Wish Upon A Star

by Jasinda Wilder

  He takes my hands in his. “Jo, I just…” he breaks off, sighs, trying to find the right words and struggling. “I know you may not be comfortable with this, but…this is gonna be all about you. That’s what it is. It’s how I want it. It’s how it should be.”

  I let out a long breath. “And what you need to understand is that my whole life, everyone around me has made their whole life all about me. I’m the sick one, I’m the one who needs someone to spend hours with me while I’m getting radiated or whatever. I don’t want your whole existence to be solely about me. I want to make my life as much about you as I can. And I don’t want to live like I’m dying, okay? I want to live like I’m living. The Tim McGraw song is great, and I love it, and I sure as heck identify with it. But that’s been my life, living like I’m dying. I’ve seen Paris and Rome, I’ve seen the Grand Canyon, and the Mediterranean. I’ve done all that. Now, I just want to be normal girl in love. I want to fit into your life. I know the temptation is to…coddle me. And cater to me, and…all that. But don’t. Just be with me.”

  He closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath, holds it, then summons a smile and lets the breath out. “Okay. I understand.” He cups my cheek. “So. How about breakfast?”

  “I could eat,” I say. “What do you have?”

  “You like omelets? Because I make a killer omelet, if I do say so myself.”

  “With extra cheese?”

  “So much cheese. Oozing great big gobs of delicious gooey cheese.”

  “And bacon?”

  He winks, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “You know it.”

  I can’t hold back a grin. “Will you cook shirtless? And maybe put on some music and dance while you do it?”

  He smirks. “Why, Miss Park, it feels like you’re objectifying me.”

  I roll my eyes and bite my lower lip. “I mean, a little?”

  He just laughs. “I could probably find it within me to cater to your lecherous desires.”

  “Lecherous desires would be naked but for an apron, and an apron only because I wouldn’t want you to be burned by the spitting bacon grease.”

  He touches his lips to mine. “You’re funny.”

  I arch an eyebrow at him. “Who’s being funny?”

  “So we’re doing naked breakfast, is what you’re saying? Because if I’m naked, so are you.”

  “Clothes are overrated?” I say, phrasing a statement as a hopeful question.

  He slides his hands under the hem of my shirt, grasping the bare flesh of my waist just above the elastic band of my shorts. “The only problem I see with naked breakfast is that if you’re naked, I’m not sure how much cooking or eating will happen. Because you naked is all sorts of distracting, and we’ll end up doing things other than breakfast.”

  I snap my fingers. “Damn. You discovered my diabolical plan.”

  He pulls me flush against his body. “Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,” he says with a sigh.

  “Westley, Westley, Westley.”

  “You don’t need an excuse, or a plan, or anything. You want something with me, or from me, just ask. Or, if not ask in words, communicate what you want somehow.”

  My stomach growls, and I laugh. “Damn bodily needs. I’ll settle for Shirtless Chef.”

  He rumbles a laugh. “That sounds like a dirty spinoff of Iron Chef.”

  “We should pitch it. Sexy shirtless chefs in a cooking competition. Equal parts bodybuilding competition and cook-off.” I cackle at my own idea. “I mean, shoot, there’s been any number of shows objectifying women, right? Powderpuff football, for example. The bathing suit element in beauty pageants, if not the entire idea of beauty pageants as a whole. Point is, I think it’s high time we women get something for us, and I feel like Shirtless Chef is a great idea.”

  He snorts. “Dinah says there’s nothing sexier than a hot guy doing housework. So why stop at Shirtless Chef? Shirtless vacuuming. Shirtless dishwashing.”

  I widen my eyes and clap my hands as I laugh. “Oh boy, shirtless dishwashing would be a win. All those suds! Suds and Studs, you could call it.”

  “Suds and Studs!” he echoes, laughing. “That’s a good one.” He tweaks a nipple over my shirt, more affectionate and playful than erotic. “Take a shower, brush your teeth, whatever. I’ll make us breakfast.”

  “Wanna know something kinda funny?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Since I’ve been either bald or my hair has been growing back for in most of my life, and I don’t wear makeup, taking a shower and getting dressed for me is usually a matter of five, maybe ten minutes. I could probably shower and dress faster than you.”

  “You don’t wear makeup? Ever?”

  I shake my head and shrug. “Nope. Never saw the point. Not gonna get all dolled up to go get treatment, and I’m not gonna wear it around the house when I feel like poop. And when I am feeling good and going out, I don’t want to waste time on caking makeup on my face.” I make a ninety-degree angle with my hands, fingertips to heel of my palm, around one side of my face. “Besides, with a face like this, who needs makeup?” I say it with a grin and a laugh, as a joke.

  He’s utterly serious, though, when he replies. “Can’t improve upon natural perfection.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” I say, but I kiss him, because I can’t help it.

  He pulls away from the kiss with a reluctant groan. “Gotta stop before I get carried away, and you need to eat.”

  “I mean, I could wait, a little bit.” I nip at his lip with my teeth, playfully. “When I’m kissing you, the last thing I’m thinking about is being hungry.”

  “We have all day,” he murmurs. “Let’s eat, and I’ll show you the house.”

  I fake a pout. “Fine. Reject me, if you must.”

  He groans a laugh. “I’m not rejecting you, I just—”

  I laugh and push him away from me. “I’m teasing, Wes, jeez.”

  “Don’t tease me, Jolene. I’m very sensitive.”

  I pat his cheeks. “I know. That’s what makes teasing you so much fun.” I boop his nose with a fingertip. “I don’t really need a shower, but I wouldn’t mind brushing my teeth. Is our stuff still in the car?”

  “Yeah, I’ll grab it.”

  His house is surprisingly modest. In size, at least. A sprawling ranch with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a big kitchen open to a dining area and den, and a huge outdoor living space which opens to the kitchen and den area via accordion glass doors; the backyard is dominated by a rectangular infinity pool surrounded by an intentionally overgrown English garden, run through with little stone paths, an occasional concreter bench here and there underneath a spreading tree, the whole enclosed with a tall stone wall for privacy.

  The interior of the house is comfortable, but not ostentatious. There’s only his one car, the Range Rover, in the garage. His closet is large, but it’s not an entire room like I’ve seen in some celebrity house tours. He doesn’t have any expensive collections or extravagant indulgences. The only thing I could reasonably call an indulgence is the recording studio built over the garage; it’s a full, professional studio, complete with sound baffles on the walls and separate booths for the mixer and musician. There’s a piano, several guitars both acoustic and electric, a ukulele, and a mandolin.

  All in all, it’s just a comfortable home suitable for one person. He says he would have gathered a condo or a loft or something, but privacy and proximity to the film studios dictated this location, and this was the smallest place he could find with the requisite privacy and security needs. And as he’d mentioned before, he doesn’t own it.

  He makes us omelets and bacon, and as promised, the omelet is the best I’ve ever had. We sit outside and eat in the shade, drink coffee, and talk. It feels…adult, to me. Just sitting, eating, and talking.

  I couldn’t even tell you what we talked about, the whole morning. An endless array of things. The wandering conversation of two people utterly at ease with each other. There’s no hurry, no drive to do or g
o or anything. Just be with each other.

  By the time we consider rousing from the backyard, it’s nearly lunchtime.

  “You want to go somewhere? Tour of LA? I could show you the studios where I’m working, currently, and I’m sure we’d run into some people you’d recognize. There’s usually someone around.”

  I shrug. “Meh. Maybe later.” I glance over my shoulder at the back of the garage. “I kinda want to play around in your studio.”

  He grins and stands up. “That studio is the whole reason I chose this place, and believe it or not, I’ve never actually used it. I mean, I’ve gone in there a few times and dinked around, but I’ve never…” His grin fades a little. “I haven’t used it properly.”

  I take his hand and stand up with him. “Well, now’s as good a time as any, right?”

  The studio is small and cozy. There’s a couch in the recording booth, along with a stool underneath the microphone. I take the ukulele and play with the tuning while Westley chooses a guitar from the rack; he selects an acoustic, dark brown with lighter brown streaks in it. When he plucks a few strings to test the tuning, it’s clear from the rich tone that it’s an expensive custom guitar.

  “What do you want to play?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I dunno. You pick.”

  “Hold on.” He goes into the mixing booth, perches on the edge of the chair at the mixing board. “Give me a little run real quick.”

  I strum and sing a run up the scale and back down, and Wes fiddles with the settings or whatever goes on in the mixing booth. Seemingly satisfied, he returns to the couch and sits down with me, settles his guitar back on his knees. He strums the strings idly a few times, gaze into middle distance, and then his fingers begin picking a melody.

  “I need this old train to break down…”

  He can’t know about this song. Can’t.

  I play along, and my voice rises to find the harmony. I close my eyes and sing with Wes, let the music wash over me, let it roll me along.

  Let it roll me under. Push back the memories that try to rise up from the melody.

  When the last chord fades, my eyes remain closed and I’m breathing slowly, working to keep my emotions under wraps.

  “Jo?” Wes, concerned.

  I shake my head. Clear my throat. “I, um. When I was twelve, I was, um, really sick. Like in Cheyenne, but all the time. You’re seeing me go through the process of cancer but without the super happy fun times of chemotherapy and radiation.” I idly pluck a little tune while I think, while I talk. “There was this kid in the ward with me. Jeremy—Jeremy Allanson. A couple years older than me, and I had a major crush on him. My first crush, actually. And he, um, he played Jack Johnson literally all the time. We’d get our infusion chairs pulled really close together so we could share his earbuds and we’d play album after album. But, ‘Breakdown’ was his favorite.” I swallow hard. “He was the one who got me into the ukulele. Taught me the first couple chords. ‘Breakdown’ was his, like, anthem.”

  Wes wipes his face with one hand. “Jeez, Jo, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories. I just thought—it’s a happy song, and a thoughtful song, and I’ve always liked the meaning behind it.”

  “It’s okay, you couldn’t have known.” I blink hard. “I played it at his funeral.”

  He tweaks his A string tuning a smidge. “You pick.”

  I smile. “Got one. Hopefully you don’t have any bad memories with this one.”

  I start in on “Lucky” by Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat. For a moment or two, he just stares at me, and I wonder if he’s maybe never heard it or something. And then, he laughs. Abruptly, and loudly.

  “No.” He shakes his head, putting his face in his palm. “No!”

  I stop playing. “You do.” I huff a laugh. “I literally picked this at random—it’s another one Jeremy and I used to play together a lot.”

  He’s still laughing, face in his hands, guitar across his thigh, shoulders shaking. “Alessa and I…this was our song.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s fine. Our breakup was hard, obviously. We didn’t want to, we liked each other, but we knew it was best for both of us. So it wasn’t, like, a heartbreak. I actually have a lot of great memories with this song. I just think it’s really freaking funny that you chose this song, of all songs, at random. Clearly, we have either really good or really bad luck with this game.” He picks up playing the song. “I actually haven’t heard it in a while.”

  I eye him. “Are you sure?”

  He smiles. “Absolutely. It’s a great song and it’s fun to play.” When I join the melody with my uke, his grin spreads. “Alessa doesn’t have a musical bone in her body, so we could never duet this song together. I’m actually really happy you picked this, because now I get to duet with you and make new and even better memories with this song.”

  A pause.

  “Is that weird?” he asks.

  I shrug, shake my head. “No, not really. I get it.”

  “I just don’t want you to think I’m, like, nostalgically reminiscing about Alessa or anything.”

  My heart does a little flip flop, and I take a moment to really examine my feelings. “I mean, it’s okay if you are thinking about her, a little. You’re not with her, and you’re not getting back together with her, right?”

  He shakes his head emphatically. “No, she’s with someone else, for one thing.” He smiles at me. “And so am I.”

  “So you’re just fondly remembering part of the past. It’s not, like, longing for something you want back. It’s just…‘yeah, that was nice.’”

  He nods. “Exactly.”

  He gestures at me, and I start in on the melody; after a few measures of just me and my ukulele, Wes joins with his guitar, his lower notes complementing my ukulele’s higher voice. Another few measures of intro, and then Wes sings the first lines. It’s higher in his register, but not so much that he has to strain to hit the highest notes. His voice is smooth and rich, layered with lush tonality, and soulful. I know the song well enough that I can close my eyes and sink into it, play the chords and wait for my vocals.

  I haven’t done a duet with anyone since Jeremy passed away, and it feels…painful, somehow. Like stretching a sore muscle. This was a song Jeremy and I used to do together, both of us on ukes. I can almost hear his voice, but instead it’s Westley. My soul responds. Rises to the moment, weaves itself into the music.

  My eyes open when it’s my turn to join Westley for the first time, and I look into his eyes. “Lucky to have been where I have been…”

  It’s meaningful to me, on a personal level, for the first time. With Jeremy, it was just a pretty song to sing, cute, familiar lyrics and sweet harmonies with my friend. But singing it with Wes, I really hear the words, taste the lyrics and feel the weight of them. The gratitude, the appreciation of what I have.

  It’s been a fairy tale, thus far, with Wes. The man of my literal dreams, my crush, my fantasy—he showed up at my door and swept me off my feet. He’s given me my first kiss. The first blush of nakedness under his hungry, waiting gaze. Touch, lust, need…all the firsts, with him. And he’s not just everything I could have hoped he’d be—he’s more.

  I sing it out, all of this, into the song.

  “As the world keeps spinning round, you hold me right here right now,” and I feel my fortune, my luck, this incredible experience of finding this man, at this time in my life.

  As the song ends, I expect him to let his guitar go silent, to talk about another song, or to ask me a question…instead, he transitions immediately into a new tune.

  I recognize it immediately.

  “Come What May” from Moulin Rouge, Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman.

  Of course he’d know this song. And of course, he’d assume, correctly, that I know it, too. I mean, the lyrics of the chorus? I will love you until my dying day. Come on. Obvious choice for someone like me, right?

  I can�
�t tell you how many times I’ve listened to this song. The whole movie, of course, but this song in particular. On repeat, during chemo. I know every note, every word, forward and backward.

  It’s a little too on the nose, suddenly.

  Fortunately, Westley’s part is fairly long, which gives me time to get myself under control. I don’t have to play, or try to recall the lyrics. Just close my eyes and push down the shakiness in my soul.

  All too soon, it’s my turn.

  My eyes open.

  I’m singing to him, somehow. Is it love, between us? I don’t know. What is love, anyway? How do you define it? How do you know?

  I’ve known Westley for days. We’ve talked about this a dozen times already and I’m no closer to an answer, to understanding. But I know, as I sing this song to him, that this is real, between us.

  It means something.

  Our harmony fits naturally. In this song, he can let the real depth and power of his voice really explode, hitting the long holds easily, and he never looks away from me. Never flinches. At some point, his guitar goes silent, one hand clenching the neck, the other flat on the bridge, and he just sings with me.

  My soul vibrates with the weight of this moment, singing this song with Westley.

  If you sing, or if you’ve ever performed with someone, you know what I’m talking about.

  When you’re in the zone, when you just know you’re hitting your notes perfectly, when the music isn’t just in you, but IS you. You are this moment, this song, these words, this pure and perfect harmony. It’s like the whole world narrows, and becomes a tuning fork, and it’s humming to a secret, specific vibration and you’ve matched that frequency and every single last atom of your being is awash and afire with truth and beauty and music and soul and meaning and harmony. You could cry for the beauty and significance. Your soul is on the cusp of detonation with the expansive heat and volatile beauty of the experience.

  There’s silence, when it’s over.