Page 11 of When You Wish Upon a Wideout

Beau’s hands trembled as he continued to read the letter, each painful word slicing into him. His phone shrilled from his pocket, and he sent the call to voicemail.

And the second one too.

The third time Chase called, Beau answered it with a huff. “What?”

“Voicemail? I’m youragent.”

Beau ran a hand over his face. “Is there an agent emergency? I thought you had a flight to catch.”

“No. But I take back everything I said before about what a mistake it was blowing off the interview. That Golden Penny group has already posted photos of you and the kid—”

“Grace,” Beau corrected him.

Chase cleared his throat. “Right. There are some pictures of you andGracealready on the social media circuit. So good going with that one.”

“For fuck’s sake, Chase,” Beau exclaimed. “It wasn’t a media op.”

“I’m saying—”

“Turning on vacation mode now. Talk to you next week.”

Beau hung up the phone and slid it into his pocket. He sighed, unfolding the letter and continuing to read, his chest coiling with hurt and guilt. By the time he reached Grace’s signature, Beau had to pause and take a deep breath before continuing to the final blurb.

PS: It’s pretty much a mortal sin to not grant the wish of a sick kid. I’m not technically sick right now, but I have been for long enough. Just make my mom happy the way you did all those years ago. I don’t tell her enough, but she deserves it. If you’re short on ideas on how to do that, there’s a list on the back of this paper.

PPS: This stays between us.

Beau turned the letter in his hand, eyeing the list. The breaths of his laughter echoed in the near-empty garage, and his bike wobbled between his spasming thighs.

Number twelve on Grace’s list of suggestions was a motorcycle ride.

just one more day

Dear Mom,

It’s day twenty-seven, and I wanted to let you know one of those wishes came true, but in a weird way.

School is fine. It’s about as fine as you can imagine it would be if you transferred to a new school in May because your dad couldn’t live in the house where his wife killed herself. So, it’s shitty. I ignore the stares and hope that by tomorrow people don’t care as much. But I guess it’s kind of hard to do that because I’m 5′10″, and Henry is even taller and on crutches.

It started with his crutches. Or his crutch.

I was taking a long bathroom break from PE when I saw him hanging outside the guys’ locker room. He was sulking (the norm these days). But there was something not normal. And that was that there was only one crutch up against him when he needs two. He obviously didn’t leave it somewhere.

“What’s going on?”

Henry huffed. “Nothing, Sienna. Just go.”

“Go? And how areyousupposed to go anywhere?” I could tell he was having a hard time standing.

“Nothing. I told you. Leave.”

His eyes met mine, and Mom, Iknew. Kids are so awful. I looked at the door of the locker room. “In there?” I asked, but before he could even answer, I pushed the door open and almost vomited from how gross it smelled, like sweat and boy.

I avoided eye contact with the half-dressed guys as they gasped and whistled and hollered.

“You’re new here, but the sign says ‘men,’”one shouted.

“Then what areyoudoing in here?” I retorted, purposely eyeing him up and down as he clutched the towel around his waist. “I amnew.And so is my brother—”

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