I fish my phone from my back pocket. “Ah, true, I did say that. But have you seen the video that came out yesterday?”
Mom arches an eyebrow. “No, I have not. Show me.”
I have the video cued up on YouTube pretty much all the time. Because…well, because he’s dressed in nothing but a pair of short gym shorts, and he’s sweaty and glistening, and he’s all muscle and golden skin. His hair is swept back and wet, messy, sticking to his forehead and chiseled cheekbones. He’s out of breath, and he’s clearly been dancing for hours.
I play the video and watch with Mom. I know every second of it. I could do the choreography myself, if I had the strength. He’s dancing to a Lewis Capaldi song, and I’ve already started learning in on my uke. He spins, leaps, rolls, tumbles. It’s mostly contemporary dance, but there are elements of ballet and jazz. It’s a melding of styles. It’s all him, original choreography. He’s not just learning the steps for Singin’ in the Rain, he’s becoming a dancer. As if he needed to be even more perfect, right?
My parents have spent most of their life savings on my public bucket list. You know, the usual stuff: Paris and the Eiffel Tower, Italy, the Caribbean, things like that. See the world before I die. You know, the usual.
But I have a secret bucket list. There are three items on it:
—fall in love
—kiss a boy
—don’t die a virgin
Below those three, there’s one more item. All by itself.
—Meet Westley Britton
And then, at the bottom of the page, a fifth entry. But I’ve crossed it out and scribbled over it until you wouldn’t know what it says. But I know.
—MARRY Westley Britton
I wrote it in a moment of weakness, when I was lonely and feeling ridiculous. I mean, what girl doesn’t want him? He’s everything. But I know better. He’s probably got a famous, stunning girlfriend. He can have anyone he wants.
Why would he even bother meeting me? I thought about going through one of those last-wish foundations to try to get a meet-and-greet with him, but I just…couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t be organic.
It would be out of pity.
So my pathetic crush on the most famous, most eligible bachelor in the world continues, unabated and unrequited. I mean, look—I’m nineteen. I know better. I’m not dumb or naive. I know it’s a celebrity crush, and he’ll never know I even exist. But it’s harmless, you know? It’s something to daydream about, when I’m floating on the mercy of heavy-duty narcotics. Something to fall asleep daydreaming about.
My other bucket list, the one Mom and Dad know about and are working to make come true, is half done. We still have to see the Sphinx and the Pyramids, go to Paris, and see the Great Wall of China. I’m not sure we’ll get to all of them, honestly. This kind of travel is exhausting, and takes a lot out of me. But they’re bucket list things that I can do.
The secret list?
I don’t know how to make those happen.
How do I meet a boy? What boy is going to fall in love with me? I have weeks left, or so say the doctors.
It would be pity.
Are we sensing a pattern, there? The pity thing is a real needle for me. I hate it. Don’t pity me. I don’t want it. It doesn’t help. It just pisses me off.
But UGH. I want those things. I want a romance. I want someone to look at me with stars in their eyes. I want to hold hands and eat popcorn and cuddle while watching cheesy romance movies. I want to be kissed in the rain. I want to lay under blankets together and watch the sunrise.
I don’t want to die a virgin.
Untouched. Unwanted.
We’re walking along a canal somewhere in Venice—heck if I know where, just that it’s somewhere near our hotel. Sun sets golden red. Gondolas scud slowly. Bridges arch delicately over the canal.
It’s unbearably romantic.
Ahead, at the mouth of a bridge over the canal, there’s a small crowd gathered. I hear music—strings, a voice singing. I push ahead of Mom and Dad, wiggle through the crowd to the front.
An absurdly gorgeous young man leans against the side of the bridge, posed with calculated ease. He has one foot propped up behind himself, and he’s playing a mandolin. He’s dressed in white linen trousers, with a white button-down open a button or two too far. His voice is dulcet and amazing, singing in English. It’s not a song I recognize, but it’s smooth and low and beautiful.
There’s a young woman standing near him, watching with her hands over her mouth. Love shines in her eyes.
As I watch, the young man pushes away from the bridge, keeps playing. Saunters toward the young woman. He smiles at her as he sings, and she’s shaking, shoulders trembling—somewhere between laughing and crying, I think. He goes to one knee in front of her, a last long low note quavering in the red-gold light of sunset.
He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a ring box. Slings his mandolin around and holds it up, in both hands. “Marry me, Amanda.”
There’s a chorus of aawwww from the gathered crowd, and Amanda—the young woman—nods, and flings her arms around him as he stands up. They kiss passionately, and then he takes her hand in his and slides the ring on.
Applause.
God, that’s so romantic it’s gross.
And…it gives me an idea. Crazy, desperate, and stupid.
But…what do I have to lose?
It’s All About Relevance
Westley
“There’ve been a lot of rumors surrounding you and your co-star, Alessa Howell. Now, having screened the film, I can say you two certainly have remarkable chemistry.” The reporter is a woman, a few years older than me, with platinum hair in a bob that isn’t quite a Karen cut. She’s pretty, in a severe sort of way. Her eyes betray her personal interest in the answer to the question she’s about to ask. “So, I’m just going to come right out and ask—are you and Alessa an item?”
I suppress a sigh and an eye roll; this is the fifteenth time I’ve heard that question so far today. I dig deep into my actor’s toolbox, doing my best to sound like I’m answering it for the first time. “Alessa is an amazing actress, and we did have some pretty incredible chemistry on set, but it’s just that, so far—on set. We’re just friends.”
“So…asking for a large percentage of the female population, and probably a decent swath of the male population as well…you’re still single?”
It always follows the question about chemistry with Alessa. Again, I try to sound like I haven’t answered this question a hundred times already.
“So far,” I say, giving her an overly playful wink. “You’ll be the first to know if that changes, Rebecca.”
She blushes, and I worry I’ve laid it on a little too thick.
The interview ends, and I have about five minutes to myself before the next one. I flick through emails—several from my agent with script pitches and audition invitations and at least two flat-out offers for roles, one from my financial manager for a quarterly check-in, a bunch of spam, and a plea from a charity I’ve donated to in the past for more money. I make a reminder to send them more.
The next reporter is someone I know—a grizzled, gruff old veteran of the Hollywood circuit, famous for surprise questions. At least this will be interesting.