“I know. But I don’t want relevance that way. Get me good roles and let my work speak for itself.”
“I could get you a date with Mackenzie Danvers.”
“I don’t know Mackenzie Danvers.”
“You will when you go on a date with her.”
I lean forward and pin him with a glare. “Marty, stop. You’re not setting me up with anyone. Not Mackenzie, not Alessa, not anyone. My love life is not for sale, and it’s not a tool for popularity or relevance. If I go out with someone, it’ll be because I want to.”
“She asked me about you. I represent her, you know. She’s freaking gorgeous. And funny as hell. You could do a lot worse.” He wipes his mouth, takes the check from the server, glances at it, and tosses his card onto it; that’s part of what I like about Marty—he doesn’t assume I’m paying just because I’m the star.
“Marty, for real. Focus on the work. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“You’re ignoring a huge opportunity, here.”
“The opportunity is the roles, not the social drama. And I’m certainly not about manufacturing the drama for the tabloids. That’s not me, and it never will be.”
He holds up his hands. “Fine, fine, fine. Message received.” He taps the folder as he stands up. “Read them. Give me your feedback. Yes, no, maybe.”
“Will do.”
Part of me wishes I was capable of taking Marty up on his offer to set me up with Mackenzie—she’s talented, beautiful, and she’s getting roles that are going to put her on the map for Oscars, soon. I really could do a heck of a lot worse than a blind date with a rising star like her. But…that’s not me.
If it happens, I want it to be organic. Real. I just don’t know what that looks like, in my current life.
I just hope I’ll know it when I see it.
Last Chance
Jolene
“Jo, this is crazy,” my best friend, Bethany, says.
She’s my twin, except where my hair is red, hers is platinum blond. We’re both built short and slender, petite. When I first lost my hair to chemo, she buzzed her head, and now, every time I’ve lost my hair, she’s buzzed her own. I never asked, and never would have. It was just her way of showing me she was with me, no matter what. So our hair is always the same length. Right now, our hair is growing out, Pixie cut short, boyish and easy to take care of.
I shrug. “I know. But I’m dying, so screw it, right?”
Bethany snorts. “Yeah, but you can still embarrass yourself.”
“It’s not going to be embarrassing, because no one is going to see it. I have a hundred followers on TikTok, Bethie, and most of them are cancer kids like me. They’ll get it.”
“Well, I don’t get it.”
“I don’t want to die a virgin. He’s my crush, the person on this planet I like more than anyone else. I’m dying, and soon, so what do I have to lose? So what if my ninety-eight followers see me embarrass myself with this one last desperate, last-ditch ploy to get his attention? It’s for me. No one else.”
She stares at me. “Okay, well, that I understand.”
“So, you’ll help me?”
She snorts. “I was always going to, you big dumb dork-a-potamus. I just wanted to understand exactly what it is we’re doing here, and that you understand that this is, objectively speaking, a little crazy.”
“Yeah, I know it is.”
We’re in my backyard. I have my ukulele, and I’ve practiced the song I want to do alone in my room at least a hundred times, until I know can nail it.
I give Bethany my phone, and she readies the camera on the tripod. I sit crisscross on the thick, lush green grass my dad spends so much time cultivating. The sun is shining, the sky is clear blue, and I feel as good I have in weeks. I’m ready.
She hovers her finger over the red circle. “Ready when you are.”
I shift my weight a little, ready my fingers on the correct chords for the opening, and nod. Bethany holds up three fingers, then two, then one, and then she presses record.
I strum the strings, pick out the melody. Within seconds, I can feel the music pulling me in. I close my eyes, and my fingers carry on, playing the song. It feels good, feels flawless. The words emerge, and I know I sound good. I’m not thinking about the video anymore—there’s only the music, only the song. My fingers know the chords, and my lips know the words. I open my eyes for a moment, and stare into the camera. Imagine him, Westley Britton, hearing me. Imagine, just for a moment, that he knows me, that he cares. That this is the last entry in our ongoing relationship. I’m his, and he’s mine, and this is the natural progression. I let my crush on him seep out of my soul and into my eyes.
Because it’s not just a crush.
It’s more, for me.
It’s a mental game. A way out of the harsh, painful reality. I can pretend I have a chance with him, and that’s something to think about other than…everything. I can watch his YouTube channel and look into his eyes and feel like I know him. I can watch his movies and see bits of his soul. I can watch his early boy band performances and laugh at how silly it all is, and be amazed at how hard he tried, even in that.
Having a crush on Westley Britton means something to me. It’s deep. I don’t know that I could explain it, even to Bethany. But I understand it, and I’m putting it all into this one last, crazy idea.
When the last chord fades and my ukulele is silent, Bethany taps the record button again to stop it. “Damn, Jo.” She swallows hard and shakes her head, blinks. “You really went after it.”
I shrug. “I mean, yeah.”
“That was amazing. I don’t think you’ve ever sounded better.”
“So should we just post that as is, like that?” I ask.
She thinks. A grin crosses her face. “You know what? No. I have a better idea. If you’re really going for it, with this, then let’s really go for it.”
I set my ukulele aside. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning, let’s make it epic. I watched this tutorial on how to edit stills into videos with a musical overdub. Let’s make it, like, a movie montage. Really tell your story. Use all those photos and videos you’ve taken.”
She whips out her iPad Pro and sends herself the video from my phone, and then we spend the next several hours going through my whole camera roll and hers, and Mom’s. It’s a weirdly nostalgic trip down memory lane.
Paris, St. John’s, Florida, the Grand Canyon. The oncology ward—the infusion center, being wheeled from radiology back to my room. Days in bed when everything hurt. Mom and Bethie making me laugh. The awful gowns they make you wear, as if being sick isn’t undignified enough.
Bethany cuts it all together, with my song over top.
When she declares the project finished, we watch it from the top.
Bethany wipes at her eyes. “Girl, I’d marry you. Shoot.” She leans against me, blond hair tickling my nose. “I love you, Jo-Jo.”
“Love you too, B.”
“You think it’ll work?” she asks.
I laugh. “If this doesn’t, nothing will.”