“Um.” I gesture at the door to our backyard. “We have a privacy fence.”
“That works.”
I pause as we stand up. “More coffee?”
He nods. “I could almost drink it out of the pot.”
I smirk. “In that case…” I reach up into the cabinet over the coffee maker and pull down Dad’s joke mug. It’s big enough to hold a whole pot, and it says now THIS is a real coffee mug on the side. “Will this work?”
He takes it from me and pours the rest of the carafe into the giant mug. “That should do it.” He immediately frowns. “I should have left some for your parents, though. Shoot, I’m sorry. I can pour some back.”
“IT’S FINE!” Mom calls from upstairs. “I CAN MAKE MORE!”
“And this is why we’re going outside,” I murmur.
He just laughs. I lead him to my favorite spot—the bench swing hanging from the thick lower limb of our two-hundred-year-old spreading oak tree. It’s shady, cool, quiet, and the world feels a million miles away, here under the tree.
I only freak out a little when we’re both sitting on the wobbly bench swing. It’s not very big, so we’re close. Hips touching, shoulders brushing.
He smells good. Coffee, deodorant, something else indefinable but essentially and primally male. I want to bury my nose in his chest and inhale. That’d be super weird, though, so I don’t.
He sips. “You okay?”
I nod. “Mmhmm.”
He’s quiet a moment. “Jolene—”
“Call me Jo. Only my grandma calls me Jolene.”
He nods. “Okay.” Another quiet moment. “There are some things I want to say, but…I’m not sure where to start.”
“Should I get some of the obvious stuff out of the way? The awkward questions people always want to know but don’t know how to ask?” I sip lukewarm Irish Breakfast. “I have leukemia. It’s terminal. Which means there’s no cure. I’ve had it since I was eight. I went into remission when I was nine and a half, and it came back when I was eleven. I went into remission again at fourteen. It came back when I was fifteen. The next time it came back, two years ago, it came back…worse. More aggressive. It spread until there was nothing they could do. About two months ago, my oncologist told me there was no point in any further treatment, because it wouldn’t help. I’ll live for another…month, maybe more. There’s no way to know, exactly. When they say time is short like that, they’re just guessing. Stage four is…tricky. I could live another six months, another year, or I could die next week. Or tonight, in my sleep.”
I sigh, and keep going.
“No, it’s not contagious. Some people still think that. I don’t know how I got it, and neither does anyone else.” I play with the string and tab of the teabag, dunk the teabag a few times. “Yes, it hurts. Some days, I can’t get out of bed. Other days, like today, I’m mostly okay.”
He’s quiet a long time. “Are you scared?”
I look up at the canopy of leaves. “Um…sometimes. If I really think about…actually dying? Yeah. Of course. But I’ve had this basically my whole life. I’ve always had to face the reality that I may not—that I likely wouldn’t survive it. Especially because it kept coming back, you know? But day to day? Not really. It’s all I’ve ever known. I don’t really remember not having cancer.”
“I don’t know what to say. Like, I’m sorry? I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that.”
I smile. “What is there to say? But you know, I really appreciate you saying you don’t know what to say. A lot of people just sort of…say something dumb and pitying. I hate pity.”
“What about compassion?”
“That’s different.” I eye him. “Are you here because of pity?” I twist on the bench to face him, to see his reaction. “I’m sorry about the video, Wes.”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m not. It’s definitely not pity.” He holds my eyes. “And Jo? Don’t apologize. It was…beautiful.”
I swallow hard. “It’s embarrassing.” I cover my face with my hands, turn away. “I can’t believe you saw it. I can’t believe you’re here because of it.”
“Jo.”
I shake my head. I’m trying to not cry from sheer mortification.
“Jolene.” He leans over and sets his coffee on the ground, then takes my hands and pulls them away from my face. Holds both of my hands in both of his. “Look at me.” His voice is so gentle.
It’s utterly surreal, this moment. This is him. I’ve watched every YouTube video, every movie, every interview. I doodled his name on my notebooks while watching boring school videos. It’s Westley Britton. Here with me, at my house, in my backyard, sitting in my favorite place with me. Hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, so close I can smell him, feel his body heat. He’s real.
He has my hands, and he’s demanding I look at him.
“Tell me why you posted it. No bullshit. The honest, real truth.”
I shake my head. “It’s embarrassing.”
“More embarrassing than apologizing for having nipples?” he says, with a teasing smirk.
I frown at him. “Are you making fun of me?”
He laughs. “A little. But it’s called teasing. It was cute.”
“I was flustered. I’m still flustered. You’re famous and important, and I’m no one—just some dumb girl who posted a ridiculous, desperate TikTok video. Why it’s viral, I don’t even know.”
“I’m not important, just famous. And you’re not no one, nor are you dumb. You’re important.”
“Why? Because I’m dying?”
“Because you’re brave. And talented.”
I wrinkle my nose at him, and I hate the way my eyes sting. “Talented?”
“Yeah. Your cover of that song was beautiful, Jo. I mean that. Objectively, as a musician, you’re talented.”
“Oh.” I can’t help a little smile. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He squeezes my hands. “Now…please, Jo. I drove thirty-something hours for this. Why did you make that video? And no trite, self-deprecating answers. The truth, please.”
“I guess I owe you that, huh?” I smile wryly.
“No, you don’t owe me anything. But it would mean a whole lot if you told me.”
I sigh. Swallow hard. “I…I don’t know. It’s a lot of things.” I close my eyes, because it’s too hard to look at him and speak my truth. “You want the truth, Wes? It’s not pretty.”
“The truth rarely is.”
“It really was an act of desperation. I told you, I’ve had this my whole life. Since I was a little girl. I’m nineteen, now, and probably won’t see twenty.” I swallow hard. “I’ve never been on a date. Never held a boy’s hand. Never been kissed. I never will—none of it. I know that. So, making that video, I guess it was…I dunno. A morbid joke, maybe? Like, I have nothing to lose, so why not propose on TikTok to the most famous and most beautiful and most talented guy in the whole world? And, by the way, I’ve had a monster crush on you since I saw that video of you with Swan Song. You’re my celebrity crush. And I was like, what do I have to lose? Even if you were to see it, I figured you’d, like, share it. Send me a signed hat or something. So what? I have, like, a hundred followers on TikTok and they’re all friends from various oncology units and infusion centers. I honestly have no clue how it blew up, and I’m freaking mortified that it did. So why did I post it?”