27. THE ONE WITH THE LIST
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE ONE WITH THE LIST
HexedHeroine is tagged in a picture: In case anyone’s wondering: Yes, Hex is as beautiful in person as she is online and actually so so nice!
Comment: Omg so the Harvard hat is actually like… because she went to Harvard???
Comment reply: Everyone’s been out here talking shit about our witch Hex, saying she’s either ugly under the mask or dumb, and she comes out like this? HOT, SMART, AND A NICE PERSON? We’ve won. Hex for President!
Comment: But when are we gonna see a video of them TOGETHER AGAIN?
I have to fight not to roll my eyes at the flutter I get in my stomach when West does his stupid fake stage laugh.
Because it’s so cute.
Cute! I think West fucking Isakson is cute.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I’m doing my best not to slip my phone in my pocket and stare at him in the I Heart Cougars shirt he cut into a boxy crop top.
It’s been the center of many jokes tonight and every time he drops one, he makes sure to find wherever I’m at in the audience and send a wink my way.
As if six and half years is enough to make me a cougar!
I’m frustrated the entire show—with no one but myself.
Avoiding West has proven impossible, which, duh! I’m literally living out of a fucking camper with the dude and running his social media. What did I expect?
Then there’s the annoying realization that I don’t actually want to avoid him. I like being around him, but is that because he’s my friend or because he gave me six orgasms in one night and I’m secretly hoping he’ll do it again one day?
Can you even be just friends with someone who gave you six orgasms? I’m leaning towards no…
West starts to wind down, nearing the end of his set. I’ve learned his flow, albeit different every night with his improv–style routine.
“Yale, you sexy nerds.” The crowd bellows, accepting their title.
“Thank you so much for a fun first night in New Haven, and hey, sorry about Harvard over there.” He nods my way, and every pair of eyes in the sold-out venue land on me in my crimson Harvard ball cap.
“I’ve got a thing for smart witches.” West unwraps the mic cord from around his wrist and continues before anyone can heckle me like someone tried earlier.
“Wear your seatbelt, don’t drink and drive, and tell your mom I said hi. ”
There are only a few ritualistic things West does on stage. The mic around his wrist is one, and his outro is another. I’m starting to put a picture together without all the details, puzzle piecing bits of information West has given me without saying much.
The crowd roars with applause, and I slip through the side stage door before West exits, navigating through the theater’s dark and narrow backstage hallways.
I nearly collide with someone not paying attention as they round the corner. “Shit, my b—” I cut myself short when I recognize the girl.
Megan. From the gym, and she’s surrounded by a few friends who give off old money vibes too.
“Oh! Hi!” She sounds buzzed already, looking around as if West’s going to pop out of thin air.
How the fuck did she get back here?
The answer to my question comes up behind her with his usual goofy smile. “Hi, Jo! Megan told me she met West at the gym and said he’s going to a party with her tonight?”
I don’t think Kell misunderstood her. I’m sure that’s exactly what Megan told him.
Before I can be petty and ask if West texted her, the smell of his cologne hits me, and I turn my head to find him connected to the arm sliding across my shoulders. “It was Joey’s idea, actually.”
Megan schools her face into neutrality, but I catch the way she looks between me and West—like we don’t belong together.
We aren’t together… Shit.
I slip out from under his arm, immediately missing the warmth of his body. “I just feel like I’d be missing out if I didn’t experience West Parker at a frat party.”
The smile he gives me spells trouble, like it appears across his face one letter at a time. “You think I’m bad now? You should have met me five years ago.”
“No thanks.” I scrunch my nose and shake my head.
“He was so much worse,” Enzo adds, wiggling through the college girls who have begun to gawk at the unit of an Englishman joining us.
“I dunno. I think we’d personally love to see that side of him,” Megan coos, batting her eyelashes as she points at her friends in tow.
They nod enthusiastically, looking at West like he’s a prize to be won and they’d gladly take turns battling it out for him.
Listen, I get it—the man looks like a fucking Roman god statue, but I’m starting to see what he means by no one seeing him.
They don’t care to look through the curtain to the man West is offstage.
People want him to be that guy all the time, and while I don’t believe strangers on the internet need to know everything there is about a person, letting them get a glimpse of the West I’m getting to know wouldn’t hurt his image any.
While Kell gets the location to the party, I open to my favorite app, adding a new to-do list for tomorrow.
1. West Wednesdays? (fun facts, personal things, get to know)
2. Bitches love hockey players! (It’s me, I’m bitches—lean into this/athletic brand deals?)
When I look up from my phone, West is staring at me with a sideways smile. My face heats, and I’m suddenly thankful for how dark it is backstage. If West sees me blushing I’ll never hear the end of it.
I add one more thing to my list, selecting Add To All, so it merges with my every day calendars.
3. Do not fall for West fucking Isakson!
The party’s loud and less than an hour in, I’m already overstimulated enough to consider leaving without a goodbye, but because I know the boys would absolutely lose their minds if I did, I sneak out back and find an unoccupied bench swing hanging from a big oak tree.
Enzo’s inside playing bodyguard and the last I saw, West was helping Kell do his first keg stand. How did he go through four years of college without a single keg stand?
I left before West could convince me to do one.
Flopping down, I stick one leg underneath my butt and leave the other on the ground to push the swing every so often. I pull out a fresh joint from inside my purse and light it, taking my first full hit after the paper burns for a few seconds.
All the static and fuzz in my mind slips away.
Weed might be what some consider a gateway, but it’s always been the only thing to calm me without adding more anxiety during the comedown.
I’ve tried all the Big Pharma stuff—I’m glad it works for others, but I could never find anything that brought me the calm weed does. So, I eventually stopped searching.
I pull my Harvard hat off my head—of course I’m going to rep my Alma Mater the entire weekend. Yale’s our biggest rival—running a hand through my hair, and as I’m about to put the joint out, a familiar voice distracts me. “I knew I’d find you out here!”
West jogs across the lawn, diving for the swing.
It creaks under his added weight as he sprawls out, shaking the sturdy branch we hang from.
Instead of sitting on his side of the cushioned bench like a normal person, West props his back against the arm rest and throws his legs over my lap, feet dangling off the other end.
“Dude, hello?” I ask, waving at the tree-trunks for legs squishing me. I’m rigid, unsure what to do when he’s touching me. I’ve never been a touchy-feely person. I can probably count how many times I’ve been the one to initiate a hug with someone other than Frankie on both hands.
I show my love through actions, never understanding why someone would need physical affection to feel loved. I’m sure my therapist would give me a psychological reason for this based on my crippling abandonment issues, but I choose not to ask. It’s another one of my many quirks!
I settle into the weight of West’s legs quicker than I expect, realizing the suffocating feeling I usually get when someone is too close isn’t sitting at the edge of my mind waiting to attack.
He ignores me, plucking the joint from my fingers, and takes a drag I know he’ll regret. West coughs for a good ten seconds before handing it back to me.
I take one more puff and put it out, a gust of wind picking up, turning the night air cold.
He must catch the shiver I try to conceal, because he asks, “where’s your jacket?” Abruptly looking around for it on one of the many lawn chairs scattered around the backyard.
“I left it at the theater. I figured I’d go get it tomorrow morning.” In my defense, I didn’t see anything about a storm or drop in temperatures tonight when I looked this afternoon.
“Joey,” West scolds me as he sits up, dragging his legs across my lap. He reaches for the edges of his hoodie with crossed arms.
“I’m fine.” I reach out to stop him, grabbing both wrists. He fights me, the swing swaying under our jerky movements. “I've got long sleeves. I’ll sur—”
“No, no. Let me be a gentleman,” he cuts me off, struggling to get out of his hoodie with me tugging it in the opposite direction.
“West, seriously, keep your clothes on.” I want to be annoyed, but god, here he goes again, being cute! I can’t keep the smile off my face or hide the happy staccato of my voice.
He’s got one arm out of the hoodie, using it to hold my grabby hands back. “If I weren’t kinda drunk and very high, I’d have so many comebacks for that.”
We laugh while we struggle, our limbs getting all mixed up.
West is winning, but I’m not ready to give up yet. “No, stop it.” There’s no seriousness in my words, both of us laughing as we continue to wrestle each other. I don’t know how he does it, but I blink and he’s out of his hoodie and it’s over my head.
I’m assaulted by West’s smoky scent filling my nostrils. It paralyzes me, giving him the moment he needs to fumble my arms into the correct holes.
He sits back, still wearing his fucking crop top, looking smitten with himself.
“Do you feel better now?” I ask, fighting for my life to not sink into the warmth of his hoodie wrapped around me.