“So then, where do you live?” I ask.
“I rent a place. It’s not, like, a dinky loft in West Hollywood, but it’s not a fifteen-thousand-square-foot estate in Beverly Hills, either. Just, you know, a fairly nice, average home in a fairly nice, average neighborhood. Not the nicest house on the block, and not the nicest car on the block either. I don’t stand out. If any of my neighbors are aware of who I am, they either don’t care or are respectful enough to not make a deal about it.” He grins at me and sniffs a laugh. “Hope you’re not disappointed. Like, ‘oooh, a celebrity is taking me home. Malibu views and million dollar cars.’”
I consider playing into his statement, but in the end I opt for transparency over humor. “I don’t care about any of that, Wes, I really don’t.” I reach out and take his hand, hold it on the console between us. “If being terminally ill has taught me anything, it’s that material possessions don’t really mean much. I won’t be disappointed at a modest house or an average car—although I have to say, this feels anything but average.”
“Well, I mean, most of my friends and co-stars drive Ferraris and Bentleys and whatever, so in comparison, yeah, this is average.”
I squeeze his hand. “Maybe this whole thing started out being about you as Westley Britton, the celebrity, Westley Britton the object of my celebrity crush.” I lick my lips, swallow. “But then at some point after meeting you, it turned into…something else.”
He nods, and he’s quiet a long time. Chewing on something.
I wait a while, for him to formulate his thoughts. He looks at me, opens his mouth, closes it again.
I glance at him. “Whatever it is, Wes, just say it.”
“I don’t know how, that’s the issue.”
“Bluntly. Tact is overrated.”
He exhales slowly. “Okay, I’ll try.” Another long pause follows, however. “I guess I’m just trying to figure out for myself what I’m feeling, and why.”
I wait. “Okay?”
“And it’s tricky.”
“Just say it, Wes. I handled being told I’m going to die in a matter of weeks. I think I can handle whatever it is you’re struggling to say.”
He barks a laugh. “You’re stronger than I am, Jo. Brutal honesty and self-awareness isn’t easy for the rest of us.”
“It’s not easy for me,” I say, “I’ve just never had much choice. Face your own mortality, and your delusions and pretensions get stripped away pretty darn fast. I know exactly who I am, and who I’m not. I have some talent—I can sing, and play the ukulele, and write songs. I’m kinda funny, and emotionally strong and open. I’m very blunt, and tend to dark, morbid humor—most to cover my lingering bitterness at how unfair it all is, which isn’t something you ever really truly get over, I don’t think. I’m not ugly, but I’ll never be a sexy siren. I’ll never have the confidence in my body and my looks that some women have, but I’m also proud of myself. I’m tough. I can handle pain most people cannot and will not ever be able to fathom, and I honestly would not wish the pain of this on anyone. I don’t have a worst enemy, but if I did, I wouldn’t wish it on them.” I shrug. “So it’s not that I’m any, like, better, at understanding myself or being honest, it’s just that I’ve been forced to learn how to be honest with myself in a way others have not.” I squeeze his hand again. “Now. Spit it out.”
He twists his hand so our palms face, and our fingers intertwine. “I’m just trying to figure out my feelings and motivations, and be honest about it all with myself, and thus with you.” A pause as he changes lanes around a slower-moving car. “I do think there was an element of…not pity. Compassion? A desire to just meet you, to bring you some joy, some peace, some happiness. Because the video, your TikTok. It…you—in it, you radiate joy despite obvious tremendous difficulty. There was no sense of self-pity, no sense of bitterness. It wasn’t even resignation. And that called to me. But it was—there was just something about…you. The YOU-ness of you. You seemed…centered and at peace. And that’s just…it’s beautiful.”
He pauses, but resumes again right away, not looking at me as he speaks—his attention is on the road and driving, but also on formulating his thoughts.
“You are beautiful, Jolene. And yes, I mean it in the perhaps cliche way—you have a beautiful soul. Your spirit just radiates a beauty that is truly rare. Is it because of what you’ve been through? Maybe to some degree. Why was I so drawn to you? Because of the whole…package. The music, your vocal talent, the story behind it, the fact that you’ve overcome so much.”
“But, I mean, have I overcome it?” I ask, my voice a whisper. “I’ve survived it…so far. But I’m not going to. So is that overcoming? Or just enduring because I have no choice?”
“You’ve overcome,” he says, firm and immediate. “You haven’t given in to bitterness or resentment. You’re not angry. You’re not sad. You’re living your life. Getting the most out of every moment. And really, it doesn’t seem to me like you’re dwelling on…um, the end, I guess. Accepting what you can’t change, perhaps, but not…not dwelling on it.” He glances at me. “And, Jo? There is one other element to this whole thing. I’m not sure you’ll believe me, but I am attracted to you, physically. You’re beautiful. You are.”
I gaze at him, processing everything he’s saying. “So…if I’m hearing you right, the understanding you’re trying to come to is that you are not doing this with me out of pity for the poor dying girl, because you got into something you don’t know how to get out of.” I swallow hard. “Because, Wes, there’s no obligation. You can change your mind at any time. If it’s too much, I understand.” I crush his hand as hard as I can. “And I’m not going to, like, break apart, if you change your mind. You can tell me the truth and I’ll be okay. I’m strong, Wes. I’m strong enough to handle it if you decide you can’t or don’t want to go through with this. It really is okay.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think we need to examine that anymore, Jo. I know what I’m getting myself into, and I’m still choosing to go forward with you because I want to. I know that to the whole world, maybe, this would be just crazy. Way too much, way too soon, that we can’t possibly know each other well enough to be making these decisions or feeling this way or whatever. And maybe by some kind of logic or rationale, that might be true. But I don’t care. I just know I really like you. I like being with you. I want to spend time with you. And time is short, so why waste it? Let’s just make the process…concentrated. Like orange juice from concentrate—this is love, concentrated.” He glances at me briefly. “From now on, let’s not waste any more time on motivations or is this right or wrong or what do other people think or can I handle it or what even is it we’re doing. Let’s just live in the moment and enjoy it. Okay?”
“I like that plan,” I say.
He hands me his phone. “Now. Put on some music we can sing along to.”