“There aren’t words, Wes. You have to just…you have to see for yourself. I’m hanging up. Call me after you’ve watched it so we can figure out what to do.”
I don’t even have time to end the call before it’s ringing again—this time it’s Marty.
“No, Marty, I haven’t seen it,” I say by way of greeting. “Jen just called me about it. I haven’t been on my phone today.”
“Son, it’s the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. And I honestly don’t know how to have you respond, Wes. I really don’t. And buddy, I always know what to do. I’ve just…I’ve never in my life seen anything like that.”
I groan. “I have to see it, I guess. So I’m letting you go, Marty. I’ll call you later.”
“Don’t call me later, call me soon. We have to get in front of this.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I hang up and open Tiktok.
Outside, in a backyard. It’s evening. Just past sunset. The sky in the background is a wild profusion of puffy cotton clouds painted red and gold and pink.
The girl is nineteen or so. The first thing I notice is her hair: true ginger, bright orange-red, pixie cut short. Just slightly longer than a buzz cut, enough to style in a messy, spiky look. It suits her, somehow. Her cheekbones are pronounced, sharp. She has pink lips, which she licks nervously as she settles into a cross-legged position on the roof. No makeup. Freckles galore, dotting her cheeks, throat, forehead, and neckline. Her eyes are green—emerald green, the color of oak leaves in the summer sun. Her eyes are weary, but confident. There’s pain in her eyes, but also pride. Sadness, but a deep, abiding joy.
I somehow…know these eyes, even though I’ve never seen this girl in my life.
She’s wearing cutoff khaki shorts, baring slender, pale, freckled legs. Her toes are painted a periwinkle blue. Her shirt is a plain white tank top, clinging to her slender torso. It’s obvious she’s not wearing a bra, but there’s nothing sexualized about it.
She’s beautiful.
She holds a ukulele—it’s an expensive, beautiful instrument.
She shifts again, staring at the camera. It’s been silent for a good forty-five seconds. She’s nervous.
Then, she takes a deep breath, lets it out shakily. Blinks hard. She looks down at the ukulele and begins playing a familiar melody.
“Marry Me” by Train.
When she starts singing, it’s in the sweetest, clearest, most angelic voice I’ve ever heard in my life. Utter purity. She’s doing the song slow, like a ballad, rather than the sweet pop sound of the original.
God, it comes across as…tragic. I know nothing about this girl, but there’s just this gravity to her. It’s more than sadness. It’s bigger than that, deeper than that. Just…more.
Her eyes are closed as she sings, playing the song from memory.
The shot cuts away to the same girl in a hospital, while the sound of her playing and singing continues over top, silencing the content of the videos. Sitting in a chair, an IV line going to a port in her chest, below her shoulder blade and above her breastbone. She’s playing the ukulele again. Head resting back, eyes closed. A tear runs down one cheek. This is from a while ago, I think. Her head is bald. She’s much thinner.
Another jump cut. The girl, staring up at the Coliseum. The sound of her ukulele is dubbed over top, with her voice, singing “Marry Me” again.
The Eiffel Tower. Looks back at the camera, a wide-eyed smile of awe.
She jumps into the ocean, wearing a bright blue one-piece bathing suit. She’s joyful, laughing.
Another cut. Back in the hospital. In the gown, hair regrowing in a buzz of orange. Holding on to an IV pole as she walks down the hallway, past the camera holder. Her mom, maybe, or a close friend. She walks past, and the hospital gown flaps open, showing a brief glimpse of a freckled butt. She cackles and tugs the gown closed, managing to laugh and glare at the same time.
A horizontal close-up panning shot of a line of pill bottles. It just keeps going on and on—ending in an extreme close-up of the girl. Smiling, laughing, sticking her tongue out.
The girl, in her own bed. Watching…oh god—Singin’ in the Rain. Of course. She’s tiny in a nest of blankets. There’s a trash can nearby. A bottle of ginger ale.
The cuts continue—hospital, home, international travels to Venice, Florence, Rome, Paris, island hopping in the Caribbean.
In them all, she exudes joy. Even in the hospital, when she’s obviously in pain and struggling, she summons a smile, and it lights up the whole world.
Finally, there’s one more cut—back to the girl in her backyard, ukulele in her hands, now quiet and on her lap. The music—this girl singing “Marry Me”—fades.
“I’m Jolene Park.” Her speaking voice is every bit as musical and pure as her singing voice. “I know this is crazy, but I guess I feel like I’ve got nothing to lose, right? Um. The song was for Westley Britton. I hope he sees it.” She smiles, swallows hard around nerves. “If I could have one last wish, it would be if you, Westley, were to marry me. It would just make me…the happiest girl in the world. They say you never know what could happen if you don’t ask, so I’m asking.”
She licks her lips, blows out another shaky breath. Drops her eyes, and then looks back into the camera. Her green eyes are wet, deep, wild with a tumult of emotion. The raw purity of expression, the intense vulnerability in her—it shakes me to my very core.
“Westley Britton, will you marry me?” She laughs, as if she can’t believe she just said that.
Cut to black. Another TikTok starts in, jarring, sudden—too loud too bright too chaotic.
I go back to the beginning and watch it again. And again.
I don’t call Jen back, or Marty.
I don’t know what to say.
What is there to say?
I’m in my car, at the end of my driveway, foot on the brake. Marty is in front of me, hands braced on my hood as if to physically prevent me from leaving. Jen is at my open driver’s window.
“Wes, no.” This is Jen. She grabs at my wrist. “This is crazy. It’s a random video on TikTok. It’s a desperate cry for attention. It’s—send her a video back. Like, ‘hey, thanks for the video. Hope you get better. Love, Wes.’”
I pull my hand away. “It’s more than that. I can’t explain it, I don’t expect you to understand. I have to go see her.”
“Wes, this is nuts. I’m with Jen on this. You gain nothing by going there. You don’t owe her anything. You get random proposals from desperate fans all the time.” He frowns at me. “And listen, I know how this is gonna sound, okay? But it has to be said. Just because she’s got terminal cancer doesn’t mean you have to do anything. Send her a care package. Sign a shirt and a script or something. I can get you an official working script of Singin’ in the Rain, signed by the director and Shania and Ryan and you can sign it and that’ll be freaking amazing. A personal visit just complicates things. You don’t need that complication. The paps will get wind of this. The girl’s video is one of the single most-watched things on all of TikTok. It’s viral—beyond viral. The whole world is waiting to see what you’re gonna say, how you’re gonna respond, Wes. You do this, you go see her in person, you’re gonna get bombarded by this kind of shit until forever. It’s a bad precedent.”