Everything vanishes. Cancer. The past, the future, aches and pain and nausea.
Everything.
Except him.
Here, and now. Making me feel…beautiful, and desired.
My body responds with swift ferocity. I’m thrown to the edge and over it before I can even find the words to say so. I’m groaning as he uses his mouth to make love to me. It’s what it is, and I know it, and I treasure it.
I scream his name as I come and I whisper it as I emerge, shaky and breathless, from the farthest edges of orgasmic wonder.
I’m nearly complete. There’s not much more in this life that I could want.
Just one more experience.
Please, God, I beg, of an entity I’m not sure I believe in. I ask with hope, however. Beg with desperation. Please, give me a little more time. A few more days of feeling alive, of feeling loved, of this beautiful ascent into love.
The phrase is “falling in love,” right? That’s what you hear.
Falling for him.
I’m falling for her.
I get it. It can feel like falling, sometimes. Sort of helpless, a little scary.
But it’s not falling, not when it’s utterly right; it’s an ascension. Rising.
Rising into Love.
Doesn’t have the same ring, maybe. But it feels more like the truth, to me.
We rise together. Choose to trust, choose to let go and hope. Choose to feel everything and be vulnerable. Let the wind carry you.
It’s flying.
We spent a week in the Bahamas, last year, Mom and Dad and I. We went parasailing. Being in love with Wes, rising into love with him, feels like parasailing. You don’t have much control, and you’re oh-so-high, and it’s kind of scary and exhilarating and your heart flutters and you can’t help but laugh, but if you trust the structures around you, the thrill of the ride soon replaces the fear of falling.
Please, God. Just give me a little more time.
One Day More
Westley
It’s hard to not be angry.
She’s sick again.
I’m angry because when it’s good, it’s all too easy to pretend everything is fine.
But then I wake up and she’s running a fever and shaking, curled into herself and clutching her stomach and moaning.
Wan, pale. She breathes shallowly, as if even breathing hurts.
“Mom?” she whimpers. “Wes, can you get my mom?”
“Yeah,” I choke out. “Yeah, I’ll get her.”
She grabs my hand with unexpected strength. “Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave. I’m scared.”
My eyes water, and my chest seizes. I don’t let go of her hand as I stretch across the bed to my bedside table and snag my phone, yank the charging cord out, and call her mother’s cell.
“Wes, hi,” she answers. “Is…is everything okay.”
“She’s asking for you,” I manage to get out.
“I’ll be right there.”
Click.
Less than a minute later, she’s bursting through my front door, out of breath and red-faced. “Jo?”
“In here,” I say.
I’m in a pair of running shorts and nothing else, and she’s still naked—I cover her with the sheet as her mother comes in.
Kneels at the side of the bed, hand hovering over Jo’s cheek as if to caress, but doesn’t touch. Knowing even a gentle touch will hurt.
“Jo,” she murmurs. “I’m here.”
“Make it stop, Mama,” Jo whimpers. “Please.”
“I wish I could, love.” Her voice is remarkably steady.
Jolene’s eyes crack open, fix on me. “Do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“You won’t like it.”
I brace myself. “Anything.”
“Go to work.”
“You’re right, I don’t like that.” I shake my head. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Westley.” She lifts a hand, shaky and weak. I move to the side of the bed, hold it. “Please.”
“Why?”
“Mom knows what to do. We’ve been through this before.”
“So have we,” I argue.
“Not like this,” she says, her voice hoarse. “This is…different.”
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
She closes her eyes. “I know you’re gonna think this is stupid, but…I worry about you. When I’m like this.”
“You’re right, that is stupid.”
She snorts, a gentle laugh. “But it’s true. I do. So. I want you to go meet with your agent and your attorney—no, not attorney…Jen. The manager. Do stuff. Somewhere not here. Come back later. I’ll still be here.”
“How can I, when you’re…”
Her eyes fly open. Pin me. “Go. Please. It’ll help me feel better sooner.” A smile. “Then we can go on that date you’ve been promising me.”
“Jo, come on.”
She looks at her mom. “Help.”
Sherri Park stands up, puts her hand to the center of my back and pushes me out of the room. It’s gentle, but it has the firm, unyielding authority only a mother can exert.
Her eyes are sad. “Westley, listen. She’s trying to spare you, okay?”
“I don’t need to be spared. I’m here for her. I’m with her. No matter what. I promised her that, and I meant it.”
“I know it, and she knows.” She pats my shoulder. “Give her this.”
“It doesn’t feel like giving. It feels like abandoning her.”
“She can be very stubborn—not sure if you’ve gathered that yet or not. She really does worry about others. She worries about being a drain on us. So, if you’re not here, she can focus on feeling better.”
“I get that.” I swallow hard. “But—but what if—”
She cuts over me. “I know—believe me, I know. And at this stage, that is a possibility. But if it seems like you need to be here, I’ll call you. I promise. For now, do what she asks. If you…” a sigh, hesitant and unsure. “If you care about her, you’ll do what she asks. I know it’s hard. I know it seems backward. I know you just want to be there for her. And I know it’s hard to understand, because you want your presence to be a comfort. And I’m sure it is. But right now, you’re more of a distraction. Does that make any sense?”
I sigh. “Yeah, it does.” I close my eyes and wipe my face with both hands. “And, I guess, sometimes, you just want your mom.”
She smiles. “Yeah, there’s probably some of that, too.”
“Mom?” Jo calls out. “Bucket.”
With an apologetic backward glance at me, she rushes into my bathroom, and a moment later I hear Jolene retching.
When she’s done, I go in. She’s lying back in a nest of pillows, sweating yet shaking as if chilled. Her mom has helped her put on the T-shirt I wore yesterday. I take a stack of clean clothes and pause by the bed.
“I’ll go,” I whisper. “But only because you asked.”
She smiles. “Thank you.” A slow blink, a wince, a rough sigh. “Can I ask you for something else?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Careful of promising me anything,” she teases.
“Anything. If I can make it happen, get it, or do it, I will.”
“I’ve always wanted to ride in a helicopter. Maybe our big date could include that?”
“Easy.” Touch my index finger to my lips, then to her lips. “Anything else?”
A shake of her head. “I just want to feel better.” Her eyes close, jaw clenches. Tears leak out. “One more good day. That’s all I want.”
I shake all over, restraining at great effort the barrage of hellish emotion threatening to subsume me.
Instead of crying, I sing.
One Day More, from Les Mis.
I close my eyes and let the song wash over me:
“…One day more
Tomorrow you'll be worlds away
And yet with you my world has started
> One more day all on my own
Will we ever meet again?”
When I finish the song, Jolene and her mother are both crying, and so am I, despite my best efforts.
“Dammit, you impossible man,” Jolene whispers. “That was mean.”
“I’m sorry?” I say, huffing a laugh.
She squeezes my hand. “You’re amazing. Did you do Les Mis?”
“Yeah, in high school. I was cast as Jean Valjean the week before I went to the Swan Song show. Then that whole thing happened and we sold more tickets because of that stupid YouTube video than the previous three years’ shows combined.”
“Because you’re incredible.”
“Thanks.”
She winces, jaw clenching. “Thank you. For singing to me.”
I hate leaving.
It’s the hardest thing I think I’ve ever done, walking away from her when I feel like she needs me most.
“There’s no way around your obligation to the movie.” Marty puffs on a cigar, blows the smoke toward the sky; we’re in his backyard, with Jen. There’s an open bottle of wine, but I’ve barely touched my glass. “I might be able to get you a few weeks? About the best I’ll be able to do. This was already on a tight timeline because Shania has another project scheduled, and honestly, so do you. It’s just not possible to push the whole thing back because something more important came up. They’ll recast you, and the movie will suck, because you’re the guy. The hype around this is huge, Wes. Huge.”
“I know,” I hiss. “Fuck, I know.”
He examines the glowing end of his cigar. “You gotta man up and do it, Wes.”
I glare at him. “Don’t tell me to man up, Martin. Do not. I’m not flaking out, goddammit.”
“You’ve known the girl less than a month. You worked for months for this role. It’s the role of a lifetime, son. Nail this, and you choose the roles, you choose your salary. The world is at your fingertips, if you nail this. Fuck it up, and…” A shrug.
I catch Jen giving Marty a hard, warning look. I lean back in my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Marty, I…” I groan. “It’s just impossible.”
Jen has been exchanging text messages with someone, and finally puts the phone face down. “I have a solution. Maybe not a perfect one, but something.”
“Let’s hear it,” I say.
“I’ve been texting with one of the ADs—Francois. Jolene can be on set with you. You already have a trailer, so if she’s tired or whatever, she can hang there. She can watch the shoot, too. They’ll work with you on this.”
I nod. “That would be best. It’d probably tickle her pink, being on set, watching Singin’ in the Rain get remade.”
“Front row seats for something that’s a shoo-in to be friggin’ iconic,” Marty says. “Not a bad deal.” He eyes me. “Can you handle it?”
“Do I have a choice?” I ask.
“No, not really. Not a good one.”
“Then let’s get filming.”
Jen picks her phone back up. “They’ll want to start ASAP, as long as you’ve got the choreo and the music down.”
“I’ll have to brush up. But I’ll have it.”
It’s a chaotic week.
Jolene is up and down most of the week, never quite back to what I know as normal before succumbing to another round of debilitating agony and exhaustion.
She insists, vehemently, that I practice choreography and go over my lines and my lyrics, insists on helping. We read lines, and she critiques my dancing and goes over the songs with me.
Then, I have to rehearse in person with Shania and Ryan. Jo is unable to get out of bed that day, and once again strong-arms me into going anyway. Promises she’ll be better soon.
Harder than the exertion of dancing is the mental exhaustion of putting on the show of being okay for my castmates.
Another week, and Jolene isn’t improving. Or, not much. She’s able to move around more than last week.
We’re still rehearsing. Filming starts next week.
I’m away from her more than I’m with her, and it’s at her insistence.
“I will not be the reason Singin’ in the Rain doesn’t get made, and I will not be the reason you don’t perform your best.” She says this one morning, when I’m resisting leaving her. “You have to do this. You have to do it for me. Please, Wes.”
So, I go.
I do my best to put her out of my mind and channel the music, focus on the words, the movements, the character. When I can’t get her out of my mind, I picture her being well. I imagine her springing up out of bed and dancing with me.
The cast and crew are excited—the energy on set is a constant vibrating hum. We all click. The scenes come out flawlessly. Lines get dropped and we laugh, and I laugh with them, and I hope I’m a good enough actor that no one sees how forced my laughter is.
I’m performing this for her.
It’s all for her.
Middle of the night. I got home late from filming—she was resting, finally, the deep sleep that I’ve come to equate with her feeling better.
She wakes me up. “Wes?”
“Mmm?” I hum, sleepy.
“Can we go on our date tomorrow?”
I blink and swallow and fight to something akin to wakefulness. “Might be able to get the director to move things around, film some scenes I’m not in.” I see her in the darkness, a shape in the shadows. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah.” She rolls to me, warm and soft and smelling sweet and clean—she took a long shower before falling asleep, her mom told me. “Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”
“S’okay.” I’m already tumbling back into sleep. “Missed you.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Don’t apologize, I try to say, but it doesn’t come out. Just a negative grunt.
“I am.” She pets my head, traces the shell of my ear. “I missed you too.”
“You did?”
“Of course.” I hear a smile in her voice. “I miss the things we do together.”
I snort. “Created a monster.”
“Yep. Rawr.” She holds me close, and I hear her heartbeat. “Sleep.”
“’Kay.”
I sleep late. When I wake up, it’s almost ten—late, for me. I smell food—eggs, toast, bacon. I sit up, rub the sleep out of my eyes.
Jo dances in—she’s got earbuds in, phone in her hand. She has coffee in the other hand, sees me and sits on the edge of the bed. She’s in sapphire blue hipster panties and a tank top, nothing else.
“Here,” she says, handing me the coffee. “I felt you waking up.”
“You did, huh?” I ask, taking the mug from her and sipping it gratefully. “You felt me waking up?”
She nods, touching her chest. “In my spirit.”
I eye her over the top of the mug. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
She brightens. “Me too! That was awful, my god.” A happy sigh. “Today is a good day. I feel good. You’re here. And if everything works out with your director, we can finally go on that date.”
“I should call him,” I say. “I’m supposed to be on set for a couple quick scenes.”
I grab my phone and call the director.
After I explain what I want, there’s a long silence. Finally, he sighs. “Yeah, yeah, fine. We can shoot some B roll, and some of the scenes with Ryan and Shania that you’re not in.”
“That’s what I was hoping. You know I wouldn’t—”
“Yeah yeah,” he cuts me off. “You wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I understand the situation. Take the day. Be back on set tomorrow bright and early, with bells on. Yeah?”
I’ve never heard anyone use the word “yeah” as much as he does. “Thanks.”
“You’re really killing it, Wes. We’ve all been impressed…especially considering what’s going on with you personally. Hopefully this day off will inspire some even better performances outta you.”
“It will.”
“Good. All right, I gotta go figure out my schedule, now. See you tomorrow.”
I toss the phone aside and find Jo in the kitchen, plating fried eggs, toast, and bacon that’s so crispy it’s almost crumbly. She can barely restrain her eagerness as I approach.
“Well? What’d he say?”
“He said you and I better eat a hearty breakfast, because today is going to be epic.”
She holds a stern glare. “He did not say that.”
“No,” I admit, laughing. “He didn’t. But I have the day.”
Her eyes widen, and then she flings her arms around my neck, slamming into me. “Ohmygod, I’m so excited I can’t even breathe.” She buries her nose into my neck and inhales sharply. “So, what are we doing?”
I grin. “First, we’re eating this amazing breakfast you made.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t cook much, so this is the best I’ve got.”
“I’m starving,” I say. “And it looks great.”
“The bacon is burnt.”
“I like it crispy.”
A grin, shaking her head. “Well, it’s certainly crispy. I’m just glad I didn’t set the house on fire.”
“Me too!”
After we eat, I text Jen that we need to kick our plan for the date into hyperdrive. She’s been keeping things on the back burner until I gave her the go-ahead. I get a thumbs-up from her, which means she’s too busy complying to bother with an elaborate response. It’s something I appreciate about Jen: She doesn’t waste time or words.
I get a text from Jen as we’re cleaning up: Phase one, buy Jo an outfit. Limo OTW, ETA 5min. Will take you to a private shopping/fitting experience. Will segue into Phase 2: glam squad glow up. From there, phase 3. Helicopter ride to the date venue. And just let me say, Wes, I really knocked this one out of the park. Trust me. The Bachelor couldn’t have done it better.
I message back: thank you, Jen. More than I can say.
Save the sappy thanks for after. I’ll be sure to wear waterproof mascara.
I’m not sure what that means. Maybe she’s anticipating crying? I don’t know.
Wish Upon A Star Page 24