Cross Me Off Your List (21 page)

Maybe it’s vengeful, and I know better – an
eye for an eye and blah, blah, blah – but I want Noah to feel the
way I felt this morning. I want him to feel empty when he walks
down to room 322 and I’m not there. I want him to feel like a fuck
up when he has his management team call down to the front desk just
to find out that the girl in room 322 checked out early.

We check the room one last time for any last
reminder that I was here, and I return my room keys to the front
desk. Once I’m settled into Emily’s passenger seat, I pull up the
saved draft, fill in Nat’s name as the contact, and press send.

“How do you feel? Can you breathe a little
better?” Emily asks.

I power my phone off. “Actually, yes. Now
they can sweat for a while,” I say. “And I changed my mind. Let’s
color my hair. Do you have any bleaching experience?”

Emily’s face scrunches up. “Not really,” she
admits. At least she was honest about it. “But I have a friend who
I think could do it, if you’re willing to take a chance.”

I flip the visor down and look into the
mirror. I love my hair, and taking a chance on it is not something
I’m digging.

“If it fails, we can always color it black,”
Emily reminds me. “I really don’t think he’ll mess it up, though.
I’d let Alston do it before I’d go to a salon. I trust him.”

Pushing the visor up, I decide to finish what
I started. It’s not just about the bucket list. It’s about doing
what I want to and taking risks and living and learning from
it.

“Alright. Introduce me to this Alston guy,” I
say.

Six hours later, my phone is still off, and
I’ve refrained from checking social media. It’s been an impressive
six hours. Then again, it’s hard to play on your phone when you’ve
had your head in someone else’s hands.

“Almost done,” Alston says from behind
me.

The crazy, pretty-boy Asian hasn’t let me see
my hair since he began working on it. We’ve been through a lot of
chemicals, a lot of dye, and a hell of a lot of cling wrap, but he
swears he knows what he’s doing.

A hairdryer roars behind me, and the heat
embraces my scalp. Emily squeals, and I’m relieved because that has
to mean my hair looks like the ombre photos I showed Alston from my
Pinterest board of ‘dream hair.’

“It’s amazing,” Emily gushes. “I swear, it’s
literally dark purple, lighter purple, and then freaking pink. I
wish my hair was long enough for this.”

Alston steps around when he finishes drying
and styling my hair. He pops his hand on his hip, and for half a
second, he reminds me of Nat and my heart twinges for the Winters
brothers.

Then I remember that I’m supposed to be mad
at Noah, so I shake it off. Alston smiles like a proud parent.

“You, my dear, are my masterpiece,” Alston
says. He motions for me to turn around and look in the mirror.

My jaw drops to my knees, and I scream with
excitement. I spin back around and hug Alston tightly. Then Emily
rushes in to join the group hug.

When Alston pulls away, he studies me again.
“I wonder if Colby would let me dye his hair,” he says. “I could do
a lot on a blonde canvas.”

“Electric green would be a good color on
him,” Emily says in a daydreamy voice. “But he’d chop your arm off
before he’d let you touch his hair.”

I have to agree with Emily’s assessment. I
don’t know that Colby Taylor guy, but from watching the surf fans
flock to him at the beach that day, I’m pretty sure he wants to
keep his stereotypical surfer image.

“Selfie time,” I announce, powering my phone
back on. It buzzes repeatedly in my hand as text after text rolls
in.

Emily watches me as I wait for the
notifications to stop. The voicemail notification pops up at the
top of the screen. As much as I’m dying to know who they’re from, I
ignore them and flip to my camera. I take a few selfie shots with
Emily and Alston before we pick the perfect one for Instagram.

“I need a caption,” I say, hoping they can
come up with something more creative than I can.

“Perfect mermaid hair, courtesy of my
brilliant stylist Alston Wright and his enchanted assistant, Emily
Black,” Alston quotes, as if he’s done this a thousand times
before.

I caption the picture with Alston’s exact
words and upload it. I don’t even wait to see how quickly comments
– and maybe even likes – pop up. I’m already bracing myself for the
onslaught of death threats and slut-shaming.

Emily looks at me like I just busted her car
window out when I slip my phone back into my bag without checking
the voicemails or texts. I hope she can read the expression on my
face that’s telling her to keep quiet until Alston leaves. The
fewer people who know about this, the better my chances are.

He only lingers about half an hour longer,
but it’s half an hour too long for Emily. She runs back into her
bedroom and slams the door shut as soon as Alston’s car cranks up
in her driveway. She turns the lock on her door and jumps onto her
bed.

“Okay. We’re not doing anything else until
you see what’s going on,” she demands.

“Alright. Text messages first. Then the
voicemail,” I strategize. “Then social media.”

Emily nods crazily. She smiles like a
Cheshire cat with wide eyes as her smile bites into her bottom lip.
This girl must not have much excitement in her life.

“From Nat: I showed Noah the video. He
stormed out of the room cursing. I don’t know if that’s a good
thing or not? I’m forwarding your link to Tate. He has more power
than I do,” I read aloud.

Emily squeals and grabs her own phone to pull
up Darby’s YouTube channel. I read off the next messages, all from
Nat.

I think Tate is giving the link to Darby.
Yep, he is. She’s working on downloading the video to embed it into
her own. It may take a little bit for her to work it all out.

Oh my God. Her parents are in here telling
her not to get involved and that she doesn’t need this kind of
drama. Fucking idiots. I hate her parents.

She had to turn off her laptop. They’re
fucking idiots. She’s on Benji’s laptop now. I’m making her clear
your name, but she’s having to log into all of her sites and she
has like a zillion fucking passwords. OMG.

Emily laughs. “He seriously texted you
play-by-play?” she asks.

“Yes. Oh my God. Listen to these,” I say.

Where the fuck are you?! Noah went to your
room. Are you ignoring him?

Hello? Are you even here?

WHAT THE FUCK?? YOU CHECKED OUT OF THE
HOTEL!! WHERE ARE YOU?!

Get your ass back over here NOW. I’m in
Benji’s room. 419. I’m fixing this, you little bitch. You can’t
shut me up. I’m coming for you. Answer me, damn it!

Emily falls back onto her bed laughing. I
feel guilty for cracking up as much as I am, but it’s nice to know
that Nat was pulling for me through all of this.

“I should text him back,” I say. “I hate
making him go through all of this.”

“No!” Emily shouts, quickly sitting back up.
“You can’t text him. He’ll tell Noah, and then all the panic and
confusion and ‘oh hell, I fucked up’ goes away.”

She has a point. Noah didn’t even bother to
text me through all of that. Maybe he left with Big Tony to comb
the streets of Crescent Cove and Horn Island in search of me.

“Voicemail,” I remind Emily. I take a deep
breath, dial in, enter in my pin code, and hit the speaker
button.

“Hey…it’s me,” Noah’s voice says through the
speaker. “So, um, I fucked up. Like,
really
fucked up. Can
you call me? I don’t really want to have this conversation with
your voicemail. I know I don’t deserve a phone call. I’m sorry.
Please?”

There’s a moment of silence before the call
ends and the robotic lady tells me to press two to delete this
message. I end the call instead.

“So?” Emily asks. “Are you going to call
him?”

I debate my answer for a few seconds. “Not
tonight,” I finally say. “Can we just order pizza and watch The
Avengers or something? I need a Tom Hiddleston fix before I can go
back to Saturn.”

My phone buzzes against my cheek. I feel
around for it without opening my eyes but accidentally knock it
onto the floor. I force my eyes open and, for half a second, panic
because I forgot where I am. Emily’s guest room. Room 322 is no
more.

I reach down and grab my phone, unlock the
screen, and see Noah’s name in my notifications. At least he just
texted instead of calling again.

Can we please talk? I know I messed up A
LOT. I want to fix it. I need to fix it. I’m so sorry. I should
have listened to you. I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance to
speak. I’m a jackass. Please?

Okay, I think I’ve had enough of playing with
the boy’s emotions. I tap the screen and my keyboard pops up.

Drenaline Surf. 10:00. Meet me there.

I don’t say anything more, and I don’t
respond when he immediately replies with endless thanks.

After dragging myself out of bed and putting
on a face for the day, I text Emily to see if she’s up. She tells
me she’s in her kitchen and that Miles and Topher are here, so
‘make sure you have clothes on.’ Does she really think I’d walk
around, as a guest in her house, half-naked? What kind of
houseguests does this girl normally have?

Miles and Topher sit on barstools at the
island in the kitchen eating breakfast burritos. Emily leans
against the kitchen counter eating a blueberry muffin.

“Breakfast?” she asks, reaching behind her
for a plate of muffins. “You can steal a burrito if you’d rather
have that.”

I shake my head. Muffins sound better. Miles
says I’m missing out, and Emily scolds him for talking with his
mouth full. I don’t think their relationship will ever cease to
humor me. He’s like a boulder taking orders from a shiny little
pebble. Somehow, they work.

Emily asks for details about my Saturn drama,
so I fill her in on my plans to meet up with Noah later today.
Topher says he approves of the meeting spot because Drenaline Surf
is magical and brings people together, whatever that’s supposed to
mean. I start to pull up Darby’s video that clears my name on her
channel, Darby’s Daily Dose of Drama, but Emily has already seen
it, which doesn’t surprise me.

“You’re on safe ground then, right?” Emily
questions me. “I don’t have to worry about Saturnites attacking you
today?”

I shake my head. “I think I’ll be okay. Some
people actually tweeted apologies to me. Others still hate me
simply because I exist, but you know, that’s life,” I say.

I don’t bother asking what Emily and Miles
have planned for the day. Topher offers me a ride to Drenaline
Surf, since he’s headed there anyway, so I accept. For a moment, I
actually forgot that I don’t have a vehicle here.

Against my gut feeling, I decide to wait
outside for Noah instead of going in with Topher. He wishes me luck
and disappears through the door under the giant wave. I twist my
anchor bracelet around my arm and readjust my sunglasses. It’s a
few minutes before ten o’clock, but I spot Noah walking along The
Strip with Big Tony close behind. Great. Security.

Noah has those Oakley shades on again, but I
really don’t think they’re going to do much to hide his identity
today, especially with a bodyguard following him around. As he
draws nearer, I see his shirt and the Hurley logo. My dad would be
impressed.

“Hey,” he says, pushing his sunglasses on top
of his head. “I am so, so sorry. I know there’s nothing I can say
to make up for all the things I said. I suck and not in the good
blowjob kind of way.”

I can officially say that I’ve had an apology
that included a blowjob reference. I seriously need to create a
second list of all the unique things that happened while trying to
accomplish the bucket list. This stuff is pure gold.

Noah leans against the wall, a few inches
away from me. Big Tony gives us some privacy but stays close enough
that he can intervene if something happens.

“Milo’s my best friend,” Noah says. “It’s no
excuse for how I treated you, but I’ve been watching him deal with
these rumors for months. It’s driven a wedge between him and Chloe,
and he was hoping that this week would give them a chance to
reconnect, and I think it’s done everything but that. I just lost
it.”

How do I react to this? Do I say that it’s
okay? It’s not okay, but staying mad at him isn’t really fun
either.

“What can I do to fix this?” he asks. “I’ll
do whatever you want. Trip to Paris, public service announcement,
have your friend exposed for stealing your designs? You name it,
and consider it done.”

“I want a video of Nat and Benji making out,”
I say. “I ship Winterini.”

The color drains from Noah’s face and fades
into his Hurley T-shirt. He was probably hoping I’d go for diamonds
and shopping sprees or a trip to a fashion show overseas. I may
have just asked for the one thing he can’t give me. And I don’t
think I can fight the laughter anymore.

“I’m kidding,” I say, watching his shoulders
slump with relief. “But I do need to get a tattoo, send message in
a bottle, and get freaking wings, whatever the hell that’s supposed
to mean.”

“I can do those,” he says, nodding quickly.
“I was seriously trying to think of what I could bribe Benji with
that would make him kiss my brother, but I don’t think there’s
anything in this world that he wants badly enough that he’d kiss
Nat for it.”

“Oh. I also need a ride home tomorrow,” I
say. I figure I might as well add that to my tab.

Noah nods. “Where do you want to start? I’m
game for anything,” he says. “And your hair looks amazing. Nat saw
your Instagram and is already stalking your ‘brilliant stylist.’ He
was a little hurt that he didn’t get the honor, but he also
admitted that he couldn’t have done this good of a job. It’s rare
that Nat ever admits that he’s imperfect.”