600 Days to Love Him

I stared at the "latestage stomach cancer" diagnosis my old high school deskmate had sent me. Then I transferred him every last dollar in my account. All 19,873 of it.

The screen flickered. Cut to the biggest live New Year's Eve broadcast in the country. Under the spotlight stood the nation's most famous actor. My high school deskmate.

He lifted his phone to the camera, and one corner of his mouth curled up. "You're still this gullible?" The studio audience burst out laughing. Rows of them, doubled over.

Even the host had to look away to hide his grin. Every one of them laughing at me. I killed the screen. My stomach twisted into a knot. Rust flooded the back of my throat.

I bent over the floor, and red dripped onto the tile. He didn't know. That "latestage stomach cancer" diagnosis he'd used as a prank. It was real.

The doctor had told me two years, if I was lucky. I'd done the math. Six hundred and some days left. Chapter 1 My phone lit up again. A second voice message. I tapped it.

Weston's voice came through, clear and easy, the last syllable dragged out lazy and warm. My breath stopped halfway.

The blood was still wet at the corner of my mouth, the taste of rust on my tongue, and his laughter kept spilling warm out of the speaker.

The next message landed right behind it. "Relax, deskmate. I'm filming a variety show. Just messing with you. Happy New Year." His tone was light.

Even through the static I could picture him leaning back in his chair, eyes crinkled. I opened my mouth. Something was lodged in my throat. It took me a while to find my breath.

Me: [Good to hear. Happy New Year!] I sent it and watched the little line at the top of the chat. Typing… It glowed for a few seconds. Then it went dark. He didn't write back.

Fireworks burst overhead, the whole sky lit up, and I couldn't make myself care. I went home and buried my face in the blankets. Of course.

Weston was the biggest star in the country now. The youngest actor ever to sweep the top three film awards. Why on earth would he need to borrow money from me. The phone woke me up.

Light knifed through the gap in the curtains. I squinted and groped for the nightstand, and my best friend's voice slammed straight through the speaker. "Iris!

You're trending!" She was loud enough to make my eardrum buzz. Then my phone started going off, seven or eight messages, all links and screenshots.

WestonXiesDeskmate TheDeskmateWhoWiredHimHerWholeSavings I rubbed my eyes and clicked in.

A clip from the show had already been chopped into a dozen versions and was flying everywhere.

In the footage Weston lounged on a couch in a black turtleneck, loose and unbothered, eyes down on his phone. Behind him, blown up huge on the screen, was our chat history.

The host smiled like he knew something. "Wes, this contact name. 'Dummy.' What's that about?" Weston looked up at the camera.

That corner of his mouth again. "She was kind of a space cadet back in high school." The live comments tore across the screen, wall to wall. [AAAA that's MY man now] [the way he says it though. so soft] [what in the world, deskmate goals] The comments kept scrolling, wall to wall, all of them melting over him.

I tipped two pills into my palm. I stared at that face on the screen, and for a second the room tilted. He'd said the exact same thing about me back in high school.

Back then I was slow with everything but books. Always half a beat behind when I talked, when I moved. He'd sat next to me grinning, one sharp canine showing. "Deskmate.

You're the first person I've ever wanted to just call 'Dummy.'" "Rissy! Be honest. You still like him, don't you!" Piper's voice yanked me back.

I got up to pour water, and my hand shook. Two pills scattered. "That medical report looked real. I really thought he was—" "You absolute idiot!

That's still no reason to wire him everything you own!" Piper was furious the way you only get at someone you love. "And anyway, how are you this broke?" "I bought a few too many clothes lately." I gave her a sheepish little laugh and swallowed the pills down.

Chapter 2 "Ugh! I'll send you some cash later, okay? Make sure you take it! Oh, and your stomach, the one you said was hurting, did you get it checked?

If you didn't, I've got time this week, I'll come out to Ashford and go with you—" "It's nothing.

I just had too much cold stuff." As I said it, I pressed the pill bottle down into the bottom of my bag.

I hung up, picked the scattered pills off the floor, and dropped them in the trash. The trending page was still refreshing on my screen. I turned the phone face down.

Running into Weston at the hospital was not something I'd planned for. I'd gone in for a followup and was coming out of my doctor's office.

At the corner of the hallway I walked straight into a man in a black mask and a black cap. I stepped aside and said sorry.

As we passed, a familiar voice dropped down over my head. "Deskmate. Small world." My blood iced over in an instant.

I lifted my eyes slowly, right into a pair of smiling ones. "You— how are you—" "You don't answer my texts, and here you are anyway." He gave his phone a little shake. "Tell me that's not a coincidence." I hurried into my messages.

Pinned at the top, sure enough, Weston.

Three unread. "In Ashford this month, shooting." [Catch up?] [You there?] Almost no one ever messaged me, and I always kept my phone on silent at the hospital, so I hadn't noticed at all. "I wasn't ignoring you on purpose—" I opened my mouth, and then it hit me. "You're shooting here?" Above the mask, his eyes curved deeper. "Came to film a promo spot for the hospital.

Just wrapped. You—" He paused. His gaze slid, casual, over the medical envelope clenched in my hand. "You sick?" I shook my head, voice even. "A friend's sick.

I came to see her." At that he seemed to let out a breath. "Perfect timing, then. Grab a meal?

I'm free all afternoon." I tightened my grip on the envelope and pressed it back behind me. "Okay." It was just the two of us in the private room.

Weston pulled off his mask, and there it was, the whole face a dozen magazines had voted Most Kissable Male Celebrity, number one.

I stared at the menu on the table, my heart a complete mess. "You're not ordering?" There was a laugh in his voice. "One look at me and you're full?" My face went up in flames. "You— how are you still—" "Still what?" It took me a second.

All I managed was: "Still such a menace." He laughed out loud and tapped the menu twice. "Shredded pork in garlic sauce, sweetandsour pork, some greens, and—" He looked up at me. "That porkandcorn soup you used to love.

This place does it well." I sat there, stunned. All these years, and he remembered it down to the detail. The room went quiet for a few seconds.

Weston set down his teacup and said: "If it weren't for you, I probably wouldn't have made it this far." I glanced up, a little lost. He said it lazily. "Graduation day.

You lent me fifty bucks." The memory rushed back. The day we graduated, Weston got a lastminute audition call. His mother wouldn't let him go, and she'd frozen his card.

He'd cornered me at the back door of the classroom, leaning down a little, looking at me through lowered lashes. "Deskmate. Spot me fifty for a cab?

My card's cut off." I didn't hesitate. I dug four tens and two fives out of the inner pocket of my backpack, the bills crushed soft and wrinkled.

Chapter 3 When Weston saw the loose change, he went still for a beat. "This isn't—" "No. I've got plenty." I cut him off and pushed the bills into his hand. He didn't push it.

He grabbed his bag, pinched the little wad of cash between two fingers, waved it at me, and grinned wide and reckless. "Fine. Gotta go catch my train.

Next time I see you, I'm paying you back five million." That night I washed dishes at a restaurant until my wrists went pale and pruned.

All I could think about was that grin of his before he left. Four hours of scrubbing. Forty bucks. "So. I'm here to make good on it." One corner of Weston's mouth lifted.

He picked up his phone and tapped a few times. A chime. My screen lit up. Deposit received: $5,000,000.00. "No! I can't take this!" My voice cracked.

I shoved the phone back across the table at him. Weston barely glanced at it and pushed my phone back, slow and unbothered. "Whether you keep it is your business.

That I sent it is mine." "But this is way too much—" He'd left me with nothing to say. He was about to add something when his phone buzzed.

He looked at the screen, and for half a second his brow tightened, so faint I almost missed it. "Sorry. It's my crew. Let me take this." He got up and stepped out.

The door clicked shut. I sat alone on the couch and stared at that string of zeros. Five million. Just like that. My stomach clenched, sudden and sharp.

I made a low sound and doubled over. Hands shaking, I dug the bottle out of my bag, twisted off the cap, shook out two pills, and choked them down with a mouthful of orange juice.

One caught in my throat. Bitterness spread up the back of my tongue. I leaned into the couch and waited it out for a long minute. Another message popped up.

Weston. "When I've got time. Can I come find you again?" I didn't answer. I shoved the phone into my bag, braced myself up, and went to pay.

The front desk said he'd already covered it. Outside, the nausea rolled up again, and I crouched at the curb dryheaving for a while. People passing turned to look.

One of them frowned and gave me a wide berth, like I'd had too much to drink. Nobody looked twice. I wiped my mouth, stood, and headed for the subway. The phone buzzed again.

Weston, still. "Text me when you're home." I typed out, Home safe. Then I deleted it, and in the end just sent: Mm. I didn't sleep all night.

So I sat up, opened my laptop, and logged into the writing platform. My inbox had a dozen new messages.

The newest was from MoonlitVigil, a reader who'd followed me for five years. [Ning'an!! Is this story about to end? Is it gonna be a bad ending?

WHY would you do a bad ending. i'm gonna cry] I tugged the corner of my mouth up and wrote back. "They're too far apart.

It wouldn't work." The reply came fast. [But they're both trying so hard to reach each other, getting better together!

And in each other's hearts, the other one is the best there is. Isn't that true?] I stared at that line for a long time. "There's more coming.

I can't spoil it for you yet." A little smiley came back. [Don't break my heart! What's wrong with a happy ending! Oh, and, I'm heading to a temple soon.

Maybe I'll send you a little surprise?] A temple. My fingers stopped over the keys. The place Weston was shooting, out past the studio lot on the edge of Ashford.

There was a temple near there. A powerful one. She was going to a temple. He was near a temple. I sat very still. Chapter 4 I opened MoonlitVigil's profile.

Registered five years ago. The same year Weston made his debut. I stared at the screen for a while, then closed it. I went back to typing.

When I finished, I read it over, deleted it, started again. Fought with it until dawn and kept not a single word. Weston started texting me every day.

Sometimes it was a photo of the crew's boxed lunch. Braised pork today's eight degrees saltier than yesterday's. Sometimes it was a streetlight after a late night wrap.

Night, deskmate. I answered them one by one. Sometimes fast, sometimes I'd be midsentence in my writing and miss it, not reply for two or three hours.

One time I got halfway through a reply when my stomach twisted. I put the phone down, swallowed two pills first, then came back and finished the other half of the sentence.

He never pushed. He just always fired one back the second I answered. That evening he sent a photo of a steak at some Western place, plated pretty.

I zoomed in and noticed, at the edge of the frame, one of his hands. A fresh red scrape across the back of it. "Your hand. What happened?" A voice message came back right away.

I tapped it. "Branch got me up on the mountain. Hurts so bad." I felt my mouth start to curve, and then something snagged. I played the message again.

His voice was rougher than usual. Wind in the background. "You catch a cold? Still out there in the wind?" Nothing came back. A few seconds later, a video request popped up.

I picked up. The frame was dim. Weston was half propped against a tree trunk, face flushed, mask pulled down to his chin, voice wrecked. "Deskmate.

It's a fever." "You've got a fever and you're still outside?" My brows pulled together. He gave a helpless little smile. "Middle of the night.

Can't exactly drag someone out of bed to buy me medicine." "Where are you?" He named a park. I hung up and started pulling on my coat.

Only after I was out of my complex did I remember I hadn't taken my own stomach pills.

I ran into the park out of breath, a bag of medicine from the 24hour pharmacy swinging from my hand.

On a bench, Weston had folded himself into a ball, cap pulled low over most of his face. I hurried over, crouched, and shook his shoulder. "Weston?" I reached for his forehead.

Burning. He stirred, tugged the cap off, and lifted a pair of feverglazed eyes up at me. My chest seized. On reflex I caught his hand and pressed the cap back down. "Careful.

What if someone—" The instant our skin touched, his heat made me flinch back. But Weston laughed. A little dopey with it. "Iris.

You should come be my assistant." "Take your medicine." I tore open the fever meds, held a tablet up to his mouth, and twisted open a bottle of water.

He opened up obediently, took the pill, drank from my hand, throat working. "You still know the way back? I'll take you home." He shook his head. "Here. Let me sit a little longer.

Okay?" The park was empty this late, the streetlights a dull amber. I unwound my scarf and looped it around his neck.

Weston leaned back against the bench and turned his head to look at me. Even burning up, those eyes were startlingly bright.

Like he was holding a fistful of crushed stars. "Iris," he said suddenly. "Mm?" "Thank you." I was about to say don't mention it, when he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and drew out a small sandalwood box, and pressed it into my hand. "For you." Chapter 5 The box was palmsized and heavy, a fine lotus pattern carved across the top.

I thanked him and held it without moving. "Not going to open it?" He raised an eyebrow. I looked at the sandalwood box for a long moment, then said quietly: "Weston.

You've been reading my novel. Haven't you." The smile on his face froze for a second. "The reader who's been with me for five years.

It's you." I lifted my eyes and looked straight at him. No matter how well someone hides, the way they talk is a hard thing to change.

Weston laughed, and there was something caughtout in it, and under that, something like relief. "Yeah. It's me. Ning'an, you write beautifully." Ning'an. My pen name.

He admitted it so easily that I didn't know what to say back.

Because the male lead in that story was built off him, line for line, and I'd tested the waters more times than I could count. Afraid he was Weston.

Afraid he wasn't. "When did you figure it out?" he asked. "The birthday gift you sent last month. The wrapping paper was the exact same as the one from high school." He blinked.

Then he laughed out loud. "You kept that wrapping paper?" "Threw it out." He looked at me, eyes crinkling. "Liar." I said nothing.

The truth was, that sheet of wrapping paper was pressed flat between the pages of my diary. "Iris." Weston leaned in, close enough that I could see the small shadows his lashes threw under his eyes.

The night air had a chill in it. That dull ache I'd never fully pushed down floated back up under my ribs. I'd left in too much of a hurry. The pills were still sitting at home.

The deadline the doctor gave me ticked one day closer. "That thing you said, five years ago. Does it still count?" "You know exactly why I came to Ashford this time.

It wasn't for the shoot." Five years ago. Graduation night