The secret list?
I don’t know how to make those happen.
How do I meet a boy? What boy is going to fall in love with me? I have weeks left, or so say the doctors.
It would be pity.
Are we sensing a pattern, there? The pity thing is a real needle for me. I hate it. Don’t pity me. I don’t want it. It doesn’t help. It just pisses me off.
But UGH. I want those things. I want a romance. I want someone to look at me with stars in their eyes. I want to hold hands and eat popcorn and cuddle while watching cheesy romance movies. I want to be kissed in the rain. I want to lay under blankets together and watch the sunrise.
I don’t want to die a virgin.
Untouched. Unwanted.
* * *
We’re walkingalong a canal somewhere in Venice—heck if I know where, just that it’s somewhere near our hotel. Sun sets golden red. Gondolas scud slowly. Bridges arch delicately over the canal.
It’s unbearably romantic.
Ahead, at the mouth of a bridge over the canal, there’s a small crowd gathered. I hear music—strings, a voice singing. I push ahead of Mom and Dad, wiggle through the crowd to the front.
An absurdly gorgeous young man leans against the side of the bridge, posed with calculated ease. He has one foot propped up behind himself, and he’s playing a mandolin. He’s dressed in white linen trousers, with a white button-down open a button or two too far. His voice is dulcet and amazing, singing in English. It’s not a song I recognize, but it’s smooth and low and beautiful.
There’s a young woman standing near him, watching with her hands over her mouth. Love shines in her eyes.
As I watch, the young man pushes away from the bridge, keeps playing. Saunters toward the young woman. He smiles at her as he sings, and she’s shaking, shoulders trembling—somewhere between laughing and crying, I think. He goes to one knee in front of her, a last long low note quavering in the red-gold light of sunset.
He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a ring box. Slings his mandolin around and holds it up, in both hands. “Marry me, Amanda.”
There’s a chorus ofaawwwwfrom the gathered crowd, and Amanda—the young woman—nods, and flings her arms around him as he stands up. They kiss passionately, and then he takes her hand in his and slides the ring on.
Applause.
God, that’s so romantic it’s gross.
And…it gives me an idea. Crazy, desperate, and stupid.
But…what do I have to lose?
It’s All About Relevance
Westley
“There’ve been a lot of rumors surrounding you and your co-star, Alessa Howell. Now, having screened the film, I can say you two certainly have remarkable chemistry.” The reporter is a woman, a few years older than me, with platinum hair in a bob that isn’t quite a Karen cut. She’s pretty, in a severe sort of way. Her eyes betray her personal interest in the answer to the question she’s about to ask. “So, I’m just going to come right out and ask—are you and Alessa an item?”
I suppress a sigh and an eye roll; this is the fifteenth time I’ve heard that question so far today. I dig deep into my actor’s toolbox, doing my best to sound like I’m answering it for the first time. “Alessa is an amazing actress, and we did have some pretty incredible chemistry on set, but it’s just that, so far—on set. We’re just friends.”
“So…asking for a large percentage of the female population, and probably a decent swath of the male population as well…you’re still single?”
It always follows the question about chemistry with Alessa. Again, I try to sound like I haven’t answered this question a hundred times already.
“So far,” I say, giving her an overly playful wink. “You’ll be the first to know if that changes, Rebecca.”
She blushes, and I worry I’ve laid it on a little too thick.
The interview ends, and I have about five minutes to myself before the next one. I flick through emails—several from my agent with script pitches and audition invitations and at least two flat-out offers for roles, one from my financial manager for a quarterly check-in, a bunch of spam, and a plea from a charity I’ve donated to in the past for more money. I make a reminder to send them more.
