Page 15 of Wish Upon A Star

But comforting.

Mom and Dad aren’t awake yet—they’re still jet-lagged from our trip to Italy. Dad’s been given a paid sabbatical from his position at the university, where he’s a professor of economics.

What does that even mean? What does a professor of economics even do? I took economics in my online homeschooling program, and I still don’t really know what need there is for a whole university department in the subject.

Yeah, I homeschooled. When you’re in and out of hospitals your whole life and either sitting for chemo or going in for radiation or recovering or just plain sick as a dog because LEUKEMIA SUCKS, going to a normal school isn’t really possible.

Tea, toast, egg. It’s a decent day—I feel all right.

Read a book—Little Women. No, not because I feel some weird kinship to Jo in the book simply because my family nickname is Jo. I just like the book. It’s something to keep my mind off of my idiotically desperate plea for attention—at least, that’s how I assume most people will see it. I just…I don’t know.

I like him. I like his voice. I like the way he dances. I like his attitude during interviews. He seems normal, well-adjusted to fame. And he’s just…beautiful.I know I certainly don’t have a monopoly on having a crush on Westley Britton, and I certainly don’t have an expectation that anything will come of it.

So why do it?

Why not?

Really. What do I have to lose? I don’t care how it looks. Am I using my illness for some kind of sympathy, or pity? No. Attention from a guy I have a crush on? Yeah—if it were to have worked, which it hasn’t.

This damn cancer has taken just about everything from me, so maybe I’m not above leveraging it, just a little. Because Westley Britton.He’ll probably send me a cute, heartfelt little tweet or a package with some signed swag, and it’ll be cool and that’ll be that. End of story.

I just…when I’m falling asleep at night, the hopeless romantic in me still fantasizes about him showing up out of the blue and sweeping me off my feet.

I know, I know. Ridiculous. But a girl can dream, right?

DINGGGGG…DONNNNNGGGGGG.

Who the heck would be ringing our doorbell at eight thirty in the morning?

“Jo?” I hear Dad call from upstairs. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know!” I call back. “I’ll go see!”

I bring my tea with me, because if I put down my mug, I’ll forget about it and it’ll go cold and I’ll have to start the whole process over again.

I peek through the tall window to the side of the door—there’s a car in our driveway that I don’t recognize. Looks like a brand-new Land Rover, maybe. I don’t know cars, but it’s new and shiny and looks expensive and no one we know owns one of those. The person on the other side is in profile. Male. Tall. Jeans slouched into partially unlaced combat boots. A pullover hoodie, hood up over a ball cap, sunglasses, head bowed. Shifting impatiently.

Who is it? I can’t tell.

Just have to open the door and find out.

I let out a breath, feeling bizarrely nervous. Why should I be nervous to open my own front door? Shut up, self.

Sigh.

I unlock the deadbolt and then the knob, open the front door. The storm door is still between me and the person on the front porch, but a sinking feeling in my gut tells me who it is.

I don’t believe it, though.

I just stare. Because even with the hood, hat, and sunglasses, it’s obvious who’s standing on my front porch…

Staring back at me.

“Hi.” His voice is deeper in person than I thought it would be. “Jolene.”

He says my name by itself, with enough of a pause after the “hi” to make it kind of weird and awkward.

“Um. What?”