Page 147 of Make Me Laugh

Frankie sighs. “When are you going to stop telling yourself you don’t love him?”

I can’t feel the hand holding my phone anymore, so I switch it with the other. I don’t know what I did with my gloves. I thought they were in my coat somewhere, but when I’d fled from West on the stage, I didn’t spend much time thinking about how cold my hands might be without them.

It’s the end of November in Northern Michigan, and I overheard someone say there might be light snow in the forecast on Thanksgiving.

“When I start to believe it,” I tell her as the theater’s squeaky side door alerts me to someone’s exit. I face the noise and watch as West appears, pulling a tan Carhartt over his gray hoodie. He’s traded his signature backwards hat for a beanie, which I am also a very big fan of.

His lips pull into a small sideways smile when he sees me.

I have this urge to meet him halfway, but I don’t, because Frankie’s in my ear again. “He’s a good guy, Jo.”

“That’s the problem,” I say before West’s too close to hear. “I don’t wanna hurt him because I don’t know how to love someone properly.”

West watches me, eyebrows pinching together. Where are your gloves? He mouths when he’s close enough I can read them.

I shrug, and he starts searching through his hoodie and coat pockets.

Frankie doesn’t say anything, and before she does, I keep it that way. “I gotta go, though.” I reach out and stop West’s search, pinning his gloveless hands against the pocket of his hoodie. “Love you.” I hang up, slipping my phone into my pocket.

The heat off West’s body warms my hand, and I almost crack, letting myself step into him, but instead I force both into my coat. “Everyone gone?” I ask, hoping to distract myself from the things Frankie said.

You’re leaving. You’re getting on a plane and going back to your real life.

I have no idea what my “real life” looks like anymore.

And isn’t this my real life too? Isn’t West an important part of this new version I’ve quickly built over the last two months?

“Yeah.” He nods once, shoving his hands into his pockets too. West glances up at the marquee, and all I can do is stare at him. At his sharp jawline. His light blue eyes glistening under the lights. The small scar he has on the bottom of his chin. It isn’t noticeable unless the light hits it just right.

I asked him about it one night, running my fingers over the delicate skin, finally finding the courage to ask about the others I know came from the accident. I expect this one to have come from hockey too, but he surprises me when he says tells me it’s from Micah soaping up the dock at their family lake house and not telling him before he ran full speed to jump off.

“How’re you feeling, Hotshot?” I ask. Seeing West live out this dream after everything he’s been through fills me with a sense of joy I wish I could bottle up and save for the bad days to come.

If I went back and told the Jo I was months ago what was around the corner, she would have laughed in my face.

West Parker, the hotshot stand-up comedian, who people only like because of his backwards hat, dimples, and nice ass, got me to fall for him.

I should probably update my list.

West doesn’t look at me when he answers. “I don’t think any of it feels real yet. We haven’t stopped in months, and every day there’s some new crazy shit happening.”

How real is everything going to feel next week when Thanksgiving’s over, and West and I are no longer pretending to be in a relationship for our online audience?

How real is it going to feel when we record our last video tonight?

I’m already mourning the loss, making this feel more and more like a real breakup the closer we get to the expiration date of our contract.

I follow West’s gaze to the marquee, but when I do, I feel him shift to me. I slowly look back to him, unable to fight the draw of his attention.

“How’re you feeling, Joey baby?” West asks, and I try to ignore the way he’s staring at me and how it always feels like he’s able to read my intentions before I decide on them myself.

I breathe a laugh, biting the inside of my lip. There are so many things I can say, and a million different ways I could lie if I wanted, but what’s the use? If I can’t be honest with West after everything we’ve done, then who can I be honest with? “I’m scared,” I finally admit.

When the words are out, I don’t know how to feel. I’m not easily cracked open, always worried if I show someone the pieces of me that aren’t perfect, they’ll leave.

Being self-aware doesn’t mean I’m healed, it just means I have an excuse.

“Of?” West asks, turning his back to the sign with his name and giving me his undivided attention.