“I know, but this job is starting at the other end of the spectrum. It’s like I’ve been studying German and you’re expecting me to speak Chinese.”
“I think you’re exaggerating. He knows you’re clever. An NYU graduate? Come on! He said what you don’t know, you’ll learn on the job.”
“It’s not a question of learning—of course I’d get the hang of it—but it’s not what I want. I told you ages ago, I want to try California.”
Josh dropped his fork, his head tipping back as he closed his eyes. “Ryyye! You’re expecting me to walk this back? Do you know how bad that looks for me? This guy will be covering my career from day one.”
“So that’s what this is? I’m supposed to take this job to make you look good? I didn’t ask you to do this—you went behind my back!”
“Rye—”
“This is exactly what I was worried about—my career taking a back seat to yours—and now you’ve proven me right.” Maggie’s words ricocheted in her head. “It’s hard watching your husband do what he’s always wanted, while your dreams stay on the shelf.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. I wanted you to have something of your own when we moved to Saint Paul to keep you busy, so you wouldn’t feel homesick or lonely. That’s it! Jesus, you make me sound like a manipulative asshole.”
If the shoe fits… Staring back at him, she crossed her arms. “For TWO years, I’ve talked about finding a production job in California. Nice to know you listened.”
“Look, can we discuss this later?” He picked up his cup, lowering his voice. “I don’t want to spend today arguing.”
“I don’t either, but you can’t expect me to do cartwheels about a job I would never apply for in the first place. TV jobs might all sound the same to you, but they’re not. It’s like me drafting you to play goal when you’re a center!”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” He gulped his coffee and returned it to the table, his tone conciliatory. “He won’t be in the office again until Monday, so…forget it for now. I’ll take care of it.”
Fork aloft, he leaned forward, stabbing a slice of bacon. His follow-through bumped his coffee, tipping it over at the table’s edge and spilling its milky contents into the lap of his suit trousers. “Shit!” The restaurant’s attention fell on Josh, his cheeks reddening above his clenched jaw.
Oh, great. Riley leapt to her feet and leaned across the table, using her napkin to prevent more coffee from slopping onto his lap.
Their waiter rushed over without hesitation. “Sir, may I help?”
Standing up, Josh slapped his soaked napkin on the table. “Where’s the restroom?”
“Follow me.” The waiter led Josh and his frown away.
Riley smiled tightly at the next table, waiting for them to mind their own business. She toyed with the blueberries on her plate, piling them into the soggy holes of her neglected waffle, and flipped over her phone. Several texts waited. Maggie’s was first.
All good for tomorrow lunch? Will be nice to see Josh. x
She typed quickly, hitting send. We’ll be there around noon. x
The second text was Ben’s, another ‘4 Riles!!!’ playlist attachment. She opened it, finding “The Sun Only Shines on TV” and “Dancing with Myself” by Billy Idol. An amused giggle erupted from her throat, drawing disapproving stares back to their table. What? Riley side-eyed the nosey diners then stared at Josh’s abandoned breakfast. Ben texts and I laugh. When was the last time Josh made me laugh out loud? I can’t remember. She slouched, shame pulling her down. He’s your fiancé, Riley…get it together. She left her phone face down and cut into her waffle.
A phone buzzed again. She flipped it over, but the screen was dark. Oh, it’s Josh’s. She sat back, ignoring it, but it erupted into the full operatic chorus of Queen’s “We Are the Champions”, drawing more indignation from nearby diners. Shit! Make it stop. She reached across the table, spotting a number she didn’t recognize.
“Hello? Josh King’s phone.”
“Hi…who’s this?” asked the male voice.
“Riley, Josh’s fiancée.”
“Riley! Hi! It’s Mitch Quindry, Josh’s agent?”
“Oh, hi! Sorry, I didn’t recognize the name.”
“Yeah, I lost my phone so I’m using my wife’s. Listen, can you give Josh a message? Can you let him know we’re all systems go for the interview tomorrow? It’s the NHL rising stars piece.”
“Rising stars, cool.”
“Yeah, Sports Illustrated will add it to their NHL preview before rookie training camp.” Mitch’s smile was apparent even over the phone. “It will raise Josh’s profile at just the right time.”
Sports Illustrated—again? Riley nodded enthusiastically. “Wow, it’s amazing they want to interview him again.”
“Again? No, it’s the first time.”
What? Riley blinked. “I thought he spoke to them after the championship.”
Mitch snorted. “Hell no!”
Josh…lied? Riley’s stomach pulled into a knot.
“All press engagements wrapped the night of the win, which was a good thing.” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t have let press anywhere near them with the state Josh and the guys were in down in Vegas!”
Vegas? Josh was in VEGAS—when I was looking after Mom? He said he couldn’t fly home! His words from FaceTime bubbled up. “Sorry I can’t be there…too many commitments…” Commitments? Yeah, drinking, gambling, and God knows what else. She tried to swallow, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t budge.
“Riley?” Mitch’s phone crackled. “We’re about to go through the Holland Tunnel. So, you’ll tell Josh—1 P.M. tomorrow, Chelsea Piers?”
“Yep, got it.” She spat out the words and slammed Josh’s phone onto the coffee-stained tablecloth.
“Can you imagine—me in Sports Illustrated? How crazy is that?”
It took every inch of Riley’s restraint not to kick the coffee-colored bullseye on Josh’s crotch.
Crossing Madison Avenue in silence, she didn’t budge from her path on East 57th Street, her pinched eyebrows and determined stride forcing oncoming pedestrians to veer around her and Josh. Yeah, get out of my way. I am NOT being pushed around today. She gave Josh a slip of side-eye behind her sunglasses and wrapped her arms around her waist, hiding her clenched fists. Do you think I’m THAT stupid? I wouldn’t remember you mentioning Sports Illustrated last month? Her pulse, spurred on by adrenaline, pounded in her ears, each word leaving Josh’s lips fanning the heat rising in her chest.
“Thanks for taking Mitch’s call.” He glanced down at his trousers, pulling her Strand tote over his crotch. “And for letting me use your bag—hide this damn stain!”
Her smile was tight, barely opening to release her statement. “You’re good at that.”
“What—hiding stains?” He chuckled.
“Hiding things.” She stared straight ahead.
“Huh?”
Riley grabbed his arm, tugging him through the busy foot traffic into the quiet alcove beside the mammoth Tourneau TimeMachine store, the large Rio de Janeiro clock’s second hand clicking over their heads. “Why didn’t you tell me about Vegas?” You lied to me!
“Vegas?”
“Mitch told me—on the phone. You went to Vegas after the NCAA win. I thought you were in Grand Forks. You lied!”
“Aw, Rye, I didn’t lie.” He winced. “I just didn’t…tell you.”
“Bullshit. By not telling me, you lied. Same diff.” As the words left her mouth, guilt pinched her gut. I haven’t told him about hanging out with Ben, but…what’s there to tell? We’re friends, that’s it.
“I guess, yeah, but it was spur of the moment. You know what the guys are like! They get an idea and…” He shrugged. “Before I knew it, we were on the plane, drinking and celebrating, and as soon as we landed, it was casinos non-stop.”
Riley crossed her arms.
“Babe, it was just the guys.” His sheepish grin belittled Riley’s annoy
ance. “I’d never cheat on you. You know that.”
He’s not taking this seriously. “This isn’t about cheating!”
“Then, what is it about?” Tilting his forehead back, he wound his arms around her waist. “Look, I’m sorry I went away—”
“It’s not that you went away. It’s that you didn’t come back.” She batted away his embrace, raising a confused look on his face. “You chose to stay in Vegas instead of flying home to support me! Mom got devastating news and what? You thought, she’s been diagnosed three times before, Riley’s an expert at this by now. What the FUCK, Josh?!?” Her raised voice drew furrowed glances from people walking past. “Why didn’t you leave?”
“I didn’t leave because…because…”
“Because, because—WHAT?!”
“All the guys were there and…I don’t know! It was our last chance to party as a team.” He shrugged.
She threw her hands up. “You’re so unreliable and selfish. You only care about what Josh wants, what Josh needs. Vegas, that stupid TV job—it’s the same old story.”
“Come on, that’s not—”
“I was crying my heart out and you weren’t there for me. You could’ve come home but you didn’t. Drinking and gambling with the guys was more important to you.”
“Babe, I made the wrong decision, okay? I can’t undo what I’ve done, but you have my word, it won’t happen again.” He glanced over his shoulder toward East 57th Street. “I thought…I’d be in the way. I’m not comfortable with hospitals and talking about health things like you are.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to insert a catheter, for fuck’s sake. If you really cared about me, you wouldn’t ghost me when I need you. My dad did that to Mom and I can’t—I refuse to follow in her footsteps.”
“Baby, you won’t. Come here.” He pulled her into a tight hug. “I’m sorry. Look, how about we surprise your mom with the ring tonight? We’ll get takeout, have my parents over, make it just family—how’s that sound?”
Riley tensed in his arms.
“Okay?” He eased the embrace and smiled. “Come on, let’s go get your ring.”
Returning to the bustling sidewalk, Josh rambled on about diamond clarity and color grades, but Riley wasn’t listening.
Showing up unannounced with a massive bouquet of flowers…
Splurging on breakfast in a fancy hotel…
He wants to surprise Mom with the ring…
Lovely gestures…but they’re not selfless acts of love. They’re manipulative strategies to keep me complacent, to get me to do what HE wants. This is a losing battle. I’m swimming against a riptide. As the reality of his actions sank in, Riley’s throat closed, her stunted breaths making her woozy, unstable. She stopped, frozen in place.
Josh turned around. “Babe?”
“I-I can’t.” A tornado of fear and doubt whirled in her stomach, tearing apart everything she had planned.
He looked confused. “Can’t…?”
It was like Riley had pulled a thread and everything started to unravel. “I can’t do this. The ring…” Her vision began to blur. I can’t look Mom in the eye wearing a $25,000 lie on my finger.
“You okay, Rye? You wanna go another time?”
I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t pretend, I can’t do this…even if…if it means…oh, God! A sour taste rose in her tight throat. “Josh, I’m calling off the engagement.”
“What?” His jaw dropped. “Babe, I know you’re upset about Vegas but—”
“It’s more than that.” Her words had a life of their own, each one fighting to be heard and tearing her heart in two for her mom, for herself. “I don’t want to move to Minnesota. I don’t want to give up my dream. I’ve worked too hard—”
“Babe, we’ll talk about the job and everything will be fine. We’ll work all that out—”
“It’s not enough. I don’t…” She bowed her head, holding back, but her truth had its own momentum and wouldn’t be silenced—not anymore. Grabbing fistfuls of her hair, Riley met his confused stare. “I don’t love you anymore.” The words, once released, didn’t make her feel any better. She had escaped one cage but wandered into another—alone with Maggie.
His jaw clenched like her words had smacked him across the face. “Jesus. Are you fucking kidding me? Where’s this coming from?”
“I’ve felt it…for a while. We’ve been drifting apart, arguing—you know we have.”
“Yeah, because we’re apart all the time—that’s the problem! Who wouldn’t start to have doubts? But once we’re together again, it’ll be just like old times.”
Shaking her head, her fingers rubbed her brow. “The distance isn’t just physical. It’s emotional.”
“What?” His eyes narrowed. “There’s someone else?”
“No…I mean, yes.” She laid her hand over her heart. “Not a guy, Josh—me. I need to be honest with myself. I’ve been pretending everything’s fine for months now, pretending us getting married is what I want, but…it’s what you want.” She gulped a breath. “I’m exhausted and worried about Mom, stressed about life after graduation. So many things are changing all at once. I guess that’s part of growing up, but I feel like I’m going to lose it at any second.”
“I know things are scary, and I’ll help you through it. I know I haven’t been there for you as much as I should’ve, but I’ll try harder.” He clasped her hand. “I will. I really will.”
She shook her head. “Josh, we want different things in different cities. And you deserve to be with someone who loves you. I’m sorry, but that’s not me anymore.” She pried her hand away, hiding it in a pocket, out of reach.
“Look, let’s talk about this at your place…”
I know how this will go. He’ll stroke my hair, talk about when Dad left, how he was there for me—but that was then, and this is now. So much has changed and it’s too late to go back! Riley met his pained gaze. “Josh…”
“Forget the engagement.” He nodded quickly. “We can take it slow, just date…”
I never wanted to hurt him. “No, Josh! Please…it’s over.”
Those two words woke him up like smelling salts at the ice rink. Blinking, he swallowed slowly, the realization sinking in. “Wow…so you…there’s nothing I can say to change your mind, is there…”
She fought back tears. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m just…” Josh cleared his throat and looked away, his hand skimming his beard. “Well, I’ll…need to grab my shit from yours, then.”
Riley nodded, waves of nausea making her hesitant to move an inch.
Josh didn’t linger. He strode toward Fifth Avenue and hailed a taxi.
Thirty
Saturday at lunchtime, Ben performed for a New York audience for the first time.
While diners tucked into French toast and steak and eggs, he teamed up with two servers for the “Greased Lightnin’” portion of the Grease medley. His brief sing-along earned applause, starry-eyed swoons from a table of teen girls, and a generous ten-dollar tip from a retired British couple, but he barely had time to breathe, let alone savor those moments. The restaurant was slammed with people, and vacated tables didn’t sit empty for more than a minute thanks to a growing line of hungry customers looping around the block. Once inside, guests were swallowed up in a Broadway musical on steroids. Back-to-back performances, all sung with microphones cranked up to maximum, made normal conversation impossible, but the tourists ate it up.
Shadowing one of the diner’s veterans, Ben picked up the slack with a smile (“Always a smile!”) and dashed to the kitchen to collect burgers, chili-smothered tater tots, and milkshakes.
“Doing great, Ben!” Stavros, the diner’s manager, hiked up the waist of his trousers. “Listen, one of the guys called in sick and we’re splitting his section. How ’bout you take two tables? Think you can cope?”
“Yeah.” Ben’s stomach growled, not that anyone would hear in the noisy restaurant. He nodded, eager to make a good impres
sion.
“Cool. Table six is finishing up and table seven—the corner booth—just arrived.”
Ben leaned in. “Pardon?”
Stavros pointed to a blue and red striped booth stuffed with four kids and a middle-aged dad. “Dive in, buddy!”
Don’t fuck this up. Ben took a deep breath and filled his arms with menus, waiting for the performance of Wicked’s “Defying Gravity” to end so he didn’t have to yell over the vocals. Make it quick before the singing starts again. “Hello! I’m Ben and I’ll be taking your order today.”
“You talk funny.” A boy, around seven years old, scrunched up his freckly nose and whirled a fidget spinner on his finger.
“I’m from England.” Ben set a menu down in front of the little guy as well as his tween-age sister who scrolled non-stop on her phone, his three-year-old twin siblings—a girl and a boy, dressed up as Elsa from Frozen and Spider-Man—and their dad, phone glued to his ear. The whole family was golden-haired and looked like they had stepped out of Central Casting. “Do you know where that is?”
“Don’t care.” The kid pouted and spun his toy again. “I want nachos!”
Ben glanced at the dad, still yapping on his phone. “The kids meals are on page five—”
“I want nachos!”
Ben’s eyes circled the table. No one was paying attention. “I’ll give you time to decide.” Turning away, orange-stained fingers from table six grasped his elbow.
“I’ve been waiting ten minutes!” A chin popped out of a turtleneck sweater, its owner squeezing Ben’s arm and shoving her plate of untouched carrot sticks and decimated chicken wings to the table’s edge. Urgh! BBQ sauce fingers! “Take that back and bring us soda refills.” She ‘tsked’ at her husband, whose nose was stuck in a newspaper’s sports section. “And get us our check.” She let go of Ben and pushed her husband’s half-eaten burger and fries towards him.
With a forced grin, Ben flipped through his notepad and tore off their bill, leaving it on the table. He picked up their plates. “I’ll be right b—”
“I-I need…!” Little Spider-Man at table seven was hopping across his banquette, clutching his ass. “I-I-I need go POO!”
Until The Last Star Fades Page 18
