Wish Upon A Star

by Jasinda Wilder

  Fortunately, we’re close to Cheyenne by now, so within another thirty minutes, we’re checking into a new-ish Hilton sub-brand.

  The clerk—a young, attractive Hispanic woman—widens her eyes when I hand her my card and she reads the name on it. She doesn’t say anything, however, or otherwise give any indication of recognizing me. I give her a smile and very genuine thank-you as she hands us the little bi-fold envelope with our room number.

  I carry my go-bag as well as Jo’s to the elevator. She leans against me, eyes drooping.

  “Tired, huh?” I ask.

  She nods. “I didn’t even do anything. You did all the driving.”

  “Travel is tiring, even if all you’re doing is sitting there.” I have my bag on my shoulder and hers in my hand, so I wrap my free hand around her shoulders as we ride the elevator up. “So, it’s not just you, and it’s not weird or unusual.”

  We reach our room, a main floor single king room. Entering and flicking on the lights, I set our bags down on the floor by the TV, and bend to untie my boots. It’s then I notice that Jo is frozen in the entryway, staring with wide eyes at the bed.

  The one bed.

  I straighten, one boot undone. “Shit. Jo, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I should have gotten us two beds.” I wipe my face with a hand. “Hey, listen. I’ll just go and get us a different room. Or another room next to this—it’s empty, I’m pretty sure, on one side or the other.” I retie my boot and move for the doorway. “Just…hang here and I’ll be right back.”

  She puts a hand on my chest to halt me. “No, it’s okay.”

  “Jo, I just wasn’t thinking clearly, since I’m tired. I’m not—” I swallow hard, sigh. “I’m not assuming or expecting anything to… happen between us. I’m not expecting you to be ready to share a bed with me, even if all we do is sleep.”

  She smiles up at me. “Wes, it’s okay. It was just…a moment of weirdness on my part. I’ve never shared a bed with anyone except Bethany.” She leaves her hand on my chest, her eyes on the point of contact. “I know you’re not going to push me or rush me into anything. And…I don’t want a separate room, or a separate bed.” She bites her lower lip. “I’m not saying I’m ready for anything to…you know…happen. But I guess maybe we just—we just start here.”

  I search her face, her eyes, her expression. “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Yes.” No hesitation.

  “Okay, then.” I feel nervous, oddly. “As long as you’re a hundred percent sure you’re okay with it.”

  “I am.”

  I cover her hand with mine, and then, on impulse, I curl my hand around hers and lift her fingers to my lips, kiss her knuckles, each of them in turn.

  Her pupils dilate, her nostrils flare. Her chest swells as she sucks in a breath.

  God, she’s responsive. Sensitive.

  I clamp down hard on that line of thinking. Kiss the back of her hand, and then let go. Sit on the bed and take off my boots, my socks.

  My jeans are tight and I’m ready to take them off, but that seems kind of forward. Issue is, I didn’t bring shorts or anything. I hadn’t anticipated a need.

  She’s just watching me. She’s kicked off her shoes and is looking at me, as if waiting for something. “Now what?”

  I laugh. “No idea. I’m gonna brush my teeth. Maybe turn the TV on for a few minutes, just to unwind.”

  She glances at her suitcase, which is a small, hard-sided roller with an extendable handle. New, nice, and lightly used. Her eyes widen, and she smothers a shocked laugh with her hand. “Ohmygosh. I just realized something.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “I forgot to pack pajamas.”

  “What do you usually sleep in?”

  She blushes. It’s adorable. “Um. Usually just whatever shirt I was wearing and some underwear. Or just my underwear.” The blush spreads, deepens. “I wasn’t even thinking about pajamas.”

  I laugh. “Honestly, I didn’t bring any either. I’m like you, just my underwear, usually.”

  “So…what do we do?”

  I shrug. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. I can sleep in my jeans and T-shirt.” The thought makes me cringe, but I’ll do it for her.

  She shakes her head. “We can be adults about this, right? Nothing to be weird about.” She bites that lower lip again. “It’s just underwear. No different than wearing a bikini to the beach.” She snickers. “I don’t own a bikini, but still.”

  “You don’t?”

  A shrug. “Nope. Once pieces only. My parents are pretty conservative. My grandma is a Christian, and raised my dad that way. We don’t really go to church much, but they still hold to a lot of the more conservative ideals and such, such as modesty. And, you know…no sex before marriage.” If she blushes any deeper, I’m worried she’ll faint from the blood rush or something.

  “And what about you?” I ask. “What do you believe? You personally, I mean. Not them, but you.”

  She sits on the bed beside me, hands propped behind her. The bed is high enough and she’s short enough that her toes don’t touch the ground, and she bounces her foot off the side of the bed. “You know, funny you should ask.” A sniff of a laugh. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. My beliefs are…complicated. I’ve spent a lot of time in oncology wards, as you can imagine. And I’ve seen…some incredible things. Miraculous healing—literally, a girl I know was stage four, terminal, and she just…one day, was healed. No cancer. No surgery, no chemo, no radiation, no treatment of any kind. It just vanished without explanation and last I knew, never came back. But then I’ve seen someone go from a benign tumor to dead in weeks. There’s…more, to life. More than just what we see. I have no doubt of that whatsoever. What I struggle with is the question of…is it God? And does he care? He, she, whatever, I don’t know. It’s God, maybe gender doesn’t apply. And if it is God, and if God cares, why am I dying? Why me? Why anyone? It’s impossible to figure out.” A slow sigh. “Not the question you were asking, I know.”

  “No, this is the stuff I want to know, want to talk about. Not just surface stuff.”

  She nods, but her eyes see nothing, staring into middle distance. “What do I believe? I believe in love. Mom and Dad are proof. They love each other, and that love has gotten them through…well, everything with me. And when I was little, Mom miscarried at twelve weeks. I remember her being sad for a long, long time. It was before I was sick. So she went from that to me getting sick, and Dad just…he was there for her. Loved her through her sadness. So I believe in love. What else do I believe?”

  A long pause. I don’t rush it.

  “I believe a certain amount of modesty is necessary. I think there’s a little too much emphasis in our culture on provocative, overly revealing, overly sexualized clothing, and it just seems unnecessary. Like, keep some of that private. But I also believe that’s an individual choice. I wouldn’t walk around half naked like some girls I see, but then again, I posted that video of me, and it’s obvious I’m not wearing a bra. Some people might think that’s immodest. I know Mom said something about it, after I showed her the video. But I almost never wear a bra so I didn’t even think about it.” She shrugs. “I think…I think my life experience has made it kind of impossible for me to say I know what I believe regarding sex before marriage. I honestly never really imagined it’d be an issue for me, so why bother worrying about it?” Her eyes cut to mine. “I guess maybe it does apply, now.”

  “Doesn’t have to, Jolene. I want you to really understand that this is all about you. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  She smiles. “Thank you. And I guess I need to figure that out, huh?” Another pause. “I guess…I think…I feel like…it should mean something. Sex, I mean. It shouldn’t just be…whatever, you know? Like, something to do, for fun or just because it feels good, or…or whatever. It should be meaningful. Maybe it doesn’t have to be within the context of legal marriage, though. That feels a little backward to me. Or, archaic,
maybe. But it definitely shouldn’t be casual. To me, at least.”

  “I feel the same way,” I say.

  “You do?”

  I nod. “Yeah, for sure.”

  She bites her lip. Glances at me. “Can I…can I ask you a really personal question?”

  I smile at her. “Of course.” I know what the question is.

  “Are you a virgin?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m not.” I hold her hand. “You can ask me anything, you know.”

  She frowns thoughtfully. “I think…for me to ask anything more would feel like I’m prying. Like it’s not my business.”

  “Well, then, I can offer the information. It was my first girlfriend, back home in Vermont. We’d known each other since, like, kindergarten. I’d had schoolyard crushes, right? Like holding hands on the bus and stuff like that. But she was my first real, serious girlfriend. We started dating exclusively sophomore year. We were both virgins, and we waited until we were seniors to be together like that. We dated until the Swan Song thing happened, and everything got crazy. I barely managed to graduate, and then I immediately moved to LA. She actually broke up with me.” I can’t help a smile. “She said—I remember very clearly—she told me she didn’t want to hold me back, and she knew I’d be too worried about hurting her to break up with her, so she was doing it first, for me. And…she wasn’t wrong. I knew it was my chance, and I couldn’t deal with a long-distance girlfriend and all that, and she was going to college anyway, so…” I shrug.

  “And that was…it? With her?”

  I roll a shoulder. “No, not exactly. This isn’t public knowledge, but I actually secretly dated Alessa Howell. We kept it secret from everyone, even our management teams. So…there was her. But media pressure was too much and we mutually decided to call it off. It was just too much hype. We got photographed at dinner together, once, and the world went apeshit. That was too much. We didn’t want our brands, our images as actors and artists, to become conflated with who we were dating.” I pause, sigh. “I was sad about that, actually. Alessa was sweet and really funny. But it just wouldn’t have worked.”

  She nods. “Mmm-hmmm.”

  I smirk at her. “What? Jealous?”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “No, of course not.”

  “Then what?”

  She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

  “No, say it.”

  She winces. “I guess I had some false assumptions about you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, you’re so good-looking and so famous that I figured you could snap your fingers and have any woman on the planet.” She rubs her head. “And I guess I assumed you would have…you know, taken advantage of that. You’ve only been with two people?”

  I bump her with my shoulder. “It’s an easy assumption to make, and I think most people would assume the same. And, I guess there’s some truth to the basis of the assumption, in that I probably could find someone to date or…you know, just sleep with…pretty easily. But that’s not who I am. And I’ve set out to try to make sure being a star or whatever doesn’t change me as a person. I want to be the same person I would have been had I not gotten discovered. I wouldn’t be sleeping around with every girl who batted her eyes at me, and I’m not going to be that guy now that more people know who I am and maybe would want…I don’t know, just me, I guess, simply because I’m famous.”

  She nods. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

  I shrug. “Of course.”

  She’s restless, foot kicking in a relentless rhythm. Abruptly, she slides forward off the bed and stands up, crouches by her suitcase and opens it, prods at the tight rolls of clothing, and pulls one free. A shirt, it looks like. She stands again, facing me. Gnaws on her lower lip, gazing at me. Considering.

  Then, she turns away from me, slips one arm out of the sleeve of her dress, then the other, and the garment billows the floor around her feet. She’s wearing seafoam green underwear, silk briefs. A white bra. She hesitates, and then reaches behind her back and unhooks the bra, slides it off, tosses it to the floor. For a moment, then, she just stands there. Contemplating turning around, maybe?

  She doesn’t.

  She shakes the rolled-up shirt out, sticks her hands through the sleeves, and then shrugs it on. The hem falls to her waist, leaving a slight gap of pale, freckled skin above the elastic of her underwear. It’s a tank top, deep blue, worn—a favorite item. She turns. Faces me.

  Her legs are long and slender. The underwear cup her sex, and I force my eyes upward. Her nipples are hard, poking against the shirt.

  She shifts her weight, and her arms cross around her middle—briefly, and then she drops them. Just stands there, as if inviting me to look at her. It strikes me that this moment is one of bravery, for her.

  I can’t help but to rise to my feet, cross the small distance between us. Take her face in my hands, tilt her mouth to mine. Claim her lips in a kiss. Soft, slow.

  “You’re beautiful, Jolene,” I whisper.

  “When you look at me like that,” she breathes, “I feel…” she trails off, lets out a sharp breath. “I feel beautiful.”

  “You should feel beautiful, because you are.”

  She ducks her head. She’s shaking all over. “Thank you, Wes.”

  “Why are you shaking?”

  A lift of a shoulder. “I’m…I’m feeling all sorts of ways. It’s a lot and it’s confusing.”

  “Tell me. Talk to me.”

  She leans in against me, and I gather her close, arms around her, the top of her head fitting perfectly under my jaw. “I feel emotional—that this is real, that I’m here, with you. That you want to kiss me. That I get to be here with you, like this.” A quiet moment, just our not-quite synchronized breathing. “I also feel…” she trails off. “God, I don’t know how to say it.”

  “However you want. However it’s true, whatever it is.”

  She nuzzles closer. Her hands lock around my waist. She breathes in, as if to memorize my scent. “Physically, I feel…” Another shrug, a gesture of helplessness to find the right words. “A lot.”

  “Like what, Jo? Don’t…don’t feel embarrassed. We can talk about things.”

  She doesn’t reply for a moment. “Okay, well…god, it’s so many things. I was this close to turning around, earlier. Just to…to…I don’t even know. See what it felt like to be…naked. With someone. With you. Or, not all the way naked, obviously, but nearly. But I chickened out. I was too scared.”

  “Of what?”

  She huffs a laugh. “Of being topless in front of you? It’s embarrassing.”

  I tilt her head up to look at me. “Why is it embarrassing?”

  She’s crimson. “Wes, come on.”

  “What?”

  “Do I have to say it?”

  I shake my head. “You don’t have to say anything, Jo.”

  Another huff. She tucks her chin down again. Resumes nuzzling against my chest. “I’m skinny. And flat. I’m not…” a sigh, trailing into silence. “I’m nothing like Alessa Howell. One of her boobs is probably bigger than both of mine put together.”

  I can’t help a snort. “Jo…” I sigh. “I’m laughing because that was a funny turn of phrase. I’m not laughing at how you feel.” I hunt for the right way to reassure her. “I’m not comparing.”

  “I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” I can hear her jaw grinding. “Because I don’t feel—because I’m worried you’ll…”

  “What, Jo?”

  “I just feel like you won’t like how I look. Naked, I mean. Sure, maybe you think I have a beautiful face. Beautiful eyes, a beautiful soul. All that. But that’s not…it doesn’t change the fact that I have all the curves of a stick bug.”

  “You said that when I looked at you, you felt beautiful.”

  A nod.

  “I don’t know to…how to navigate this, Jo. I don’t want to rush you or push you, or make you feel pressured or ob
jectified or…any of that. But I also do want you to feel beautiful and…and desired.” I touch her chin. “Because you are, Jolene.”

  “I am what?”

  “Desired.”

  “Oh.”

  “All of you.” I let my hands skate down over her arms. I put my hands on her hips, at her waist. Just hold her like that. Let her feel my touch somewhere other than hands and face. “Not just your eyes or your face or your soul. All of you.”

  She turns her face up to mine. Her hands rest on my shoulders. “It might take some repeating of this conversation for me to really start feeling it as the truth. Just FYI.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll repeat it as much as possible.”

  “The other thing is, when we kiss…I feel it.” She licks her lips. “I mean, when we kiss, my insecurities fade. You kiss me and I feel beautiful. And honestly, that’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt.”

  I could tell her a lot of things that would be true—that there’s so, so much more to sensuality and beauty and sexuality than your body measurements; that desire isn’t logical; that attraction is complex and simple all at once.

  In the end, though, the most effective thing seems to be to just kiss her.

  She’s pressed flat up against me, and I touch her chin with a finger. Her lips part, and a breath escapes her, and then she lifts up on her toes and kisses me first. Her hands bury into my hair. Her lips seek mine, strong and warm and wet and insistent.

  This time, she’s not kissing me to feel the kiss. She’s kissing me to explore the limits of the kiss. To seek the feeling of being desired. I feel my nerves singing—I want her, I really do, but I’m worried about taking it too far too fast, of pushing her into something she’s not prepared for.

  I let her guide the kiss.

  She pauses after a moment, to breathe—and then she meets my eyes. “I don’t want to stop kissing you.”

  “Don’t have to.”

  “I don’t know where it goes, from here.”

  “Wherever you want it to.”

  “That’s what I’m saying—I don’t know.”