!!!

  That was it. Ben’s excessive use of exclamation marks and dyslexic spelling were a far cry from Josh’s bulging muscles. Hmm. With an eye on her phone, she poured the berries into a saucepan. Would Ben elaborate?

  DING. An attachment arrived—a Spotify playlist simply titled ‘4 Riles!!!’

  She opened it, finding “The Sun Always Shines on TV” by a-ha and nothing else. Great title. I like! Parfait-making could wait. She bent down and pulled her tangled earbud cords from her tote.

  The song began slowly with tentative synthesizer chords and the singer’s falsetto vocals soaring over top. Riley scratched her eyebrow. Where is this going? But then the song shrugged off its intro and built up and up and up into a crash of electronic drums and racing guitars, a circus of urgency. Rallying her attention, its keyboards pulsated with reckless abandon, but it was the song’s evocative lyrics that took her breath away. They sounded like thoughts she had jotted down in her journal—now abandoned—six months earlier…

  November 10, 2017

  It’s not just feeling sad about Mom. There’s more to it than that.

  I look deep within, desperate to find something to lift my mood, but my search is for nothing. All I see inside is emptiness, fear…darkness. I feel so down, sometimes I don’t recognize who I am anymore.

  The worst part…I can’t articulate what’s gone wrong. It’s like my brain has the reason locked away somewhere and I don’t have the key. So instead I get dragged down when all I want is to find out why I feel like this—so I can climb back up, be myself again. Then maybe I can feel happy, even for a little while.

  I wish life was like it is on TV—love conquers all, problems fade away, everything’s perfect and everyone gets their happily ever after.

  A lump grew in Riley’s throat. My journal matches this song. It’s so true, so…me. The rawness, the familiarity—someone else had written the song’s words, but they spoke to her heart about her fears, her hopes. Depression was always lurking over her shoulder, but maybe one day she’d have the power to look it in the eye and defeat it for good—or at least be better at taming it.

  Don’t let Mom see me like this. She wiped away a tear, thankful Maggie was on the other side of the wall, merrily chatting away on her phone.

  Ben’s adorable English accent played in her head. “I bet I can find an eighties song that speaks to you.”

  Mission accmplished, Brit boy. Mission accmplished.

  “What class do you have this afternoon?” A small amount of blueberry yogurt parfait remained in Maggie’s tall glass.

  “The senior colloquium.”

  “That’s lectures, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. I have to stay awake for this one. The speaker is an assistant director at Warner Bros., and she’s talking about working with actors and procedures on set in Burbank.”

  “Sounds right up your alley.” Maggie licked her spoon. “If you have to leave now, sweetheart, I’ll be fine. I can’t wait to dive into my new book.”

  “I can stay for another forty minutes. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Riley’s chuckle quickly retreated along with her smile as her spoon dug around her glass of yogurt and granola, a weighty silence settling over the table.

  “Honey…” Maggie bit the corner of her lip. “Is something bothering you—”

  “No.”

  “Riley.” She covered her daughter’s hand with her own. “Don’t shut me out. Talk to me. Something’s up…”

  Shit. Riley stuffed a spoonful of granola in her mouth. “I’m fine.” She mumbled while chewing. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  Maggie sighed. “I should’ve made you go back.”

  “Go back? Where?” Riley swallowed. “My apartment?”

  “To therapy—when you were in high school.”

  “W-What? Why?”

  “You seemed happier.” Maggie’s chin quivered. “But it didn’t last and I didn’t do anything about it. I let you down.”

  Riley’s eyes widened. “No, you didn’t. You had just been diagnosed with cervical cancer.”

  “Cancer doesn’t erase parental responsibilities.”

  “You make it sound like I went without food or shelter. Mom, you were in agony, recovering from surgery, dealing with radiation, chemo. Your hands were more than full! And I did okay, didn’t I? I still made honor roll, volunteered at the shelter, kept my part-time job.”

  “And I was so proud of you! But if you’d kept up your sessions, maybe your depression wouldn’t have recurred. Maybe you wouldn’t be feeling like this again. Riley, we need to talk about it. We need to deal with it, properly. It’s nothing to be ashamed about—”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. Everyone gets sad sometimes. That’s life.”

  “But this is more than being sad, sweetheart.”

  It is, but… Riley chipped at a cluster of almonds and oats with her spoon.

  Maggie ducked her head, trying to see past Riley’s hair. “It’s Josh, isn’t it? The engagement.”

  Riley’s body tensed. CRUNCH. The spoon broke through the chunk of granola. Crap. Her eyebrows lifted innocently. “Josh? No.” A half-smile fought her stiff cheeks.

  Maggie squeezed her hand. “Riley, you can call it off.”

  She avoided her mom’s gaze, her throat tightening, refusing to give in. “I don’t want to call it off.”

  “If you’re happy and want to spend the rest of your life with him, I’ll support your decision, but if you’re unsure, feeling pressured, or scared about breaking up with him, you can tell me. I’ll listen and we’ll work through it together.”

  “I want to marry him.” Why isn’t she buying it? Riley met her mom’s eyes, her voice flat yet determined. “Why do I have to justify my decision?”

  “When you talk about it, you don’t look happy—and that scares me.”

  Riley scoffed, pulling her hand away. “What you see is exhaustion, Mom. I’m scrambling to complete everything before graduation and I haven’t slept well for weeks. My apartment is hell on wheels—it’s boiling and sweaty and I’m lucky if I can catch four hours a night.”

  “And my situation isn’t helping.” Maggie adjusted the pretty blue scarf on her head.

  “I’d worry about you even if you didn’t have cancer. You’re my mom, and I love you more than anything.”

  Maggie smiled softly.

  “Things will be better after graduation.” Swirling the last pieces of granola around her glass, she leaned forward and swallowed heavily, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t move, lending a stilted quality to her words. “The stress will be gone.”

  “I remember the therapist saying a recurrence can be triggered by a major life change—”

  Riley nodded. “Like graduation.”

  “—like an engagement,” said Maggie, their words clashing.

  Riley dropped the spoon in her glass. “The engagement
has nothing to do with it.”

  “I wish I believed that. Look at me, honey. If that’s the truth…”

  I can’t. Riley picked at her fingernails.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Maggie wrapped a loving arm around her daughter, pulling her in. “You’re young and your life is opening up to so many possibilities. Why get married now? Why rush?”

  I can’t tell her why. Make something up. “B-Because we’ve already spent three years apart and we can’t do it any longer.” Tears stung her eyes for the lie that was leaving her lips and for the fear that her plan was about to fall apart. She couldn’t fail her mom.

  “But what’s another year? Have a long engagement. Give yourselves time to settle into your careers, and then set a date. So much is changing for you both, and you’ve worked so hard at college. Don’t let everything you’ve learned go to waste. Josh will be following his dream—you should follow yours, too.”

  Don’t. Don’t cry…stick to the script. “I want us to be together.”

  “But your life—your happiness—isn’t defined by sharing the same carpet, Riley. How will you thrive if you’re disappointed, resentful? It’s hard watching your husband do what he’s always wanted while your dreams stay on the shelf. Trust me on that.”

  Riley’s eyebrows peaked. “You and Dad?”

  Maggie nodded slowly.

  “What?” Riley eased back. “I thought—”

  “Marketing was my calling? Honestly, is it anyone’s?” Maggie chuckled. “No, my dream was to own a little bookshop close to home. I planned to have a counter selling fresh coffee, muffins…it was going to be a comfy hangout that celebrated a love of good books.”

  “Sounds incredible.”

  “Yeah, but the idea faded, lost somewhere between your fourth birthday and Bradley leaving us.”

  “How come?”

  “We got turned down for a loan. Bradley said we’d apply again once he got the promotion he was promised, so we both kept working and saving. A couple years passed, still no promotion. I figured if we weren’t going to try for another loan right away, we should try for a baby. You were growing up so quickly. I wanted to give you a brother or sister while you were still little, but Bradley wanted a bigger house first. So, a new house and a baby were added to the ‘when Bradley gets a promotion’ list. Then he finally got the promotion in 2003—and a year later, he was on the Upper West Side with Clarissa.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  “He went for exactly what he wanted. I waited for my turn and it never came. Goodbye dream, goodbye new baby…hello divorce. After he left, I saved and planned, and a few years later, I was approved for a loan, but then it was cancer’s turn to put an end to the bookshop.”

  Riley’s eyes teared up. “Mom, I’m so sorry.” She leaned in. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were so mad at your dad, and I didn’t want to throw more gasoline on that fire. I didn’t want anger to hold you back, especially when you were diagnosed with depression. You’ve been through enough. You know I’d do anything to keep you from getting hurt.”

  And I’d do anything to keep you from losing everything.

  “All I’m saying is: don’t wait for your turn. If Josh loves you with all his heart, he’ll be cheering you on in LA, knowing that when the time is right, you’ll be by his side as his equal, not his shadow. You’ve never been anyone’s shadow—why start now?”

  “So, I shouldn’t move to Minnesota?”

  “I can’t make that decision for you, sweetheart.” Maggie reached over, her thumb drying a stray tear sliding down Riley’s cheek. “But I just…wish you’d put yourself first. No one else will. I know what it’s like to love someone so much you’ll do anything for them, but you can’t lose who you are in order to do that. It’s not worth it. You’ll always wonder about the what-ifs? Stay true to yourself, Riley—always. Promise me?”

  Riley licked her lips. “But what if staying true to yourself means you’ll hurt other people?” Josh…you…

  “Hopefully they’ll understand. The people who really love you will always understand.” Maggie kissed her daughter on the temple like she had done a thousand times before when easing the pain of a scraped knee, a hockey loss in overtime, and all the other heartaches Riley had faced growing up. Her mom smiled and returned to her parfait.

  Turning back to hers, Riley’s stomach dipped.

  Kiss and make it better? If only that would work this time, Mom.

  Twenty-Six

  Hunter looped his arm through a mountain bike frame and picked up a box of handlebars, clearing Ben’s path to the corner kitchen, open to the one-bedroom’s living room. “Sorry, man. I promise this crap will be outta here tomorrow.”

  “Bike courier biz, eh?” Ben snatched a glass from the drying rack on the counter and stuck it under the tap, filling it with cold water. “It’s really happening?”

  “Yup. Can’t afford to live here without a second job. I’ve been an English-as-a-second-language tutor, dog walker, even worked a dosa cart in Washington Square Park, but I’ve always wanted to be my own boss.”

  Ben slipped past a tower of fat tires and several fully built bikes then sat on the sofa, his knees inches away from Hunter’s laptop on the coffee table. He flicked the trackpad, scrolling through a song lyrics website. “It’s been ages since I rode a bike.”

  “It’s like sex, man—you never forget.” Hunter looked around his cramped apartment. “And what better way to make money, work out, and be outdoors? The guys I’ve got on board have experience, know the city inside out, and brought me clients—it’s all good.” He dumped his supplies on top of two boxes of pedals. “I’m desperate for cash. I’m still waiting for my next donor check to roll in.”

  “Donor?” Ben raised the glass to his lips. “Blood—”

  “Sperm.”

  Ben choked on his water. “Wha—you’re kidding?”

  “Nope! My swimmers make me an easy fifteen hundred a month.”

  “Seriously? How often do you…”

  “Twice a week. Hey, if I’m going to rub one out, I might as well get paid for it! I’ve been doing it for over a year, but checks don’t arrive until you’re six months in. FDA rules. Your jizz has to be frozen and tested for diseases before it’s added to their catalogue. Hey, you interested?”

  Ben set down his glass. “Erm, me? Donating my…uh…?” A text lit up his phone. Spotting the sender’s name, he greeted it with a smile.

  Hey! In a lecture break. Love that a-ha song. The mission WAS accomplished!

  Ben sent her the wink emoji.

  A second text nudged Riley’s first message up the screen. My turn! was typed above a link to a playlist titled ‘4 Benjamin’. With one swipe, Sting’s “An Englishman in New York” stared back. Classic! He looked up at Hunter. “I feel for the kids, though, having a sperm donor for a dad, never knowing him…”

  “You don’t miss what you’ve never had,” said Hunter.

  A third text bounced onto Ben’s screen. I didn’t insult you, did I? Couldn’t find any Scots in NYC songs. And you do sound English.

  He typed carefully, chuckling under his breath as he hit send.

  Insult me? Impossible!!!

  Hunter dug through a ripped box of seat posts. “Not all donations are anonymous. You can be an open donor if you want to know your kid. It gives them the option of contacting you when they turn eighteen.”

  That’s more than I got from my father. “You doing that?”

  “No way. I value my privacy too much.”

  “Privacy? You dance bollock-naked on stage!” Ben laughed and returned to his phone. “I would hate to have a kid somewhere wondering who I was, why I wasn’t in touch.”

  “Well, bud, if you change your mind, I’m sure lots of New York ladies would love to have a British baby daddy.”

  “I can’t even commit to a girlfriend, let alone a kid.”

  “Just think of the easy money,” said Hunter. “You could be ‘wanking’ all t
he way to the bank.”

  “Who knew philanthropy could feel so good?!” Ben chuckled and hit play on the song Riley had sent him.

  Twenty-Seven

  Three days later

  “Thank fuck it’s Friday!” Piper, wearing a thin black sweater and a flouncy champagne-colored tutu, did a pirouette in the middle of the crossing at Third Avenue and St. Mark’s Place. “Now, let’s come up with a scheme to get out of dinner with Casey’s family after his documentary screening. Did he tell you what he did?”

  Riley finished typing a text to Ben.

  That noisy, huh? I’m glad your 2nd day’s going well—despite the headache. I’ll stop by Sunday. She hit send and squinted into the warm sun. “You only have to pretend for one night. If they think you’re his girlfriend, they’ll stop bugging him to find one.”

  Piper hopped onto the curb, pulling her MoMA tote into her waist. “What should I fake to get out of it? Pick one: strep throat, a raging UTI…shingles?”

  “What is shingles?” Riley’s ponytail bobbed and swayed as she stared into her backpack, her hand pawing past books, her wallet, a phone charger…

  “I don’t know, but I’ve got it bad.”

  “We can’t bail.” Passing the piercing place on St. Mark’s, Riley met Piper’s eyes before diving back into her bag. “Tell you what—I’ve got half a bottle of gin in my apartment. I’ll bring it along for Dutch courage.”

  “You never buy gin.”

  “Josh does. It must’ve rolled under my loveseat at Christmas. Shit! Where are my keys?!” Riley upended her laptop, digging…

  “Well, tickle my tits ’til Tuesday. You can enjoy that gin together…fucker.” Piper glared over her sunglasses and bumped Riley with her tulle-covered hip.

  “Huh?” Nose deep in her backpack, she looked up. Head down, scrolling on his phone and brandishing a cheerful bouquet of red roses that popped against his black Fighting Hawks t-shirt, Josh stood steps away in front of her building. He’s here? NOW? For a split second, she felt like she was floating, teetering atop a massive rollercoaster before the breath-sucking plunge. Shit.