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.

I am dying, but this is FUN! Riley fought for breath and grabbed Ben’s hand. My legs hurt and my lungs hate me, but I haven’t laughed this hard in so long!

The song was building to its sweaty finish when DJ Bob abruptly plunged into Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time”. Most people groaned and stomped off the dance floor while a few drunkenly fumbled and paired up. The couple at Ben’s shoulder began devouring each other’s faces, their roaming hands getting as much of a workout as their mouths.

A twinge of heat flooded Riley’s chest. Normally, she wouldn’t react at all, but normally Ben wouldn’t be stroking her hand with his thumb. He hasn’t let go. Adorable Ben with the unruly hair and stupid Christmas socks and stubble where no guy should have stubble. The warmth of his finger caressing her skin quickened her breath. Riley, you’re just lonely. Let go. Releasing her grip, she gave him an exhausted smile. “Get that drink now?”

“Yeah, I’m parched.” He smiled back.

They inched their way over to the bar, which was a no bigger than a kitchen counter, and joined the thirsty swarm. Their talk skirted what had just happened, tackling the weather, Piper’s puppets, and favorite alcoholic beverages (a sidecar for Riley, Stella for Ben). After what felt like the longest five minutes of waiting in her life, Riley ordered a soda for herself and treated Ben to a bottle of his fave brew, the grin returning to his face when she pressed it into his hand.

“It’s been too long.”

“Since your last Stella?” She took a quick sip of her soda, walking a few steps over to a claim a sliver of ledge on the wall for their drinks.

“No, dancing like that.” Ben wiped his face with his forearm, removing beads of sweat but not his beaming smile. “Surrendering to the music, forgetting my problems.”

I actually forgot too…about cancer, about Josh. Riley stared into her drink.

“You having fun, Riles?”

“I am.” Her chin lifted along with her voice.

“Really? You don’t have to pretend—”

“No, I am—really! I can’t remember the last time I danced…or went out on a Monday. It’s nice to escape for a bit.”

He took a large swig of beer. “I think we should make this the rule and not the exception.”

“Clubbing on Mondays?”

The smile refused to abandon his face. “No, doing things we’ve never done—or rarely do. We could even make it a competition. You up for it?”

Riley hated being pushed out of her comfort zone. “Depends on what those things are.”

“Nothing illegal—mind you, I wasn’t the one who snuck in here without paying cover, so that’s on you, Hope.”

Nothing illegal, says the charming kleptomaniac.

He set down his beer and took off his hoodie. His t-shirt—a damp Duran Duran concert tee—tucked into the front of his jeans, drew a grin to Riley’s lips.

“Is that one of those retro tees from Urban Outfitters?”

“Blimey O’Riley! What do you take me for? A bandwagon-jumping millennial? This shirt was born in 1984!”

“Wow, it’s in pretty good shape for a relic.” She laughed. “I like the colors. So, what’s with you and the eighties, then? The Pac-Man tattoo, this place—you were wearing a Police tee the other night. You weren’t even born in the eighties.”

“The shirts were my uncle’s. Mum kept them in an old trunk.” He folded his hoodie, piling it behind him on the ledge. “Mum grew up in the eighties, so—”

A drunk dude bowled into Riley, slopping her soda. “Ow, shit!”

Ben swung back around. “Riles?”

“Hey, gorgessssssssss!” the wasted guy slurred, a wobbly hand headed towards her cheek.

Riley smacked it away. “Don’t fucking touch me!” The sudden fury in her eyes deflated the drunk’s bravado.

“For fuck’s sake, mate! Bugger off!” Ben pushed him away and moved closer to Riley, his eyes concerned. “Did he get you?”

“I’m okay…just sticky.” She shook her soaked hand, which was dripping with soda, but her clothes had escaped unscathed. Leaving her empty glass on the ledge, her eyes pored over Ben. He was untouched, too.

He picked up his hoodie. “Use this to dry off.”

“No—”

“It’s old and ratty. Go on, it’s fine.” He placed his hoodie in her hands and shot an annoyed look at the drunk bouncing off people like a loose pinball. “I’m glad he didn’t stain your top.”

“Or yours. That’s a family heirloom.” Riley reluctantly did a quick cleanup and handed back his jacket. “What were you saying about your mom?”

“Oh, yeah, this music.” Ben stuffed his hoodie on the ledge and picked up his beer. “Mum played it all the bleedin’ time growing up. My strange obsession with a-ha is her fault—I even had their first album on vinyl—but in all honesty, I think old music sounds better than the crap that’s out today.” He tilted the beer to his lips then thought better of it, pulling the bottle away. “I know some people think eighties music’s cheesy, but it’s fun and heartfelt. Listen to the lyrics—there’s a lot of truth there.”

“My mom likes it. She calls it memory music.”

“Yeah, exactly. I think the music you’re into at our age kinda stays with you…” Ben swigged his beer and glanced back at the bar. “Want another?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Riley didn’t want Ben treating her on his celebratory night out, and she had already blown most of tomorrow’s grocery money on their drinks. “Some eighties songs are okay, but I don’t really feel a connection.”

“I bet I can find an eighties song that speaks to you.”

Riley laughed. “Good luck with that.”

“I love a challenge, Hope.” He surveyed the room. “You do too, I suspect.”

“You think?”

“Yeah! Making TV programs to help people feel good? Can’t be easy to create happily ever afters, but I bet you’ll be great at it.”

“Aw, thanks. It comes from an honest place—so many times, I wish I could escape.”

“Tell me about it!” A whistle pierced the bar’s speakers and Ben’s ears pricked up. He pointed at his shirt. “Ah, Duran Duran! ‘New Moon on Monday’—one of my mum’s faves.”

“Ha, one of my mom’s, too. Our moms would get along famously,” said Riley. “You must miss your parents, being so far from home.”

“I miss her a lot, but I talk to her all the time. The old man left when I was a year old.”

“Oh, you don’t see him?”

“Nope. He was a rat-arsed bastard back then and probably still is now, if he’s alive. I have no clue.” He raised his beer and paused above the rim. “And I don’t care.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He gulped a large mouthful. “Don’t be. I’m better off rid. He drank, did drugs, sponged off benefits. Never married Mum. She was the earner. She worked damn hard in a biscuit factory—with the hairnet, blue smock, the whole deal—early mornings, extra shifts, but could only afford a bedsit—a one-room rental—in a rough area of Edinburgh. We’d often get meals from a local food bank, but she did her best for me.” Ben picked at the label on his bottle. “He was supposed to look after me while she worked, but one day Mum came home and found me alone in my cot, wailing with a soiled nappy. I’d been left there all day. Apparently, he used the cash Mum saved for baby food on drugs. Anyway, the asshole never came back, so good riddance to bad rubbish.” Raising his beer to his lips, he downed the lot.

“You don’t call him Dad?”

“He doesn’t deserve to be called Dad.” The bruises around Ben’s eyes added a sinister feel to his words. “To me, he’s a sperm donor.” He stifled a hiccup. “Do you get on with yours? You only mention your mum.”

“He’s out of the picture.”

“Dead?”

“Might as well be.”

Ben raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry, that sounds crass.” Riley winced. “We were inseparable, once. I used to be a total daddy’s girl, but not in a princess-y way. It was sports. Dad was all about sports and put me in hockey and taekwondo when I was three, but hockey was my thing. I loved the sounds: the ksssh-kssh-kssh of skates carving the ice, the crack of the puck striking your stick”—her smile stretched with each memory—“and my favorite, the puck ringing off the crossbar with a CLINK! There’s a freedom with hockey that you don’t get with other sports—flying over the ice, your lungs full of cold, crisp air—ahh, the best.” I miss it. A burn rose in her throat. Don’t… She blinked and looked away, pausing to swallow the bittersweet memories, then turned back to Ben. “He also taught me how to scale the rock walls at his gym when I was five.”

Ben’s eyes widened. “Five?”

“I know, right? I must be part monkey or something. Once I mastered that, we moved to the boulders in Central Park. Bouldering is such a rush.”

“Wow, who are you?” He chuckled. “I was probably eating dirt in the park at that age.”

“I swam, too.”

“Part mermaid, part monkey—a mer-monkey, that’s what you are!”

“You’re got more monkey in you than me! All long arms, skinny legs—”

“You know, that’s really weird ’cause sometimes I do fling my poop at people I don’t like.”

“Ben!” She grimaced, playfully punching his arm.

“Okay, I’m a monkey, but I’m cute with it, right?” He winked.

Riley felt her heart leap. So cute.

“So, you swam competitively?”

“No. Mom almost drowned when she was nine, so she made me take lessons.” She pressed her lips tight. “But sports was our thing—me and Dad, but then he got promoted and we barely saw him.”

“What was his job?”

“He worked at an ad agency, their TV broadcasting division. He often had late edits or sometimes he’d be out schmoozing clients. That’s how he met Mom, at a work party in ’93. She was the creative specialist in the ad department for Barnes and Noble.”

“So, you inherited your love of TV from your dad and books from your mom.”

“Yeah. I think Mom hoped I’d become a writer, but as long as I was doing something that made me happy, she cheered me on. Dad was determined that I’d end up with the USA women’s hockey team, but I made sure that wouldn’t happen.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.” Riley fussed with her purse.

“I’ve got time.”

“Well…” Riley looked up. “Mom hurt her back when I was nine and had to take a leave of absence from work. Dad wasn’t around much to help—working on budgets, lots of late hours.”

Ben shook his head.

“Turns out he wasn’t just on top of budgets but also a coordinator named Clarissa. He left us a few months later, divorced Mom, and married Clarissa when I was eleven.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I was devastated. He tore our family apart. I skipped their wedding and rebelled by dumping his last name a week after he remarried. I’ve gone by Mom’s ever since.”

“Hope is your mom’s maiden name?”

She nodded. “I also quit taekwondo and hockey because they reminded me of him.”

“But didn’t you miss it—hockey?”

“Sometimes. I’d still skate with Josh, practice shots in his backyard, and have pick-up games with friends, but I wasn’t part of a league anymore. I didn’t want to make Dad’s dream for me come true after what he did.”

“Makes sense. You’ve known Josh forever then, eh?”

“Since I was eight. We met playing hockey at the community center, went to the same schools, but didn’t date until the summer after freshman year of college. I bumped into him, he asked me out, and the rest is history…” I gotta move this away from Josh. No engagement talk—I can’t stomach it. “So, yeah…Daddy dearest let us down.”

“Does he still live in New York?”

She shrugged. “I cut ties after he married Clarissa and told Mom I wanted nothing to do with him. I probably have half-siblings, but I wouldn’t know them if they were sitting beside me on the subway. Broken families—fun, huh?”

They both stood in silence for a moment, Nik Kershaw’s “Wouldn’t It Be Good” blasting through the speakers.

Riley laughed. “Now that DJ Bob and I have bummed you out…”

“No, it feels good sharing this stuff with someone who understands.”

“It does…yeah.” Riley smiled.

DJ Bob chopped off Mr. Kershaw, leaping into Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy”.

“I LOVE this one!” Ben shouted, his eyes wild. “You in? Real life can wait four minutes, yeah?”

“It can wait all night, Monkey!” Riley laughed and raced him to the center of the dance floor.