Wish Upon A Star Read online

  —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. But I know.

  —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 I can do.

  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 walking along 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 of aawwww from 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.

  The next reporter is someone I know—a grizzled, gruff old veteran of the Hollywood circuit, famous for surprise questions. At least this will be interesting.

  By the end of the whole interview parade, I’m exhausted, sick of answering the freaking stupid questions, hungry, irritable, and ready to collapse in my hotel room. My day isn’t over, yet, though.

  The press junket finally over, I leave the hotel and climb into the second row of a blacked-out Escalade. I honestly don’t even know where I’m going, next. Jen, my assistant, is in the seat beside me, iPad in one hand, stylus in the other, Bluetooth earpiece in her ear, carrying on a rapid-fire conversation. I have emails to look at, and I should prep for whatever nonsense is next, but I’m just tired. So I lean my head back against the seat and just…rest.

  Finally, I hear Jen end the conversation. “So, Westley.”

  “Mmmm,” I grunt.

  Jen is terrifyingly efficient, mind-bogglingly organized, and absolutely indispensable, but personable she is not. To be honest, I hired her specifically because she’s no-nonsense, kind of scary, and not in any way that I would ever be distracted by. It just seemed like smart business to keep those lines clearly demarcated. She’s tall, almost six feet, and I would call her build svelte. Not skinny, but svelte. Brown hair she keeps in a tight braided bun, minimal makeup. She’s older than me by about ten years, and I know absolutely nothing about her personal life. I know she’s great at her job, which is getting me where I need to go, and keeping track of…well, everything in my life.

  “Next is a table read for Singin’ in the Rain.”

  I groan. “It never ends.”

  “Such is the price of fame.” She doesn’t look at me as she speaks, instead keeps her gaze on her iPad; she’s gotten the art of multitasking down to a precise science.

  “When do I have five minutes to myself?” I ask.

  “You have some time to yourself tomorrow afternoon. About two and a half hours, after your dance intensive and before more table reading.”

  “Excellent. During those two and a half hours, I do not exist. Not even for you.”

  She smiles wryly. “Understood.” We’re nearing the studio, so I sit
up straight and start putting my brain into actor mode. “You were invited out with several of your co-stars tomorrow after the table read. You had me put you down as a maybe. I think you should go. It would be fun for you, plus time to bond with your co-stars.”

  “All right, fine. I could use a night out anyway.”

  “It’s actually a night in. It’s at Ryan’s house up in Malibu.”

  “Even better.”

  She’s still double-checking even as we pull up to the studio where the read is taking place. “Last thing—your dance instructor wanted you to pick a piece of music and choreograph your own two-minute dance. I need to block off some time for you to work on that.”

  “Try to schedule it before the lessons, so I can work on that, practice it, show it to him, and then have the lesson all in one block.”

  “That would mean the days you have dance, you’ll be in the studio for literally half the day.”

  I unbuckle and open the door. “It’s Singin’ in the Rain, Jen. I can’t just learn, like, one five-minute dance sequence. I have to be a dancer.”

  She sighs, shrugs, nods. “True.” A moment of work on the tablet. “So that’s a six-hour block of dance, with a break for lunch, four days a week.”

  “That’s a lot of dance,” I say, laughing. “Good thing I enjoy it.” I check my phone. “What’s after this?”

  “Dinner with Marty. He’s pitching you a couple projects.”

  “Can it be an email? Unless it’s got music in it, I’m gonna say no. This project is just reminding me how much I miss music.”

  “I think that’s a discussion to have with Marty in person.”

  “Fine, but I’m not going anywhere fancy. I’m not wearing a damn tie.”

  She huffs a laugh. “The reservations have been made for a month and a half. But it’s not fancy. You’re fine like you are. Also, you’re Westley Britton. I don’t think they’d refuse to seat you because you’re not wearing a tie.”

  “Okay, I for real have to go, now. Anything else?”

  She scans her iPad one last time. “That’s it for now.” A smirk. “Unless you want me to schedule a second date with Alessa.”

  I roll my eyes. “That wasn’t a date, number one. We were discussing how to make the scene work, because it wasn’t working as directed. She really, truly is my friend and nothing more, number two. And number three, just no. I don’t need you scheduling my romance, Jen.”

  “What romance? I’ve worked for you for two and a half years, and that one date with Alessa is the closest I’ve seen you come to anything like romance.”

  I shrug. “I’ve been busy. You know my schedule better than I do—I really would have to schedule dates. And so far, I’ve just not met anyone worth dating. Alessa is beautiful and talented, and part of me wishes it was like that, but the spark just wasn’t there. Alessa and I talked about it.”

  “So you’re not a monk?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “What with you never going on dates and rarely even going out drinking with your co-stars, I was kind of starting to wonder.”

  This irritates me. “Jen…” I suppress it, though; it’s understandable. “I’m just focused on my career.”

  “Understood.” She shoos me. “You better go. I’ve heard the director doesn’t appreciate tardiness.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.”

  As I head into the studio for the table read, though, I wonder if my pursuit of career was getting in the way of having a life. Finding someone.

  How am I supposed to find someone to share life with if my time is scheduled off and blocked out every minute of every day from six in the morning till midnight?

  The table read is…fine. It’s a table read. I’ve watched the original a hundred times until I know the dialogue by heart. I can do the original classic footwork blindfolded. I know my character—I know his secrets, the things you’ll never see on the screen but which make him a real character. I know most of my lines; the script itself is still a work in progress, getting tweaked here and there at every table read, and I anticipate it being massaged further when we get to actual rehearsals and filming.

  After that, Jen whisks me off yet again for my dinner with Marty Conlan, my agent.

  Our table is in a back corner of a dimly lit LA industry-popular spot, where actors, directors, agents, and producers and such can meet with a minimum of cameras and staring. Marty stands when I arrive, greets me with a handshake that turns into a hug. Marty is the archetype of the garrulous, overly friendly, overly chipper sort who invariably says “I’m a hugger” when he meets you for the first time. He’s medium height, portly, always a little red in the face with a bead of sweat on his upper lip and a tendency to keep his arms down to hide pit stains. Blond-brown hair, receding, and a goatee that does his round face no favors. But Marty is the agent. He knows everyone. He’s been an industry insider since forever, and has a large percentage of the industry on speed dial, and is on a first-name basis with anyone who’s anyone. He’s freakishly easy to talk to, and can wax endlessly and knowledgeably on topics ranging from politics to sports, ancient history to the development of modern music from classical through pop-rock.

  He also can sell water to a fish. Which means, when he thinks a role is perfect for me, it’s hard to say no. Also complicating things is that he’s rarely wrong.

  As I sit down across from him and let him order drinks for us, I can tell he has ideas that he’s going to sell me on, roles I’m going to resist and will inevitably end up saying yes to. I’m already contracted for three films over the next eighteen months, which means either he’s looking into the next two to four years, or he’s intentionally overbooking me to create demand.

  He’s sneaky like that.

  When we have whiskey sours and house salads, he finally dives into his spiel. “So, Wes. Singin’ in the Rain. Table reads. How goes it?”

  I shrug. “Fine.”

  “Dance lessons?”

  “Cranking it up to six hours a day starting next week. Choreographing my own number.”

  He nods thoughtfully, points at me with his fork, on which is speared a piece of arugula and red onion. “Have someone record it as if it’s stolen footage, and I’ll have it leaked. It’ll be great.”

  I give him a confused frown. “Why don’t I just, you know, record on purpose and post it on purpose?”

  He waves with his fork, then chomps down, speaks while chewing. “Making like it’s illicit makes it more fun for the people. Like they’re getting a peak at you that they’re not supposed to. It puts you on a pedestal while humanizing you at the same time. Especially if you’re sweaty and tired and look like a billion bucks.”

  “I don’t like gimmicks, Marty.”

  “It’s not a gimmick. It’s a strategy. Trust me. Then we’ll do an interview about the footage, and by the time the movie premiers, people will be nuts to see you dance.” He stabs the air with his fork in time with his next words, creating a headline. “‘Westley Britton—singer, songwriter, actor, and now dancer. What can’t he do?’”

  “Get a solo recording contract?” I suggest.

  “Nah, you’re past that, Wes. Trust me on this.”

  “Past that? That’s my dream, Marty. My music, my way.” I pause as the server comes by with our main courses, and then resume haranguing my agent. “I love acting. I really do. I want to continue taking roles, and the more musicals that come by the better, but dramatic roles, comedy, action, I want to do it all. But Marty, even if it’s a one-off thing, just one album, one tour—I want it to be me, on a stage, playing the songs I write.”

  He doesn’t answer immediately, as we dig into our meals. After a few bites, he slows down and addresses my point. “Wes, you gotta trust me. I have a plan.”

  “And that plan is what?”

  “Remember all the publicity around A Star is Born? Brad and Stephani were all over the place, singing, doing the song together. And Brad isn’t even actually a musician. Stephani is,
obviously, but that’s different. My plan is something like that. I’m looking for the perfect script, okay? The perfect vehicle to put you on screen and stage, as you, using your talent with a guitar, your songs, your star power. But…on the big screen and the stage. We’ll turn it into a tour. ‘You’ve seen the movie, now see the show—Westley Britton, live, for a limited time only.’ Like that. You just have to be patient.”

  “And do a bunch of movies in the meantime.”

  “Sure. You said you like acting, right? You’re good at it. You’ve got it, kid. You’ve got the charm, the looks, the talent—you just have to put in the time. You’re young. You’ve got less than half a dozen big titles under your belt, and yeah, you’re making waves. People know you. Producers and directors are starting to see what I saw when I got you Ask Me Again. But you need more roles. More draw, more star power. You want the project that puts you back on the map as a real, serious musician? You gotta work for it. Because projects like that come along once in a lifetime. And while you’re waiting for it to come along, you gotta put int the work so you’re in a position to take it on and do it justice.”

  I nod, thinking. “Fine. So what’s next? I know you’ve got projects you’re itching to pitch.”

  “You got my emails—you responded to them.”

  “Yeah.” I smirk. “But if it was a real pitch, you’d bring it to me in person. None of the pitches you’ve ever sent me via email have ever been the real pitch you want me to see.”

  He grins. “Ah, you’re on to me, I see.” He reaches to the side, to his briefcase on the bench beside him. Opens it, slaps a thick folder on the table in front of me. “You’ve done the heartthrob rom-com, you’ve done the coming-of-age bit, you’ve even sort of done the superhero bit, but I’m still working on a real leading superhero role. You’ve got the buddy cop flick after Singin’ in the Rain, then the James Dean biopic, and then the western. And yes, you’re sticking with the western. All my sources say westerns are making a comeback—that script is on the leading edge of a whole crop of westerns in production right now. It’ll be hot when it hits, trust me.”