Cross Me Off Your List

by Nikki Godwin

  I shrug. “I have no idea what it means or which idiot put that on the list,” I admit. I’ll have to find some kind of wings before I get home if I want to complete this bucket list.

  But really, I’m so over it. The list means nothing if I have to do it alone. I’m tired of being the independent girl who doesn’t need anyone to help her. I’m tired of being strong and having to roar. Yes, I can do all of the above if I have to or if I need to, but this week has been great just to have cool people to chill with. I’m not ready for that to end, especially like this.

  “Do you want to buy some of that wash-out hair dye?” Emily asks. “I can help you with it.”

  Hair dye. Nat was going to help me with that. As much as I believe that Emily can handle the job, I just really wanted to share that moment with the younger Winters brother. Besides, how can you not trust him in the categories of beauty and fashion?

  I sigh. “I have some hair dye,” I tell her. “I’m just not up for it. Nat was going to help me color it, and he’s not even allowed to talk to me now.”

  “Did Noah say that?” Emily asks.

  I shake my head. “No, Nat did. He came by earlier this morning, after Noah blasted me,” I explain. “He even believes me, but he has to go along with whatever his brother wants, and his brother is anti-Marisol right now.”

  Emily jumps up and bounces over onto my bed. “Nat’s your way to Darby,” she says, her eyes bursting with excitement. “Get the video to him. He can show Noah. Then Noah can feel like an ass, and Darby will put it into circulation, and it’ll clear your name.”

  I immediately grab my phone, copy the URL to the video that I uploaded, and pull up a blank message to send to Nat. But then I stop.

  “I need your help with one more thing,” I tell Emily.

  “Anything you need,” she says.

  Emily helps me load the last of my bags into her car. I don’t like intruding on a girl I barely know, but once this video is in the hands of the Winters brothers, I don’t want to be in the hotel.

  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. Th
ey’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.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  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.”

  “Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll introduce you guys to Alston someday,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “Let’s go. You’re getting tatted with me.”

  We drive across town to the tattoo parlor with zebra-striped walls. Noah demands that Bi
g Tony wait in the car or outside or basically anywhere other than inside with us.

  A guy greets us at the cash register. I look to see if he’s wearing a name tag, but he’s not. Figures.

  “Um, I was told to ask for Diablo,” I tell the Hispanic guy behind the counter. “A.J. Gonzalez recommended him to me.”

  The guy laughs. “A.J.’s a good dude. I’m Diablo. What can I do for you?” he asks.

  “I want to get my first tattoo,” I tell him. “And my friend here wants to get his…well, I don’t know that number.”

  Noah laughs. “I think this will be number fifty-three, but for the record, I count every single piece as its own.”

  He pulls his shirt up to reveal his back piece. “Every single shooting star, every single fish – they all count as one,” he explains. “I add to it all the time, so they have to be individual pieces.”

  Diablo studies the outer-space-meets-ocean scene on Noah’s back and nods. “Until they become one big canvas, you can count them,” he says. “I counted the ones on my arms until they became sleeves.”

  We step into a different room and discuss what designs we want. Noah is caught off guard when asked. I debate between an anchor and a French angelfish. I have examples of both saved on my phone.

  “Let’s both get the fish,” Noah suggests. “Except, you know, yours will be pink and mine will be Loki.”

  I fight the desire to laugh because that’s exactly who occupied my time last night on the flat screen in Emily’s family’s living room – while I was making Noah anxious by ignoring him.

  “Okay then. The angelfish it shall be,” I say, giving Diablo the nod to grab the paperwork.

  The pink and purple angelfish fits perfectly near my ankle. I admire the photo on my phone while Diablo bandages the inking and gives us instructions on aftercare. He speaks more to me than Noah, and if it weren’t for all the designs on Noah’s skin, I’d be offended. But in this situation, the direction makes sense. So I nod and smile.