Eleven

A week and a half later

Late for class due to Casey’s insanely complex Starbucks order, Riley tilted hood-first into a bone-chilling gale, careful not to wipe out on icy Astor Place. “I don’t think you should worry, Case. People will show! Tribeca is always sold out and your documentary’s fantastic. I cried twice!”

“Yeah, but you’ve volunteered at a dog shelter for years—you get it.” The snowy gust roared with evil intent, swooping down between the buildings, sending discarded coffee cups airborne and forcing Casey’s gloved hand on a rescue mission, saving his flat cap—a gift Piper brought back from London the previous year—before it blew away. “But some festival goers might be all, ‘No-kill animal shelters are SO five years ago.’ Documentary lovers can be jaded. I should know—I am one!”

“But Tribeca wouldn’t have accepted it if it wasn’t good or important.” Riley sniffed behind her scarf. “It gave me goose bumps. You can tell you put your heart into it.”

“And many tears and sleepless nights.” Casey sighed. “If it raises awareness and saves even one dog, I’ll be happy.”

“I bet it’ll save tons of dogs.”

Casey smiled and leaned into the wind, employing a death grip on his venti quad, no whip, coconut milk, extra hot mocha with caramel drizzle, extra vanilla syrup, and dark chocolate curls. He regularly skipped meals to feed his caffeine addiction. “Hope so. God, it’s going to be a long month.”

Don’t let him dwell. Cheer him up. Riley’s eyes settled on his wool coat. “Case, you’re looking very Harry Styl-ish today. That coat looks like the one he wears in the “Sign of the Times” video.” Her warm breath was snatched away by another blustery attack.

“You think? It’s secondhand, but that’s what I was going for. Cheers, mate!” Casey religiously followed Harry Styles online, copied his sartorial choices (the best he could with his student budget), and wore his brown hair exactly like him. Currently, it was short back and sides, and long and swept back at the front. “His clothes are pukka.”

“Case! I’d roll my eyes, but I think they’re frozen. You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Using British slang. It’s insulting to real British people.” Like Ben, I’d bet…wherever he is.

“Who? Piper?” The wind whipped up again, and Casey braced himself against Riley. They barged across the Astor Place-Broadway intersection, the traffic signal already flashing its red ‘stop’ hand. “She finds it endearing.”

“So endearing, she calls you Brit Twit—to your face. How would you like it if Piper pretended she was Mexican?”

“Wouldn’t bother me at all. Live and let live. I may have been born in the Bronx, but my soul belongs to Britain—and anyway, Mom thinks her granddad’s ancestors came from England, so I have some claim.”

Riley’s phone began to sing. She yanked off a mitten, a smile rising from her bundled scarf. “Hey, Mom! Were you in the shower when I called?” The snarling wind bit into her bare skin, sending searing throbs through her hand and twisting her grin into a clenched wince. “Whatever you do, don’t go out. My face feels like it’s about to shatter and fall off.”

“I just got in.” Contentment hugged Maggie’s voice.

Mom never goes out early unless… A twinge jabbed Riley’s stomach. Not again. “Were you at the hospital? Why didn’t you call me? You shouldn’t be on public transit!”

Casey leaned in. “Hospital?”

Riley offered a shivery frown.

“I didn’t call because you have early class this morning. Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be there now—?”

She stepped on her mother’s question. “Are you okay?!”

“I’m fine. I felt a little short of breath after dinner, so I went to the ER.”

“What? You were there overnight? If you went willingly, it had to be more than ‘a little’. I had to drag you in January.”

“Riley, stop worrying. Last night was like January. The symptoms were the same, the diagnosis was the same, and the treatment, same—a blood transfusion.”

“A blood transfusion isn’t like slapping on a Band-Aid, Mom.”

Casey popped above his scarf. “Transfusion? Again?” he mouthed.

“I feel much better.” A giddiness lifted her words. “Maybe I’m half-vampire—I do love Twilight!”

“Not funny!” Riley sniffed, her eyes and nose watering from the chill. “If you can’t breathe every time your red blood cell count drops after chemo, they’ll postpone your treatments again.”

“They’ll only postpone if my numbers don’t improve. As of 6:30 this morning, my count was climbing and I was breathing normally.”

“Yeah, after sitting there for hours—on your own.”

“I was fine, sweetheart! I had my book and chatted with a little girl who kept popping through the curtain. Her grandma apologized, but I didn’t mind. She was so cute, dragging around a stuffed dog by the ear, asking if she could be a blood donut.”

“A what?” Riley squinted, trying to hear her mom over the howling wind and an open-top tour bus—devoid of passengers—chugging south on Broadway.

“She was calling a blood donor a ‘blood donut’. She reminded me of you at that age—inquisitive, wanting to help, dragging Puffin everywhere. You loved that stuffed toy so much—still do!” A smile lifted her words. “Anyway, I feel much better now, so I’m going to enjoy my toast, binge-watch something happy, and cocoon under my blanket.”

“I wish you would’ve called me. I could’ve kept you company.” Riley blinked away the snowflakes collecting in her eyelashes and glanced around the fake fur on her hood.

Casey nodded.

“Riley, it would’ve been pointless to drag you out of bed. If it had been serious, I would’ve called you, promise—and before you ask, I didn’t take the bus. A neighbor drove me and a hospital volunteer brought me home. See? Nothing to worry about.”

“Still…” Riley sighed as they crossed Waverly Place, school only steps away.

“Sweetie, I’m fine. I’m home, and Netflix is calling.”

Above the entrance to Tisch, the purple NYU banner snapped and flailed, threatening to break free. Casey tugged the door open and gestured for Riley to enter first. “If anything changes, text me. I’m working later, but you can still call.”

“Will do. Now, I’m hanging up and you’re going to class. Bye!”

Riley tossed her hood off in frustration.

“Your mom’s always been super sweet to me. I hate that she’s going through this again.” Casey showed his NYU card to the security guard. “Is she doing okay?”

Riley dug out her ID and flashed it. “I guess, but I don’t think she’s telling me everything.”

“Being vague about bad stuff is in the parenting manual.”

“Don’t they realize that makes us worry more, not less? The unknown is scarier than reality. I’m not twelve—I can handle what’s really going on.”

Casey lowered his voice. “Remember when I told you my dad got laid off, a few years back?”

Riley nodded.

“I only found out because I caught him leaving a pawn shop—he’d sold an old watch, family bits and bobs. I remember his face. He looked shocked and angry, but I think more than anything he was ashamed. He said, ‘Casey, I don’t want your sisters worrying about any of this, so let’s keep it to ourselves.’ Maybe your mom’s the same?” He pressed the elevator button, still wearing his gloves. His obsession with Harry Styles was matched only by his obsession for dodging germs. “If she called all the time and told you about every bad day, you’d never make it through college, and you’d never see your friends or go out. She’s protecting you, Rye—”

“Yeah, but it’s hard to have a ‘normal life’ when I’m worrying she’s not being straight with me. Catch-22, right?”

“I know, but it’s what she wants.” He squeezed her arm. “You have to respect that.”

“Do I?” Riley sighed and followed Casey into the elevator.