Page 18 of Wish Upon A Star

I huff. Whisper to her. “I may or may not have sung a song to him…and…um…askedhimtomarrymeokaybye.”

I push past her and trot down the stairs before she can call me back.

He’s at our kitchen table.

The same table we’ve eaten every meal at my whole life. There are scratches from when I would bang my fork on the table as a baby. Crayon and permanent marker from preschool and elementary art projects. Places where some kind of paper stuck to the table and never got cleaned off properly. It’s a round table, a few shades lighter than his eyes. It has a gap down the middle where a leaf would go, but we’ve never put the leaf in, and I don’t even know if we even have the leaf anymore.

The coffee maker is slowly and noisily chugging away—half pot done. I pour two mugs and sit down with them, hand him one. He wraps both hands around the small white diner-style mug.

I take a sip. Gag. Spit it back. “I hate coffee.”

He snorts a laugh. “Then why are you drinking it?”

I shake my head, shrug. “I don’t know. I still haven’t quite normalized from the fact that you’re here in my house.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, don’t drink coffee if you don’t like it.”

I gesture at the mug in his hands. “I’m sorry for that. I don’t drink coffee, but everyone I know who does says that stuff is…not the best.”

He laughs. “Hey, coffee is coffee, you know? Maybe you don’t. But…I’ve been driving for like…” He checks the clock on our stove. “God, I don’t even know. Thirty hours? Is it eastern time here?” He puts down the coffee and rubs his eyes. “I slept a few hours in Lincoln, Nebraska, and had some coffee at a roadside diner, and let me tell you…this?” He lifts the mug. “It’swaybetter.”

“You…drove all the way here? From LA? By yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” I suddenly remember putting my tea down on the side table near the door where Dad and Mom keep their keys. Wait—Dad and Mom is the wrong order. It just sounds weird in my own head. Mom and Dad. There, that’s better. I bolt up to my feet. “Hold on, I have to get my tea.”

His mouth was open to answer but closes it as I go retrieve my tea from the foyer. It’s still warm, so I’m fine.

I sit back down. He’s looking at me. Studying me. Examining my hair—ginger, short and spiky, messy. My freckles—plentiful, andeverywhere. My eyes—green, somewhere between jade and grass, depending on my mood and what I’m wearing.

He’s not just looking—he’s…memorizing, almost. Studying.

Is he looking for signs of illness?

“You can’t see it,” I say, abruptly.

His brow wrinkles. “See what?”

I snort. “Leukemia.”

He shakes his head. “Not…no. I wasn’t looking at you for…” His eyes close, his head drops, and then lifts again. A sigh. “You’re beautiful, Jolene.”

My heart flips, and I look away. “You don’t have to say that.”

He shrugs. “Why not? It’s true.”

“So that’s why you were looking at me like that?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

No one’s ever accused me of being a knockout. But the compliment, as unlikely as it is, still feels genuine. Heisan actor, but I want to believe him. It feels nice.

Weird, and alien, but nice.

“Why are you here, Wes?” I whisper it. “My TikTok?”

He nods. Glances over my shoulder—we have eavesdroppers on the stairs.