Jolene is on the set, alone. I don’t know if she’s noticed the single spotlight some enterprising, thoughtful lighting tech has trained on her. She’s on the edge of the smoke machine, ukulele in hand, fingering the melody to “You Were Meant For Me” and singing the song.
The whole crew and cast are clustered just off set, out of the pool of light bathing her.
Everyone is recording this.
Her eyes are closed, brow furrowed as she focuses on the melody, the words, the emotions.
“…But I'm content
The angels must have sent you
And they meant you just for me…”
Good lord, what a scene. No one speaks, nor even dares breathe, or rustle, or cough. There’s something sacred happening here.
You can feel it in the air, feel the weight of this moment on your soul.
She stands up and plays the melody, lost in the moment, lost in the music, and she does a step, a turn. She even knows the steps to the song? I can almost see her, alone in her room, watching this movie a thousand times, imaging herself as Debbie Reynolds, dancing with Gene Kelly in her mind.
My feet carry me, and I take the instrument from her, set it aside, and sweep her into the dance. Her eyes find mine, and the music is in our eyes, in the sparks flying between our gazes.
The steps, the number, the stage, the lights, the crew, the cameras—there’s none of it.
Just…us. Dancing.
Then there is music—slowly rising, imperceptible, from off-stage somewhere. Jolene smiles up at me, hand on my waist and the other in mine. It’s not the original choreography anymore, just improvised waltzing, step-two-three, turn and step back and in…
The music fades and we fall still, gazes locked.
And I can’t help but kiss her.
When we part, there’s applause.
Jolene starts, looking around in shock. “Have they been…”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She covers her mouth. “The whole time?”
Adam takes her hands from me, turns her to face him. “Young lady, that was…heavenly. I’ve never witnessed anything like that in my life.”
She blinks. “The stage was empty. I’ve…I’ve seen the movie so many times, and to be on this stage?” She blinks again. “I didn’t know anyone was watching. I hope I didn’t—”
He’s emotional. “It was magic, my dear. Just…pure magic.” He rubs his hands together, then his face. Shakes his head. “It’s the kind of Hollywood magic you can’t create on purpose. Thank god we got it on film.”
I notice then that the main cameras were running; the ADs are rewatching the footage on the monitor. They’ve got their hands over their mouths. I see some of the crew dabbing their eyes.
Jolene sees all this. Her breath catches, and she looks to me.
“You’re amazing,” I tell her, with a shrug.
Fingers fly on phones, and I know this is going to hit the media like a firestorm.
She sees this too. “They’re posting it online, aren’t they?”
I nod. “I can ask them to take it down, if you want, or not post it.”
She glances at Adam. “It’ll help the movie, though, won’t it?”
He grins. “Better than all the publicity we’ve done so far put together, honey.”
“It’s you and me in the public, isn’t it?” she asks me.
I nod.
She walks into my arms, and I envelop her in a hug. “I didn’t mean to…I didn’t know anyone was watching.”
“I know,” I murmur. “That’s what makes it so magical.”
“I just got carried away. It’s one of my favorite musicals.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” I say, laughing. “No one is mad. Everyone is…in awe, I guess.” I gesture at Shania. “That should be you.”
She shakes her head. “In a different life, maybe.” She rests against me. “But thank you for saying it.”
“Jo—”
She pulls back from me, pats my chest. “Now go do the scene for real. And nail it this time, okay? For me.”
I kiss her. “For you.”
We nail it the very next take.
I don’t think it’s a surprise to anyone, though—we’re all moved and inspired by Jolene’s raw talent and pure, vulnerable connection to the music.
It’s the best scene we’ve done so far.
It’s been a long day, and it’s after midnight before we get home. Jo is half asleep, and I’m more than half carrying her through the door. Once we’re inside and I lock the door behind us, I pick her up and carry her to bed.
I help her out of her dress and strip off my own clothes, and we curl up against each other under the blankets, naked and needing and wanting nothing but to hold each other.
She’s mostly asleep. “Wes?”
“Mmm?” So am I.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
A long quiet. “Westley?”
My full name? Some part of me stirs to wakefulness. “Yeah, Jo?”
“Thank you.” A pause. “For putting so much magic into my life.”
There’s an odd, awful finality in her voice.
“Jo?”
“I feel…heavy.” A breath. “Tired.”
“Jo?” My voice cracks.
She nuzzles closer. “I’m okay. Just hold me.”
“I’m gonna make us coffee and omelets in the morning, okay?”
“’Kay.”
“You can make the bacon. I like it how you make it. Crispy, almost burnt.”
No answer.
She’s breathing slowly, deeply.
I’m half awake for a long time, just listening to her breathe.
Kneeling
Westley
When I wake up, she’s burning with fever.
She won’t wake up.
I call an ambulance first, and her parents second.
I find myself singing “One Day More” under my breath, in a cracked, breaking voice.
The chaos of EMS arriving, and her parents, her grandmother, Bethany and Macy—it washes over me.
I move sluggishly, dazed, as through a dense fog, as if my limbs are bound in thick gel.
Her parents take over. I find myself in the back of the ambulance, holding her hand. She’s got a mask over her nose. The medics are…I don’t know what they’re doing.
We’re in a room, in a hospital.
She’s suddenly so small, and there are so many wires, tubes, monitors, machines.
“Wes.” Her grandmother. “Westley?”
I blink, and sort of awaken. “Hmm.” It’s a noncommittal grunt—not even a word or word-sound.
“Come.” She takes my hand—hers is small and dry and wrinkly and cool. Steady.
She leads me to a waiting room. No, a chapel. Front row. Facing a wooden cross, empty, lit by stained glass in burnished hues of violet and crimson. Her grandmother—do I even know her name? Just Grandma. She slowly, laboriously moves to her knees, clasps her hands in front of her.