Riley's Night (II)

Riley stepped out of the elevator as if she was trying to land on a moving train—controlled, even, no slack in her line. Her hair was wet, combed straight back from her face; the clothes were different, swapped out for a navy sweater and jeans, but she hadn’t bothered with makeup. She looked better than she had an hour ago, though the skin around her eyes was red as if she’d been punched. She didn’t hide it.

The suite smelled like something real for once—olive oil, maybe onions, the metallic tang of tomatoes cooking down to nothing. Andy was at the stove, one hand stirring, the other resting on the counter. He’d set the table: two plates, forks, water in mismatched glasses. No wine, no music, just the air thick with garlic and the hush of the resort outside.

She stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, shoulders braced like she expected to be called out for being late.

Andy looked up. “Hey,” he said.

She nodded, eyes flicking from his hands to the pan, then back. “Hey.”

He motioned to the table. “It’ll be ready in a minute. Sit if you want.”

She did, sliding into the nearest chair, hands knotted tight in her lap. For a while neither spoke. Riley scanned the room—spotless, every surface clear, nothing left out to chance. A loaf of bread, neatly sliced, sat in the center of the table, next to a bowl full of salad, carrots, and cucumber slices.

Andy plated the food and brought it over. “Well, it’s all plants. No judgment if you want to add cheese.”

She snorted. “Cheese is for the monsters.”

He sat, poured water, and for a while they just ate in a kind of hush that didn't beg to be filled. Riley tore bread into ragged pieces, dipping them in the oil pooling at the edge of her plate. Andy ate with slow, methodical precision, like a man defusing a bomb or dissecting his own heart. It wasn’t awkward, exactly, but there was an awareness to it—the sense of two people handling something precious that could fracture if set down too hard.

Halfway through the meal, Riley looked up and caught Andy watching her, fork paused above his pasta. She met his gaze for a count of three before he blinked and looked away, the faintest color blooming on his cheekbones. There was something almost funny about it: after everything they'd lost and after clawing back a connection, they were still afraid to be seen by each other.

"You didn't have to," Riley said, breaking the silence. She gestured at the food, the careful setup. "I mean, it's not my birthday."

He shrugged, a sharp but not unkind motion. "I wanted to. I like cooking." Then, almost an afterthought: "You look better. Not that you—just. You look like you again."

Riley snorted, tearing another piece of bread. "If 'like me' means half-feral and exhausted, then yeah, nailed it."

Andy smiled, a small but genuine thing. "You get less feral after carbs. Scientific fact."

She rolled her eyes, but the smile curled the corner of her mouth. For a while they ate in parallel, trading occasional glances like reconnaissance.

Eventually Riley leaned back, pushing her plate away. "You want the honest review, or the polite one?"

He considered. "Surprise me."

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then nodded at the pasta. "It's solid. The sauce could use more salt. The noodles are al dente, which is pretentious but fine. The bread is excellent. If I was at a restaurant, I'd finish the whole thing and pretend I didn't see the calories."

Andy’s expression shifted—relief, amusement, maybe even pride. "Noted," he said, and for a second they were just two people, not ghosts from each other's pasts.

"You ever think about going to culinary school?" Riley asked.

Andy laughed, shaking his head. "My knife skills are strictly YouTube."

"Then you get bonus points," she said. There was a softness in her voice that surprised them both.

After a lull, Andy asked, "You want dessert?"

Riley squinted, skeptical. "Is it also homemade?"

"Technically yes. It’s gelato from the freezer. I put it in bowls, which counts as effort."

She grinned, and this time it reached her eyes. "I'm in."

He scooped two bowls and set them on the table, careful not to let them touch. Riley took a bite and closed her eyes, savoring the cold and the sweet. "You know what this reminds me of?" she said, voice muffled by gelato. "The summer after seventh grade. Laura and I used to walk to that crappy strip mall with the gas station ice cream."

"And the fortune teller place," Andy said. "Laura always wanted to go inside, but we chickened out every time."

Riley nodded. "She would have loved this. The fake-fancy dinner, the dessert. She always wanted things to feel like a movie."

They sat with that for a while, the memory dense and alive in the space between them.

"I’m glad we’re doing this," Andy said, after a minute. He didn't need to mention what he was referring to.

Riley didn’t answer right away. Then: "Me too."

They lingered over the gelato, the edges of their old selves brushing up against something new. When Riley finally stood, she stacked the plates, her hands steady, and carried them to the sink. Andy followed, rinsing each dish, the two of them moving in a rhythm that was easy, unplanned.

When they finished, Riley wiped her hands on a dish towel and looked at Andy. "So," she said, "what now?"

He shrugged, but this time there was no sharpness in it. "We could talk. Or just sit. I’m not picky."

Riley nodded, considering. Then she crossed to the couch and sat at one end, hands in her lap.

Andy joined her, leaving enough space that it didn’t feel like a challenge.

They sat like that, side by side, the city glowing through the window, the kitchen still warm with the memory of what they’d made together.

After a while, the hush thickened, and Riley shifted, curling one leg under herself, eyes scanning the shadows that pooled along the baseboards.

"My mom used to say, 'There's no such thing as closure, only getting tired enough to stop circling the drain,'" she said, her voice flat but not bitter. "But I never got tired. Just meaner, I guess."

Andy waited, letting her fill the silence however she wanted.

Riley drummed her fingers against the arm of the couch, the rhythm sharp, controlled. "You want to know something stupid? I resented John for dying." She laughed, low and humorless. "I mean, I know it wasn't his choice. But in a way, it was. He signed up. He deployed even when I begged him not to. And then the universe took him at his word. Like it wanted to punish both of us."

Andy didn't argue. He just nodded, inviting her to keep going.

She exhaled, nostrils flaring. "The part nobody gets is that I loved him. I loved him so fucking much I was willing to pretend the future was going to be normal. But it never was. We knew the odds. We talked about it. We even joked—gallows humor, you know? Like, 'If I go, use the life insurance to start a cat sanctuary.' Shit like that."

Andy smiled at the thought. "Would he have liked that?" He asked, careful not to break the mood.

"He would have hated the actual cats," Riley shot back, smirking. "Allergic as hell. But he’d have loved the attention."

Her face softened. "When I found out I was pregnant, I was furious with him. Not because I didn’t want the baby. I wanted him the moment I learned he was coming. I wanted both him and his father. But I knew right away John wouldn’t be there for any of it. And I hated him for that. I hated him every single day I carried that kid, knowing that even if John survived the tour, he’d still be a ghost in our life. Always halfway in the past."

Andy let her words settle. Riley picked at the sleeve of her sweater, rolling the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. "And then the baby didn’t even make it a day. Just—" She snapped her fingers, a single sharp pop. "Gone. And suddenly I was mad at the whole universe for tricking me into thinking I’d get either of them."

She looked at Andy then, the color in her face gone flat with the effort of holding herself together. "God, I was an asshole back then. I think I believed if I acted tough enough, nothing could break through." She paused, the words catching in her throat. "But I still talk to him, you know? The baby, too. I know it’s dumb, but I do. I tell them about the weather, and the dumb things the students do, and the fights I get into with the Homeowners’ Association. Sometimes I swear I can hear him laughing."

Andy shifted closer on the couch, close enough that his knee touched hers. "That’s not dumb. That’s love."

She closed her eyes, breathing out slow. "You’re not going to try and fix me, are you?"

He shook his head. "No. You don’t need fixing. You just need people to share these stories with."

They sat for a while longer, the comfort of another body beside her enough to keep Riley from floating off into old stories. When she finally spoke again, her voice was softer, the edges sanded off.

"You know what’s funny? I don’t remember most of the pain. I remember the good stuff. The stupid little details." She paused, thinking. "He always bought the wrong kind of milk. He could never remember my birthday, but he’d bring home the exact right kind of flower, every time. And the baby—he looked just like him. Even with his eyes closed."

Andy didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

When Riley wiped at her cheek, there was no drama to it—just a tired acceptance.

"Thanks," she said, and it wasn’t clear if she meant for listening, or for not running, or maybe for both.

Andy squeezed her knee, a brief, anchoring touch.

He let her sit with it as long as she needed.

When she finally straightened, pulling herself back together, Riley exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for a decade.

They sat together, not talking for a stretch, both staring past the room to someplace just out of reach. Eventually, Riley broke the silence, her voice softened to a register Andy didn’t often hear.

"You remember Warrenville?" she asked. "The creek, the busted-up swing set behind St. Cecilia’s, all the dumb shit we all used to do when school let out?"

Andy nodded, the memory near enough to touch. "We’d stay until the light went, every night in the summer. Laura’d dare us to jump the creek at the widest part. I never made it."

"You did the one time I was there," Riley said, a half-smile cutting through her face. "You wrecked your ankle and pretended it didn’t hurt. Laura called you a hero. I called you a dumbass."

Andy chuckled, then let the memory roll over him. "She could never stand being indoors. Said her dad kept the house too dark—like he was hiding from the world. My mom, on the other hand, never shut the curtains. I always thought Laura hung out at my place for the cookies. Now I wonder if it was the sunlight."

Riley nodded, her eyes gone somewhere else. "I hated your mother for a while, you know? I was jealous. She never forgot a birthday, always asked how you did on your tests. Laura’s mom—she’d just hand her a twenty and tell her to pick up dinner on the way home. It wasn’t until later I realized how bad it was, with the dad. Laura would never talk about it, not even to me. Sometimes I’d hear her on the phone with you, whispering. Like you were the only one who could hear the truth."

Andy picked at the seam on the couch. "We talked about running away once. Laura had this plan—we’d stow away on a Greyhound, head for Seattle. She said the rain was better there. Not so heavy. More like a mist."

"I remember," Riley said, her lips curving up at the edge. "I told her she’d hate the seafood. She said she’d learn to love it, if you did."

That caught Andy off guard. He’d never known that part.

They let the nostalgia drift for a bit, the warmth of it edged with old sorrow. Then Riley’s face darkened, her jaw clenching.

"You know what used to scare her?" she said, voice low. "Becoming her dad. She said it to me once. We were twelve, lying on the trampoline in my backyard, staring at the stars. She said she didn’t know what love was supposed to feel like, but she was scared she’d never get it right. That she’d fuck it up, just like him."

Andy felt his chest go tight. "I never knew that."

Riley looked at him, and for a second all her sharpness faded. "You were the only one she ever trusted, Andy. Even when you two were fighting, she couldn’t stop talking about you. My God, it was exhausting."

He snorted, but it was a wounded sound. "I don’t think she died believing that."

"Maybe not," Riley admitted, "but she never stopped loving you. Not for a second." She stared into her lap, her hands twisting the pillow between them. "Sometimes I envied that. The way you two were always orbiting each other. It was like the rest of us were just waiting for you to figure it out."

Andy tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. "My mom used to joke that she expected us to get married at twenty-one. She’d say, ‘That girl’s trouble, Andy. But the good kind.’ I never told Laura. I thought she’d think it was embarrassing." He never told Laura. He never told her, and now he never would, and the fact seemed to echo in the sudden hush.

Riley let out a breath. “She would’ve rolled her eyes, but then she’d have bragged to everyone.” There was a fondness in the way she said it—a recognition of Laura’s endless need to poke holes, to make everything a performance.

Andy nodded, but the words wouldn’t come. He remembered the last summer before middle school, when Laura had insisted they try to camp out in the drainage culvert behind St. Cecilia’s. They’d made it until midnight before the mosquitoes found them, and Andy had spent the next week scratching his legs bloody, but Laura had told the story for months, adding details every time. She’d once claimed they’d fought off a family of possums.

He shared the memory. Riley laughed, soft and raw. “She always did that—added just enough bullshit to make you wish it was true.”

“That was her favorite thing,” Andy said. “Making you want to believe.”

“She never believed she was worth it,” Riley said. “Not for me, not for you. She needed the stories, because she believed she was nothing, otherwise.”

“She didn’t let herself believe she was everything,” Andy corrected. “She always thought herself too little, too unimportant. Her parents, they never… her mother tried at times, but her father would always shut it down. I tried my best. My parents did, too, but they couldn’t be the same.” He stopped, his breath hitching. “But she knew. I hope she knew.”

The room was warm, the overhead light casting long, gentle shadows. After a long pause, Riley said, “I used to want to be her. Not just like her. I mean—actually her. I’d imagine what it would be like to wake up with her face, her hair. I’d sit in my room and practice her smile. I even tried to copy the way she walked, that loose-hipped swagger like she was daring you to push her over.” She looked at Andy, daring him to laugh. He did not. But he remembered Laura’s walk, and his heart broke for a moment.

Riley turned this over. “I was always orbiting you two,” she said. “I wanted to hate you so bad, Andy. Sometimes I thought I did. But when Laura was with you, it was the only time she seemed—” She searched for the word. “Whole. Like the jagged pieces fit together.”

He let that land. “You were her best friend, Riley. I was just—”

She cut him off. “Don’t. That’s a lie. You know it. She loved you, in ways I could never touch.”

The truth hurt, but it also brought a strange relief. He’d spent so many years doubting, parsing every conversation for secret resentment. But here it was, spoken aloud: they’d both been chasing the same sun. Only, it had never been a real race.

Riley broke the silence. “Did you know she was scared of dying young? She thought it was a curse, or a prophecy. The summer before—she came to my room one night, just showed up in her pajamas. I think her father had hurt her, she had a bruise on her shoulder. She was disheveled, scared, and said, ‘If I don’t make it, you have to make sure Andy doesn’t go to shit. He needs a handler.’ She made it sound like a joke, but she made me promise.”

Andy blinked, the words hitting harder than he’d expected. “She never told me that.”

“I forgot, myself,” Riley said, almost apologetic. “Or maybe I wanted to spite her. But when it happened—when she died—I remembered. Every day. I was just so pissed at you, I could not bring myself to do what she had asked me.”

He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to ground himself. “I tried to hold it together. For years. But nothing made sense after that.”

“I know,” Riley said. “Me too.”

She let the silence breathe, then added, “I used to think soulmates were a scam. Something **** people made up to justify bad decisions. But you two—if there was ever such a thing, that’s what it was. Not just romance, not even friendship. Just—fate. Like the universe made a mistake, and then doubled down to see what would happen.”

Andy didn’t know what to say to that. He stared at the resort lights, the smallness of them. “I thought, if I just tried hard enough, I could fix it. Like, if I loved her the right way, she’d come back. Or at least stop haunting me.”

Riley snorted. “You’re such an engineer, Andy. Always looking for the workaround.”

They both laughed at that, the sound brittle but true.

“She loved that about you,” Riley said. “She said you’d probably end up a billionaire, or in prison. Or both.”

“Both are still on the table,” Andy said.

Riley smiled, then let her head fall back against the couch. “I miss her.”

“Me too,” Andy said.

They didn’t need to say more.

The room was thick with memory, but not in a way that drowned them. It was more like sharing a tent in the woods—small, a little claustrophobic, but safe from the storm outside.

Riley shifted, leaning her shoulder into Andy’s. “You know what’s weird? I don’t feel angry at you anymore. Not even a little.”

Andy hesitated, then asked, “What changed?”

She thought for a moment. “I guess I realized you were just as lost as I was. Maybe more. You were never the villain, Andy. Just a guy who lost the same thing I did.”

He exhaled, slow. “Thank you.”

She squeezed his arm. “Don’t get sentimental, or I’ll hit you.”

He grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They sat like that, side by side, the hush not so much a gap as a bridge. For the first time in a long while, Andy felt the pressure in his chest loosen, as if the world had shifted a degree and he could finally breathe.

After a while, Riley said, “You know what I really want?”

Andy raised an eyebrow.

“A nap,” she said. “A real one. Not the kind where you wake up hating yourself.”

Andy laughed. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

She kicked him, but gently. “You’re impossible.”

He stood, found a throw blanket, and draped it over Riley’s shoulders. She wrapped herself in it, then curled her feet under her, eyes already closing.

“You’re going to be okay, you know,” she said, voice drowsy but sure.

“So are you,” Andy replied.

She didn’t answer. She was already gone, lost in some better world.

Andy watched her for a moment, then turned back to the window, letting the memories swirl and settle.

---

It was almost midnight by the time Andy stirred from his reveries. Riley was still on the couch, blanket twisted around her, one arm dangling off the cushion as if she’d reached for something in her sleep and given up halfway. Her breathing was deep and uneven, lips parted just enough to let out a little sound with every exhale. The sight of her—utterly spent, folded into herself, but still here—filled Andy with a feeling he hadn’t had in years. He didn’t know what to call it. Solidarity, maybe.

He sat down at the edge of the couch, careful not to jostle her, and watched her face in the faint blue from the kitchen. The lines there were softer now; the bite of the day was gone, replaced by something fragile. He stayed there for a while, not touching her, just watching the slow rise and fall of her breath. He lost track of the minutes. Maybe he nodded off, or maybe time bent sideways, but the next thing he knew, Riley’s eyes were open, watching him. She didn’t flinch or pull the blanket tighter; she just met his gaze, unblinking.

“You’re still here,” she said, voice so low it was almost a rasp.

Andy nodded. “Didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

Riley let the words settle. Then she pushed herself up, the blanket slipping to her lap. “I’m fine,” she said, even though she clearly wasn’t.

He didn’t argue. He reached out, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. It was an old gesture, automatic, but it felt different this time. Maybe because she didn’t duck away, didn’t smirk, just let him do it.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said. “I mean it.”

Riley shrugged. “Just talked your ear off, like always.”

He shook his head. “No. You gave me something back. I’d almost forgotten what that felt like.”

For a second, neither looked away. Andy felt the question in her eyes: what now? He didn’t have an answer, but he did have a sudden, absurd impulse.

He leaned in, slow enough that she could stop him, and kissed her.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even urgent. Just a soft, hesitant press of lips, a question asked and answered at the same time. Riley didn’t move, didn’t respond, but she didn’t pull away, either. When he broke the contact, she just looked at him, brows raised, then let out a sound—a sort of surprised, choked laugh.

Kissed the Master! +1 VP

“What the hell was that?” she whispered.

He flushed, suddenly aware of every nerve in his face. “I don’t know. It just felt right.”

She shook her head, a bemused smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You’re a dork, Cooper.”

He let out a shaky breath. “I’m not trying to start something. I just—needed you to know. That you matter to me. Not because of her. Because of you.”

For a second, Riley looked like she might argue. Then she just sighed, rolled her eyes, and said, “You’re lucky I’m too tired to psychoanalyze that.”

They sat there, close enough for their knees to touch, neither reaching for more, but neither moving apart.

Eventually, Riley stood, stretched her arms overhead, and regarded the empty hallway. “I should probably crash before I say something even dumber,” she said.

“Bed’s yours,” Andy said. “I can take the couch.”

She eyed him. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy. C’mon.”

He followed her down the hall, both of them moving slowly, as if afraid to wake some sleeping thing in the walls. The bedroom was cool and almost too perfect, the sheets still crisp from the morning’s changeover.

Riley flopped onto the left side, burrowing under the blanket, leaving the right side open. Andy hesitated, then lay down on top of the covers, keeping a modest distance.

Riley reached over, grabbed the hem of the comforter, and yanked it over him. “I’m not contagious, you know,” she muttered.

He smiled in the dark. “Old habits.”

She rolled to face him, propped up on one elbow. “You gonna try and kiss me again?”

He considered it. “Only if you want.”

She laughed, a real one this time. “I think once is enough for tonight.”

They lay there, the hush so thick it felt like a shield. Andy stared at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of the stucco, listening to the steady rhythm of Riley’s breath. He felt more awake than he had all week, but in a good way—a sense that the next morning might not be a punishment.

After a while, Riley spoke, voice soft. “You know, you’re not the worst person to share a bed with.”

He turned to look at her, found her eyes open and searching. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

She smiled, then rolled onto her back, arms folded behind her head. “Night, Andy.”

“Night, Riley.”

They didn’t touch, not at first. But by the time Andy drifted toward sleep, Riley’s foot had found his under the covers, and neither of them moved it away.

---

Andy dreamed of the river, as he always did.

The cold in the dream was not water, but time—a slow, steady pressure that filled his ears and lungs until he couldn't tell if he was breathing or drowning. He stood at the edge of the bank, mud sucking at his shoes, the world on the other side warped by a haze that was almost, but not quite, sunlight. He saw Laura, already halfway across, her hair dark and matted, her arms slashing through the current with more defiance than fear.

She called out, but the words were eaten by wind. He tried to shout back, but nothing came; the air was thick, his throat raw. Instead, he ran—down the slick bank, over the same slick rocks, the same panic in his chest as the first time, every time.

She reached the center of the river and paused, treading water, her face turned to him and only him. The look wasn't accusation, not this time. It was something closer to apology, or maybe understanding. Her mouth moved, forming words he couldn't hear.

Movement caught his eye—a hunched figure in an ash-gray robe kneeling at the river's edge, hands dipped into the current. The figure turned, revealing a sharp, pointed black beard beneath a hood. Its eyes blazed like embers, fixing on Andy with such intensity that he felt stripped bare, judged, found wanting. The figure's lips curled beneath that dark beard, and Andy knew with bone-deep certainty he didn't belong here, that he was trespassing on something ancient and unforgiving.

The world jerked into focus with a gasp, Andy’s hands clawing at the sheets, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. It was still dark. The apartment was dead quiet except for the thump of his own heart and the distant whir of the fridge in the kitchen.

Beside him, Riley was awake. She must have felt him bolt upright. Without a word, she slid her hand over his chest, palm flat, heavy and grounding. She didn’t ask if he was okay; she didn’t say a word. She just shifted closer, her cheek resting against his collarbone, her arm curling around him as if to keep him from being swept away.

Andy fought to breathe. The river wasn’t gone; it never was. But the cold in his chest started to recede, replaced by the steady heat of Riley’s hand, the slow rise and fall of her breath.

“Sorry,” he managed, his voice little more than sand.

Riley shook her head, her hair brushing his chin. “Don’t be.”

They stayed like that, Andy on his back, Riley half-sprawled across him, the sheets a tangle around their legs. She didn’t ask what he saw. Maybe she knew, or maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe everyone’s river looked the same, in the dark.

She spoke, at last, her voice so close to his ear it vibrated through his skull. “You know, Laura used to tell me she believed in you more than anyone. Even when she pretended not to. She said you’d always find the way back, even if it took you a hundred tries. She was scared she’d drag you down.”

Andy swallowed, blinking hard. “She told you that?”

“She told me a lot of things,” Riley said. “Mostly when she was sad, or scared. Or drunk. She thought you’d never forgive her if you knew how much she needed you. But I think she was wrong. About that, at least.”

Andy exhaled, shaky but steadier. He found Riley’s hand with his own and squeezed it, tight.

“She always came back to me,” he said, the words soft as breath.

Riley nodded, her forehead pressed to his shoulder. “You were her gravity, Andy. I hated it, but I also kind of loved it. Because it meant she’d never be lost, not really. Not as long as you remembered.”

They lay there, neither asleep nor awake, holding the memory of Laura between them like a third body in the bed. Andy let his eyes close, not because he wanted to dream, but because it felt better than staring into the dark.

For the rest of the night, they didn’t let go.

When morning finally arrived—thin and gray, the resort slow to shake itself awake—Andy turned and found Riley watching him, her hair wild, her eyes bright and full of everything they hadn’t said.