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And win.
Because he has won his: he wins it every day.
Without thinking about it, I facetime him—I don’t even think he’ll answer, he’s so busy.
“What.” A voice says and a pair of nostrils appear on my screen.
I sit up. He answered? It’s Weston Spencer, ‘Spence’ to his closest and most annoying friends (aka me). He’s the New Big ThingTMright now, the hottest actor on the planet. Golden-haired, tall, tan and ripped, just won an Academy Award, British accent, kind manners. He’s Hollywood’s golden boy. Got too big of a head, if you ask me—metaphorically, of course, his proportions are Greek-statue kind of perfect.
He is on the move again. He’s always busy these days—or he’s running from adoring fans again. The location tag reads New York. It’s five in the morning here, so it must be eight for him.
“Early riser,” I tell him. “Dude, take me out of your nose.”
He lowers the phone, but he has barely time to glance down at me. The screen goes dark and bright as he rattles the phone this way and that. He’s walking.
“Sorry. Give me a sec, will you?” That English accent kills me.
I enjoy the exciting view of one of his bodyguards’ tuxedoed backs, and then finally Spence’s perfect face comes on. He looks freshly-shaven, freshly-woken-up, just… fresh. He looks happy. It’s disgusting.
“You ok?” He peers down the screen at me. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“I haven’t.”
“Sure, happens to me too,” he nods with understanding. “But I didn’t know there was a law in California against showering.” One golden eyebrow goes up as he looks me up and down.
“Ha ha.” I can’t even fake a laugh, I’m so tired. “There isn’t, clever-pants.”
I push jet-black hair out of my eyes. Gosh, my brain is mush.
“When are you being released back into polite society?” Spencer asks and I snicker. Polite society, indeed.
“Starting rehearsals for the Grammys in two days,” I tell him. “I’m meeting the boys in the studio.”
“Poor sods.” His eyes twinkle.
“Yeah, this…” I gesture to my appearance: shorts, a sleeveless tee, and too-long hair that flops into my eyes, “is my revenge. Hey, listen. Give me your boat.”
It just comes out. I have been lusting after his gorgeous cruiser since I first saw it. He has issued an open invitation to all his friends to stay on board his famous luxury yacht, which he calls ‘theL&H’, and I have been totally planning to take him up on his offer for months now. But with recording and touring and working my ass off every night for these songs, I have barely had time to eat, let alone lounge around in yachts.
So, the idea surprises me as it comes out of my mouth, but I suddenly realize that that’s what I need: that boat for a week or two. Right now, it somehow feels that escaping would solve everything. (I know it won’t).
I shut my eyes, wishing the words back. On the phone, Wes looks confused.
“Get your own boat,” he says, half-laughing, but as his car starts moving, he leans forward, his sandy eyebrows meeting in concern.
I first met Weston Spencer when my little brother wrote the score music for Spencer’s short film about a modern Achilles. I ended up writing and recording a song for the film’s soundtrack too, and it became one of the greatest hits of my updated album, as well as of this tour.
This dude must be the only billionaire on the planet who keeps giving away his money. Lots of filthy rich people give to charities–or leak it to the press that they do–but I have not seen anyone as eager to part with his wealth as Weston Spencer is. All the rich people are greedy for more, no matter how many billions they have. But he… It’s like he changed, a year ago.
It’s like his value does not center around success anymore.
And I would give my left arm to learn what his value centers around now–because he keeps losing. Money, opportunities, time. And yet, he is calmer, happier and more damn successful than ever. But that’s not what I’m jealous of. What I’m jealous of is that the guy seems to have found peace.
Peace.
How on earth did he do that?
What has he found that eludes the rest of us?
