Good grief, he’s gorgeous.
My stomach flutters just looking at him.
And then…he smiles at me; it’s like the world turned upside down, knowing that a smile that bright, that joyful, that brilliant and beautiful is meant for me. “Hey, you. Ready?”
I bite my lip, suddenly rethinking my outfit. “Yeah!” I say, a little too eagerly, a little too brightly.
He makes a face somewhere between a frown and an amused smirk. “You wouldn’t be bullshitting me, now, would you?”
“Nope!”
“Jo.” He takes my hand. “What is it? Second thoughts?” He has my other hand, now. He’s so earnest, so genuine. “No big deal, we can give it another day. Or two. Or whatever.”
“No, for real, it’s not that. I promise. No second thoughts.” I laugh. “If you ask my parents, I’ve barely given this a first thought.”
“Then what? I can tell there’s something.”
“It’s stupid.”
“I won’t think so.”
I sigh. “It’s just that you’re…” I gesture at him. “So freaking incredible-looking. Like, that outfit is perfect. Spotless white shirt. The jeans, the boots, the hat. The whole thing is just…perfect.” I pluck at the skirt of my flowy, white with blue flowers sundress, which I’ve paired with strappy white sandals. “I guess I just feel a little…plain. Next to you.”
He frowns. “Jolene, you are anything but plain.” He takes off the hat and messes up his hair. “There, I’m scrubby.”
This just earns him a cackle from me. “Nope, sorry,” I say, still laughing, “but a little bit of rumpled hair just makes you look even sexier.”
He replaces his hat and slides the sunglasses up onto the brim. His deep brown eyes meet mine. “Jo, listen. I’ve chosen to be here. I’ve chosen to be with you. You should never feel plain. You should never doubt yourself. If those thoughts hit, just remember that I am choosing you.” He cups my cheek, brushes a thumb over my lips. “I’m choosing to be with you because I like you. I am attracted to you. I want to know more about you. Spend time with you.”
I sigh, hearing that from anyone, let alone him? It’s hard to hold on to the fact that it’s real. It’s happening—to me. “I know they say there’s nothing sexier than confidence, but that’s just something I struggle with, in certain areas. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of who I am. I’ve been through a lot and I like to think I’ve handled it with a certain amount of dignity and grace. But being confident in what I look like and feeling confident in my body has not always been easy. I try, but—it’s just hard. I just haven’t exactly had a lot of opportunity to feel…beautiful, I guess.” I laugh, but it comes across a little bitter. “Probably something to do with feeling sick and having my hair either falling out or growing back in for most of my life.”
He smiles. “Well, then. I’ll just have to make it my top priority to make sure you feel beautiful and desired.” He licks his lips, eyes going to my mouth, then cutting to my front door. Back to my eyes. “I’d kiss you to prove the point, but your parents are watching and I don’t want to seem like I’m rubbing anything in.”
I pull back and touch his chin with a finger. “Could I get a rain check on that?”
“Definitely.” He walks me around to the passenger side and opens the door for me, waits until I’m fully in, and then closes it.
As he rounds the hood, he waves at my parents, who wave back but remain in the doorway, watching.
His car smells good. Like leather and vanilla air freshener, and him. There’s an expensive-looking leather duffel bag on the rear passenger seat, a case of sparkling water on the floor, and an open box of meat sticks. A leather jacket is draped on the seat behind the driver.
He’s behind the wheel, then, shifting around and buckling, then punching a button to start the car.
“This is a really nice car, Wes,” I say.
He grins. “Isn’t it? I love it. It’s a Range Rover Autobiography.” He twists to look behind us as he backs out of the driveway. “It’s actually the only major purchase I’ve ever made.”
I glance at him in surprise. “Really? This may be rude and none of my business, but I sort of have the impression that you, you know, have a lot of money.”
“Not rude, and it is your business. If we really do end up getting married, it’ll absolutely be your business. And besides, I don’t have anything to hide.” He heads out of my neighborhood, plugging his phone into the car’s infotainment center and pulling up a navigation route back to an address in LA, I assume where he lives. Once this is done, he resumes his answer. “So, when I turned sixteen, my parents gave me their car and they bought a new one. It wasn’t anything fancy, a seven-year-old Volvo. Seven years old then, I mean, and that was five years ago. Nice, reliable, safe, whatever. When the whole Swan Song thing happened, I moved out to LA to pursue a music career, and I continued to drive that car.”
He pauses again as we reach the edge of my neighborhood, makes the turn that will take us to the interstate, and then he resumes speaking.
“I met with Jimmy Swan a few months after that concert, when I’d been signed and a tour was being put together and I had a single out and money was starting to come in in a big way. He was in town and we met for breakfast, and he gave me a lot of advice that I’ve followed ever since. Things like, don’t let the fame go to your head, just try to keep being the same, real you. None of it matters. Be the guy that the folks back home know. That’s one I hold on to. Another one is, make music or art or whatever for you as an artist. But also? You’ll have to do stuff for the money. It’s just reality. Don’t be afraid of that. It’s not selling out, it’s just business. But still try to make art that you’re proud of, even if it is for the money.” He sighs, thinking. “But the one that really hit me and stuck with me was about money. He told me that if he had it all to do over again, he wouldn’t spend a dime for the first few years. Not major, anyway. Buy some nice clothes or go on a nice vacation, that kind of thing. But don’t go buying Lambos and mansions and superyachts or anything like that. Just hold off. Save the money. Find a good money guy and invest it. And once you’re sort of established and the rush of new fame and fortune has sort of…not worn off, but gotten familiar, then you can buy yourself a nice car. And once you find yourself sick of being famous, then you can buy a house. But always buy well within your actual cash means.”
“Hmmm. Interesting advice. And so this car was your first major purchase?”
He nods. “Yup. Bought it about six months ago. I felt like I was comfortable with things—it wasn’t as crazy and confusing as it was at first. And up until I bought this, I was driving the same old-ass Volvo. By the time I retired it, it had over two hundred and fifty thousand miles on it.”
“That’s…a lot.” I try to picture Westley Britton, rock star, movie star, heartthrob, driving a beat-up, twelve-year-old Volvo with a quarter-million miles on it. “That’s pretty impressive, honestly.”
He shrugs. “It got easier when I went into acting. Like anything in life, you tend to find circles of people that you identify with, right? So I had—I have—this group of friends, all actors around my age. We’ve all auditioned for the same films, read for the same roles, we see each other at press junkets and industry parties and stuff. And we’re all young guys and girls on the rise, right? Money’s coming at you, everyone is starting to know your name, you’re being offered roles in big money productions and working with people you’ve grown up watching and idolizing, all that. So it helps to have people who know what you’re going through. Well, there was one guy in this group. Mike. He was a child star, did a few movies, did some stage work. His parents handled things for him for a while, but when he was legally an adult, he took over. Started handling his own money. And he…he either didn’t get the good advice I got, or he didn’t listen, because he’d show up to events in a different car every time. He was filling a giant garage with them. Bought this huge house with enough rooms for fifty peopl
e. The yacht, the condos in Miami and New York and Paris, the whole jet-setter bigwig sort of thing, right?” A sad sigh. “He went broke. Had to take crappy parts for the money, which pushed his desirability down. This made him depressed. He started selling off his cars and condos. But it wasn’t enough because by then he was in debt, and that put him onto drugs and drinking to cope, and last I heard, he’s living in a trailer on a ranch in Montana, trying his best to drink himself to death. I watched it all go down, and I was like, damn—that’s why Jimmy said what he said. And it just reinforced the whole thing for me. So I don’t drink, or if I do it’s only one in a situation where it might be somehow rude not to. I don’t spend money on things I don’t need. I bought this because my Volvo was falling apart and it was starting to cost more to repair than it was worth. And it was honestly getting a little embarrassing to show up to read for a role in a multimillion-dollar movie in a car that could just die any second. So it was time.”
“So then, where do you live?” I ask.
“I rent a place. It’s not, like, a dinky loft in West Hollywood, but it’s not a fifteen-thousand-square-foot estate in Beverly Hills, either. Just, you know, a fairly nice, average home in a fairly nice, average neighborhood. Not the nicest house on the block, and not the nicest car on the block either. I don’t stand out. If any of my neighbors are aware of who I am, they either don’t care or are respectful enough to not make a deal about it.” He grins at me and sniffs a laugh. “Hope you’re not disappointed. Like, ‘oooh, a celebrity is taking me home. Malibu views and million dollar cars.’”
I consider playing into his statement, but in the end I opt for transparency over humor. “I don’t care about any of that, Wes, I really don’t.” I reach out and take his hand, hold it on the console between us. “If being terminally ill has taught me anything, it’s that material possessions don’t really mean much. I won’t be disappointed at a modest house or an average car—although I have to say, this feels anything but average.”
“Well, I mean, most of my friends and co-stars drive Ferraris and Bentleys and whatever, so in comparison, yeah, this is average.”
I squeeze his hand. “Maybe this whole thing started out being about you as Westley Britton, the celebrity, Westley Britton the object of my celebrity crush.” I lick my lips, swallow. “But then at some point after meeting you, it turned into…something else.”
He nods, and he’s quiet a long time. Chewing on something.
I wait a while, for him to formulate his thoughts. He looks at me, opens his mouth, closes it again.
I glance at him. “Whatever it is, Wes, just say it.”
“I don’t know how, that’s the issue.”
“Bluntly. Tact is overrated.”
He exhales slowly. “Okay, I’ll try.” Another long pause follows, however. “I guess I’m just trying to figure out for myself what I’m feeling, and why.”
I wait. “Okay?”
“And it’s tricky.”
“Just say it, Wes. I handled being told I’m going to die in a matter of weeks. I think I can handle whatever it is you’re struggling to say.”
He barks a laugh. “You’re stronger than I am, Jo. Brutal honesty and self-awareness isn’t easy for the rest of us.”
“It’s not easy for me,” I say, “I’ve just never had much choice. Face your own mortality, and your delusions and pretensions get stripped away pretty darn fast. I know exactly who I am, and who I’m not. I have some talent—I can sing, and play the ukulele, and write songs. I’m kinda funny, and emotionally strong and open. I’m very blunt, and tend to dark, morbid humor—most to cover my lingering bitterness at how unfair it all is, which isn’t something you ever really truly get over, I don’t think. I’m not ugly, but I’ll never be a sexy siren. I’ll never have the confidence in my body and my looks that some women have, but I’m also proud of myself. I’m tough. I can handle pain most people cannot and will not ever be able to fathom, and I honestly would not wish the pain of this on anyone. I don’t have a worst enemy, but if I did, I wouldn’t wish it on them.” I shrug. “So it’s not that I’m any, like, better, at understanding myself or being honest, it’s just that I’ve been forced to learn how to be honest with myself in a way others have not.” I squeeze his hand again. “Now. Spit it out.”
He twists his hand so our palms face, and our fingers intertwine. “I’m just trying to figure out my feelings and motivations, and be honest about it all with myself, and thus with you.” A pause as he changes lanes around a slower-moving car. “I do think there was an element of…not pity. Compassion? A desire to just meet you, to bring you some joy, some peace, some happiness. Because the video, your TikTok. It…you—in it, you radiate joy despite obvious tremendous difficulty. There was no sense of self-pity, no sense of bitterness. It wasn’t even resignation. And that called to me. But it was—there was just something about…you. The YOU-ness of you. You seemed…centered and at peace. And that’s just…it’s beautiful.”
He pauses, but resumes again right away, not looking at me as he speaks—his attention is on the road and driving, but also on formulating his thoughts.
“You are beautiful, Jolene. And yes, I mean it in the perhaps cliche way—you have a beautiful soul. Your spirit just radiates a beauty that is truly rare. Is it because of what you’ve been through? Maybe to some degree. Why was I so drawn to you? Because of the whole…package. The music, your vocal talent, the story behind it, the fact that you’ve overcome so much.”
“But, I mean, have I overcome it?” I ask, my voice a whisper. “I’ve survived it…so far. But I’m not going to. So is that overcoming? Or just enduring because I have no choice?”
“You’ve overcome,” he says, firm and immediate. “You haven’t given in to bitterness or resentment. You’re not angry. You’re not sad. You’re living your life. Getting the most out of every moment. And really, it doesn’t seem to me like you’re dwelling on…um, the end, I guess. Accepting what you can’t change, perhaps, but not…not dwelling on it.” He glances at me. “And, Jo? There is one other element to this whole thing. I’m not sure you’ll believe me, but I am attracted to you, physically. You’re beautiful. You are.”
I gaze at him, processing everything he’s saying. “So…if I’m hearing you right, the understanding you’re trying to come to is that you are not doing this with me out of pity for the poor dying girl, because you got into something you don’t know how to get out of.” I swallow hard. “Because, Wes, there’s no obligation. You can change your mind at any time. If it’s too much, I understand.” I crush his hand as hard as I can. “And I’m not going to, like, break apart, if you change your mind. You can tell me the truth and I’ll be okay. I’m strong, Wes. I’m strong enough to handle it if you decide you can’t or don’t want to go through with this. It really is okay.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think we need to examine that anymore, Jo. I know what I’m getting myself into, and I’m still choosing to go forward with you because I want to. I know that to the whole world, maybe, this would be just crazy. Way too much, way too soon, that we can’t possibly know each other well enough to be making these decisions or feeling this way or whatever. And maybe by some kind of logic or rationale, that might be true. But I don’t care. I just know I really like you. I like being with you. I want to spend time with you. And time is short, so why waste it? Let’s just make the process…concentrated. Like orange juice from concentrate—this is love, concentrated.” He glances at me briefly. “From now on, let’s not waste any more time on motivations or is this right or wrong or what do other people think or can I handle it or what even is it we’re doing. Let’s just live in the moment and enjoy it. Okay?”
“I like that plan,” I say.
He hands me his phone. “Now. Put on some music we can sing along to.”
He tells me the passcode to his phone and I put together a good playlist of fun songs to sing along to.
And suddenly, I’m not Cancer Girl, and he’
s not Celebrity Hot Guy; we’re just Wes and Jo, a boy and a girl, singing along to ABBA and Hansen and One Direction and Swan Song and Ricky Martin.
Just a boy and a girl in love, concentrated.
Exploration
Westley
We stop at a hole-in-the-wall diner off the freeway somewhere outside Des Moines. The waitress recognized me and took some surreptitious photos from behind the register. I got up to use the bathroom, and on the way back to our booth, I pulled her aside for a selfie, asking her in return to delete the other one.
I don’t want the media to get ahold of this thing with Jo and me. I don’t want the circus, the hordes of paps chasing us, asking questions. The blogs and vlogs and reels and TikToks dissecting our relationship and my motivation and her intentions and everything in between.
I want to keep Jo out of the spotlight as much as possible. Not because I’m embarrassed or anything like that, but because I don’t think that kind of intense scrutiny is something she needs, and I feel an obligation to protect her from it.
We finish our meal, I pay, and we head out again. I drive us out of Iowa and into Nebraska. Conversation comes and goes in waves. We’ll spend hours talking about everything, and then we’ll lapse into mile after mile of companionable silence. We’ll listen to music, trading favorite songs, top hits from favorite artists, favorite mood playlists. We listen to podcasts for hours on end.
It’s past dark, and I’m drowsy, fighting to stay awake. “I think we gotta stop somewhere,” I tell her. “I need to rest. I’m not used to long drives like this.”
“I wish I could help with the driving,” she says. “I feel dumb for not being able to.”
I offered to let her drive a few hours ago, and she revealed that she doesn’t have a driver’s license. With everything going on in her life, learning to drive hasn’t been a priority. Or possible.
“Nah,” I say. “It’s fine. I’m just gonna start looking for a hotel or something.”
Wish Upon A Star Page 9
