Betting on You

The next few weeks fell into a pattern that pretty much just rotated between school, work, and Charlie. Charlie and I seemed to get scheduled every Tuesday and Thursday night, whereas Nekesa and Theo were the Monday/Wednesday team. The four of us worked together on weekends, which meant that Charlie pretty much texted me throughout the entire weekend shift about the Nekesa/Theo vibe.

Charlie: That is the TWELFTH time she’s touched his arm since we started.

Me: You’re a psycho.RêAd lat𝙚St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only

Charlie: You need to count HIS touches, Glasses.

Me: Why would I do that?

Charlie: Data. It’s all about the data.

Me: What does that mean?

Charlie: If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you. Just start counting.

And I did. Charlie always had me doing stupid things that were pointless and silly, things I never would’ve done and should’ve said no to, but it was easier to just play along with Charlie’s games.

“Salted Nut Roll,” Charlie said, staring at the shirtless man in swim trunks who was approaching the vending machine.

“Nope.” I looked at the dude’s chest hair and knew I was going to win this time. “He’s all about the Funyuns.”

I leaned on the counter of the registration desk, beside Charlie, straining to see.

Charlie had come up with a game—Vending Machine Bet—where we wagered on what the guests were going to purchase when we saw them approaching the machine.

It was just one of multiple games Charlie would come up with that helped us pass the time at the front desk. I wondered if Charlie hated being bored, the quiet that came with being bored, or the idea of having it just be him and his thoughts, because he sure put a lot of effort into making up things to do to avoid whatever it was he wanted to avoid.

“Do you think a guy that serious about manscaping,” Charlie said quietly, out of the side of his mouth, “would ever introduce Funyun dust into his chestal thatch?”

I snorted. “Be nice.”

“I am,” he said, still watching the guy. “I have mad respect for anyone who chooses to keep it bear-thick on top and nonexistent on the bottom. He marches to his own drum.”

“Shhhh,” I said, watching intently as the man fed dollar bills into the machine.

Charlie shifted the weight of his body to lean fully on me and make me stumble. “You shhh.”

“Stop it,” I said, but we both froze as the man pressed his selection.

“Yes.” Charlie pumped a fist in the air. He leaned his face down closer to mine and said, “Who’s the winner, Bay? Is it you or me?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re insufferable when you’re winning?” I asked, unable to hold in the smile as he acted like a child.

“Then I must be insufferable all the time,” he said, his grin wide and cocky.

“You actually are. That is the perfect way to describe you. Constantly insufferable.”

When we weren’t working together, I was pretty much just begging him to come over because one of two things happened when he did. Either he came over and it made Scott quiet, which made me feel like Charlie was buying me time by slowing their relationship progression, or he came over before Scott got there, and magically, Scott never showed up.

Almost as if he doesn’t want to come over when Charlie is there.

That being said, my mom still seemed happy with Scott and things weren’t falling apart. But for someone dealing with their relationship on a day-to-day basis, anytime Scott wasn’t there, I considered a win.

Which was how I ended up owing Charlie a favor.

I was studying in my room on a random Wednesday night, with music cranked in my AirPods so I couldn’t hear Scott and my mom in the living room, when Charlie texted.

I need a favor, Glasses.

I texted: What’s the favor?

Charlie: I want you to go with me to a party Friday night.

What? That made me hit pause on the song. He wanted me to go to a party with him? With him? We didn’t really do things like that; we only hung out at work and at my house. Why would he want me to go to a party with him? I texted: What????

Instead of him texting back, my phone started ringing. Which, to be fair, was something Charlie did all the time. If something required explanation, he almost always bailed for the phone call.

I answered with, “What kind of a party? Like a child’s birthday party?”

I wanted him to say yes to that, because I didn’t want this to be something that made things weird with us.

“Like I’d subject you to that kind of torture,” he said, his voice quiet and a little hoarse, like he’d been sleeping. “It’s just a small party at one of my friends’ houses.”

A small party at one of his friends’ houses?

Without thinking, I said, “Okay, but we don’t do that.”

I walked over to the window and closed my blinds, trying to explain without sounding like I thought he was into me. “We’ve never crossed school and friend lines.”

“That’s why this is called a favor,” he said, and he cleared his throat. “My ex and her douche will be there—and I so do not care about that—but I also don’t want to seem pathetic. If you go with me, I can relax and have fun without worrying about looking sad.”

Okay, that didn’t sound bad. I was relieved he wasn’t asking me out, even though for some reason a tiny knot of something was in my stomach. “Will I have fun?”

“Of course you will—you’ll be with me.”

“That isn’t the reassurance you think it is,” I said, wondering what his friends were like. “I’m fairly certain you’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.”

“Wrong,” he said, and I thought I heard a dog bark in the background. “It’s a known fact that repressed people mistake ‘fun’ for ‘obnoxious’ all the time.”

“Obnoxious people mistake ‘normal’ for ‘repressed’ all the time,” I replied. “Get it right.”

“Oh, Glasses, you’re adorable when you’re in a huff.”

That made me smile, which I was glad he couldn’t see. The boy did not need to know that his sarcastic boobishness was amusing at times. I said, “It’s like you’re trying to make me say no.”

“Pleeeeeeeeeease say yes,” he begged. “Please, please, please, please, please.”

“Are your friends, like, keg-stand party people,” I asked, my mind switching over to the idea of the party itself, “or are they more of the playing-board-games party people?”

I wasn’t a partier. I didn’t have strong opinions about it either way, but my friends and I didn’t hang out with people who got together to drink beer. Zack and his friends were big drinkers, but he’d never taken me with him to a party.

“This gathering will be everything,” Charlie said, sounding happier since I’d yet to say no. “Keg in the front, trivia in the back, probably a few bros with bongs hiding somewhere upstairs.”

“So I’m going to get an MIP, then.”

“If you go with me, Bay,” he said, his voice soft and quiet and surprisingly genuine, “I guarantee your safe return.”

Every time he called me “Bay,” it made me feel a little weird. Which, honestly, was weird in and of itself, because Nekesa and my mom called me that all the time.

But when Charlie said it, it made me feel closer to him than we actually were. I cleared my throat and said, “You remember the story of my one booze party, right?”

“Puke chunk on leg—yep.” His voice held a tinge of amusement when he added, “I promise I will not leave your side.”

And for some reason, I could tell he meant it. Which surprised me with its reassurance.

“Well,” I said, “how will I know what to wear if I don’t know any more details? Like is it a pj party? Costume party? Will there be a seven-course meal involved? Fancy silverware?”

“Stop overthinking it, Glasses.” I could practically hear Charlie’s eye roll through the phone. “You look cute in that black-and-white sweater that you always wear with jeans and the boots that squeeze your toes.”

That made me pause. I had never considered that Charlie ever—EVER—noticed how I looked or what I was wearing. I’d always felt—since way back at the airport in Fairbanks—that he just saw me as something like the annoying, uptight friend of his sister.

I said teasingly, just to make sure things didn’t get awkward, “Are you into me, Sampson? Are you secretly obsessed with me and have my entire wardrobe memorized?”

“Give me a break,” he said, still sounding like he was amused. “Just because I notice how you look doesn’t mean I’m into you, Glasses.”

“Whew.”

“Although I would like it if you pretend to be marginally potentially into me at the party.”

“You are really blowing my mind tonight.”

“Why? I just want to show up at the party with a cute girl that appears to be my date. It doesn’t mean I want to lick your neck or call you my girlfriend; it just means I’m an insecure little bitch about the party. Okay?”

I laughed—I couldn’t help it. He just sounded so unhappy to call me cute and also so disgusted with himself for caring about appearances.

It was ridiculous, but the fact that Charlie thought I was cute meant something to me. He was an obnoxious butthead, but since he didn’t like a lot of people, it felt good that I registered.

“Yeah—keep laughing, it’s hilarious,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re a real dick, kid.”

“Oh, come on, Charlie—I am not.” I laughed, and I realized that I actually wanted to help him. “And fine—I’ll go with you.”

“Seriously?” he asked, sounding surprised even though I thought it’d been obvious the whole time.

“Sure,” I said, cracking my back and wishing I didn’t have more studying to do. “I don’t know any of your friends, so I don’t have to act cool.”

“Can you please act a little cool?”

“What are we talking here?”

“Okay.” His voice was deeper now and he sounded comfortable, like he was lying on a couch, watching TV. “I would prefer no bathroom accidents and no public vomitings.”

“I think I can accommodate you on that. How do you feel about spontaneous show-tune outbursts?”

“As long as it isn’t Gershwin,” he said, sounding disgusted. “Can’t stomach Gershwin.”

“Are you a communist?” I asked.

“Communists hate Gershwin?”

“No one hates Gershwin,” I said, wondering how it could be fun to talk to Charlie on the phone when he was such a royal pain in the ass most of the time. “Hence the communist assumption.”

“You should be careful with assumptions, Glasses.”

“I know. Forgive me.”

“I will,” he said, “but only because you’re pretending to dig me Friday night.”

I closed my book, got up from my desk, and proceeded to flop down onto my bed. “That is going to be the hardest challenge of my life. I should be immediately nominated for an Oscar on Saturday morning if I pull it off.”

“Oh, you’ll pull it off,” he said, sounding almost flirty as he teased. “I’ll make it so easy that you’ll forget you don’t actually dig me in real life.”

“Impossible,” I said, snuggling into my blanket.

“Wait and see, Glasses,” he said. “Just you wait and see.”