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Out of breath and sweaty from the last-minute sprint to his gate, Ben wiped his nose with the back of his hand and dropped into his middle seat in the last row of economy. He rifled through his backpack, reorganizing his belongings post-security check before the flight attendants forced him to stow it under the seat. The t-shirt Riley sleeps in, a bag of grapes—half smushed, bugger! My birthday cards, Maggie’s note addressed to Mum. He plunged it back inside, his hand meeting something smooth and pear-shaped. What? I didn’t pack anything like that… Confused, he pulled it out for a better look. The plastic gallbladder! Ben burst into a laugh, holding the organ aloft, drawing stares from his bemused seatmates. Oh, you get me, Riles. You really get me.
• • •
Sleepy eyes staring at the ceiling, Riley paused Ben’s ‘4 Riles’ playlist and checked the time. 4:45 A.M. He should’ve landed by now. Mid-yawn, a-ha was cut off by Sia’s vocals, making her jump. Her fingers scrambled to accept the call. “Hi!”
“Hey.” His voice was low and sleepy. “Landed—with a thud.”
“Oh, no. Bad landing?”
“No. Plane was fine. I meant my heart,” he mumbled quietly. “I miss you.”
“I miss y—” Her whisper broke. She gathered her breath, halting a surge of new tears. How do I have any left? She rolled onto her side, over a bunch of damp, balled-up tissues, souvenirs of her tear-soaked night. “It must feel good to be home, though.”
“Ahhh, this isn’t home, not anymore. Home is you.”
Riley clutched her stomach, the ache of missing his warmth almost breaking her in two. “I love you.”
“Uhh, I’m getting daggers from the customs bloke. Better go. Love ya, Riley.”
He hung up and Riley hid under her duvet, dreading day one without Ben.
Sixty-Two
A week later
Waging war against a stubborn head cold, Riley blew on a steaming spoonful of her dinner—chicken noodle soup. Heavy-lidded, she blinked at her iPad, propped up against Ben’s green Bruins cap. The tablet’s live FaceTime feed showed the California sun beating down on Piper, turning her bleached blondness into a retina-burning glow.
Riley breathed through her mouth and answered Pip’s question with a nasal twang. “Not an hour goes by that I don’t think of him.”
“Aw, Benjamuffin. I’m sorry you’re missing him so much.” Piper frowned underneath her huge white sunglasses. “Does he FaceTime a lot?”
“No, but he wasn’t a big FaceTimer or Skyper when he lived here, either. He calls and texts, though, all the time: photos of his breakfast, his walk to the library, doing laundry. It’s kinda funny how detailed he is.”
“Maybe he thinks if he’s not a constant presence in your phone, you’ll forget him?”
An ache squeezed Riley’s throat. “I could never forget him.” Eyes getting misty, she bowed her head and set down her soup. Here come the waterworks again.
“Rye…?” Piper lifted her sunglasses, concern narrowing her eyes.
Change the subject. “So, how’s life, Cali girl? Anything new from two days ago?” Riley smiled and wrapped a tissue around her streaming nose.
“Nope. Still pinching myself. Give me ALL the felt, googly eyes, and feathers! It’s puppet-making heaven! But I could do without the lame team-building t-shirts they make us wear. Check it…” Piper shifted the phone, showing off the banana yellow tee hanging shapelessly above her silver tutu, ‘I’M A PUPPET PAL!’ scrawled across her chest in a swirly red font.
Riley grimaced. “It looks like you rolled in mustard and someone squirted ketchup on your boobs.”
“I know, right?” Piper snapped her gum. “I love puppets, but I don’t need to declare it while walking along Santa Monica Boulevard. No wonder I haven’t made any friends.”
“You will.” Riley dragged her spoon through her soup. “Oh! Tonight’s Halloween! You should go to that party you told me about Monday. You’ll meet fun people there, and hot ones, too—LA’s full of ’em, right?”
“Meh. Women here think I’m weird, and the only men who give me the time of day are limp and made of felt.”
Riley giggled. Thank God I didn’t have soup in my mouth.
“I was listening to this girl at work bragging about her weekend hookup. She said he was a girthy seven inches. Can you imagine? I swear, I was a mess with the hot glue gun that afternoon. Come quitting time, I rushed home and pounced on Sherlock.” All of Piper’s sex toys were named after characters portrayed by Benedict Cumberbatch.
Picking up another tissue, Riley squealed with laughter. “Oh, Pip, never change!”
Piper snickered. “How’s work going? Has Ass-Breath left?”
