Tea, toast, egg. It’s a decent day—I feel all right.
Read a book—Little Women. No, not because I feel some weird kinship to Jo in the book simply because my family nickname is Jo. I just like the book. It’s something to keep my mind off of my idiotically desperate plea for attention—at least, that’s how I assume most people will see it. I just…I don’t know.
I like him. I like his voice. I like the way he dances. I like his attitude during interviews. He seems normal, well-adjusted to fame. And he’s just…beautiful. I know I certainly don’t have a monopoly on having a crush on Westley Britton, and I certainly don’t have an expectation that anything will come of it.
So why do it?
Why not?
Really. What do I have to lose? I don’t care how it looks. Am I using my illness for some kind of sympathy, or pity? No. Attention from a guy I have a crush on? Yeah—if it were to have worked, which it hasn’t.
This damn cancer has taken just about everything from me, so maybe I’m not above leveraging it, just a little. Because Westley Britton. He’ll probably send me a cute, heartfelt little tweet or a package with some signed swag, and it’ll be cool and that’ll be that. End of story.
I just…when I’m falling asleep at night, the hopeless romantic in me still fantasizes about him showing up out of the blue and sweeping me off my feet.
I know, I know. Ridiculous. But a girl can dream, right?
DINGGGGG…DONNNNNGGGGGG.
Who the heck would be ringing our doorbell at eight thirty in the morning?
“Jo?” I hear Dad call from upstairs. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t know!” I call back. “I’ll go see!”
I bring my tea with me, because if I put down my mug, I’ll forget about it and it’ll go cold and I’ll have to start the whole process over again.
I peek through the tall window to the side of the door—there’s a car in our driveway that I don’t recognize. Looks like a brand-new Land Rover, maybe. I don’t know cars, but it’s new and shiny and looks expensive and no one we know owns one of those. The person on the other side is in profile. Male. Tall. Jeans slouched into partially unlaced combat boots. A pullover hoodie, hood up over a ball cap, sunglasses, head bowed. Shifting impatiently.
Who is it? I can’t tell.
Just have to open the door and find out.
I let out a breath, feeling bizarrely nervous. Why should I be nervous to open my own front door? Shut up, self.
Sigh.
I unlock the deadbolt and then the knob, open the front door. The storm door is still between me and the person on the front porch, but a sinking feeling in my gut tells me who it is.
I don’t believe it, though.
I just stare. Because even with the hood, hat, and sunglasses, it’s obvious who’s standing on my front porch…
Staring back at me.
“Hi.” His voice is deeper in person than I thought it would be. “Jolene.”
He says my name by itself, with enough of a pause after the “hi” to make it kind of weird and awkward.
“Um. What?”
He licks his lips; he’s nervous. He’s nervous?
“Jo?” My mom, behind me. “Who is it?”
I turn—Mom is in a bathrobe, hair up in a wildly messy, frizzy bun. The robe is about forty years old, almost see-through, and hits mid-thigh when she’s standing still. Fuzzy slippers. “Ohmygod, Mom. Go put on clothes.”
A barely suppressed snicker from the other side of the door.
Mom ignores me and peeks around me. “Why? Who is itOH MY GOD WESTLEY BRITTON. Why didn’t you warn me?” She shrieks and whirls around, vanishes. “Let him in, Jo! Don’t keep the man waiting on the porch!” This, from the stairs.
I turn back, and he’s still there. “It’s you?”
He shrugs. “Guess so.”
I swallow hard. “Why?”
“Why am I me? Or why am I here?”
“Yes.”
He laughs. It’s gentle, not mocking. “Maybe I could come in?”
It occurs to me, as I open the storm door and he enters my house, standing in front of me, inches away, live and in person, that I’m barely more dressed than Mom was.
I look down: headlights.
I blush and cross my arms over my chest. “Um. Hi.” I keep one arm across my chest, hand tucked under the other arm, and offer a hand to him. “Hi. I’m Jolene.”
He takes my hand in his. Shakes. His grip is gentle but firm. No sissy weak clasp for him, like I’m some delicate thing made of porcelain. I like that. “I’m Wes.” He says it with an S sound at the end—Wess.
What do I do?
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and force myself to be calm, cool, and collected.
“I’m sorry I have nipples,” I hear myself say.
He bites his lower lip and smirks. “Um, don’t be? They’re…a perfectly normal thing for a person to have?”
He pushes his hood back, removes his sunglasses and places them on the brim, arms around the crown. His eyes are brown. I know this, as a fact. But I’m not prepared for the reality of them. They’re not just brown. They’re…I don’t even know. You read all the usual descriptions in romance books, right? Molten chocolate. Puppy dog brown. The usual. But…the cliches become cliche for a reason, I guess. Because they all apply to his eyes. Liquid, molten chocolate? Check. The deep, expressive brown of a puppy? Check.
But there’s more.
There are lighter streaks in them, like veins of gold.
Hints of cinnamon in the oak brown.
Those eyes meet mine, stare into mine. Then, glance down—I’m still holding his hand.
I drop it abruptly, shake my hand out as if burned.
He reaches out with both hands and takes both of mine. “Take a deep breath, okay? It’s fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.” He holds my gaze. “Deep breathe with me for a second, okay?” He inhales, and I mirror him.
His eyes flick down, back up.
Did he just…
Did Westley Britton just…check out my chest? No one’s ever done that before. Weird.
Is it supposed to make me tingly in my stomach?
I mean, sure, my headlights are probably pretty prominent. This is a thin shirt, and my breasts are almost more nipple and areolae than actual breast. Meaning, calling them small would be generous.
Why am I thinking about this?
Deep breath.
He wasn’t checking me out—just noticing something he can’t help but notice. It was a nice little fantasy while I allowed it, though. There’s just no sense working myself into a hyper-romantic tizzy over nothing.
Mom reappears on the stairs, now more appropriately clad in khaki capris and a T-shirt with a cardigan. “Hi.” She breezes in beside me—this foyer hallway isn’t big enough for two people abreast, but here we are. “Jo, why don’t you go get dressed and I’ll make our guest some coffee.” She smiles at him, now competently in charge. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Britton?”
“I would love some, Mrs. Park. Thank you. I know I’m probably intruding, I just…I wanted to meet Jolene in person.” His expression suggests that this statement covers a lot more territory than merely meeting me in person.