“Stop embarrassing your daughter—my god. You’re incorrigible.”
I laugh, though. “Pizza. Then tiramisu. And cannoli.”
“As you wish, my lady.” He finishes this with an elaborate bow, complete with a foppish flourish of his hand.
I cover my face with both hands. “Stop, ohmygod, stop. God, you’re so embarrassing.”
“Hey, you rememberPrincess Bride, right? Westley, Buttercup, Humperdink?”
I groan. “Yes, Dad. It’s only one of my top ten favorite movies of all time.”
Mom snickers, failing to suppress a laugh. “Yeah, only because you’re in love with Westley Britton.”
“Who?” Dad asks.
I glare at Mom. “I’mnotin love with him.”
“Are too.”
“I justlikehim. A lot. He’s a triple threat: he can sing, dance, and act.”
“The jumping around on stage he did with that boy band he was in doesn’t count as dancing, Jolene. You said so yourself.” Mom is just goading me. She knows my favorite topic is Westley Britton.
I fish my phone from my back pocket. “Ah, true, I did say that. But have you seen the video that came out yesterday?”
Mom arches an eyebrow. “No, I have not. Show me.”
I have the video cued up on YouTube pretty much all the time. Because…well, because he’s dressed in nothing but a pair of short gym shorts, and he’s sweaty and glistening, and he’s all muscle and golden skin. His hair is swept back and wet, messy, sticking to his forehead and chiseled cheekbones. He’s out of breath, and he’s clearly been dancing for hours.
I play the video and watch with Mom. I know every second of it. I could do the choreography myself, if I had the strength. He’s dancing to a Lewis Capaldi song, and I’ve already started learning in on my uke. He spins, leaps, rolls, tumbles. It’s mostly contemporary dance, but there are elements of ballet and jazz. It’s a melding of styles. It’s all him, original choreography. He’s not just learning the steps forSingin’ in the Rain, he’s becoming a dancer. As if he needed to be even more perfect, right?
My parents have spent most of their life savings on my public bucket list. You know, the usual stuff: Paris and the Eiffel Tower, Italy, the Caribbean, things like that. See the world before I die. You know, the usual.
But I have a secret bucket list. There are three items on it:
—fall in love
—kiss a boy
—don’t die a virgin
Below those three, there’s one more item. All by itself.
—Meet Westley Britton
And then, at the bottom of the page, a fifth entry. But I’ve crossed it out and scribbled over it until you wouldn’t know what it says. ButIknow.
—MARRY Westley Britton
I wrote it in a moment of weakness, when I was lonely and feeling ridiculous. I mean, what girl doesn’t want him? He’s everything. But I know better. He’s probably got a famous, stunning girlfriend. He can have anyone he wants.
Why would he even bother meeting me? I thought about going through one of those last-wish foundations to try to get a meet-and-greet with him, but I just…couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t be organic.
It would be out of pity.
So my pathetic crush on the most famous, most eligible bachelor in the world continues, unabated and unrequited. I mean, look—I’m nineteen. I know better. I’m not dumb or naive. I know it’s a celebrity crush, and he’ll never know I even exist. But it’s harmless, you know? It’s something to daydream about, when I’m floating on the mercy of heavy-duty narcotics. Something to fall asleep daydreaming about.
My other bucket list, the one Mom and Dad know about and are working to make come true, is half done. We still have to see the Sphinx and the Pyramids, go to Paris, and see the Great Wall of China. I’m not sure we’ll get to all of them, honestly. This kind of travel is exhausting, and takes a lot out of me. But they’re bucket list things that Icando.
