Betting on You

I wasn’t sure where I was when I woke up.

The fort threw me off, with the blankets hanging from above, but as soon as I turned my head and saw Charlie’s pillow, I remembered everything.

“Charlie?” I sat up, grabbed my phone—it was nine thirty—patted my hair, and crawled out of the fort. I didn’t see him, and it was quiet in the apartment. “Where are you?”

I peeked my head down the hallway. I didn’t want to bust in on him changing or anything, so I decided to get a glass of water. As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, I saw his note.

Had to run—just let yourself out.

What? I read it again, flipped the paper over, then wondered what that meant. Why would he leave without waking me up? And let yourself out didn’t exactly scream that he was buzzing over what’d happened with us the night before, or that he’d run to surprise me with chocolate doughnuts.

I sent him a text of my own.

I can’t believe you left me alone at your house, loser. 😉

I felt unsettled by his absence, but I was probably being paranoid.

I waited a few minutes, but when he didn’t respond, I put on my shoes and coat and I left. I had no interest in hanging out alone at Charlie’s mom’s apartment. It felt intrusive and uncomfortable, like I was just waiting to get caught where I didn’t belong.

But I realized when I exited the building—the building whose security door locked behind me—that I didn’t have a car. Holy crap—Charlie picked me up; how had I forgotten? I didn’t want to bug him, since I didn’t know where he’d gone, so I texted Nekesa instead.

Is there any way you can come pick me up? I know you’re grounded but if you tell your parents my car broke down…?

Nekesa: Your car broke down?

Me: No but it’s complicated.

Nekesa: Where are you?

Me: Charlie’s apartment.

Nekesa: Where is Charlie?

Me: No idea.

Nekesa: Oh God—I’m on my way. Drop me the address.Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

While I waited for Nekesa, my mind replayed the night over and over again. And I grew more and more conflicted. Because hadn’t we admitted our feelings? Hadn’t we moved toward something new?

So what did it mean that my texting buddy had yet to respond?

Quit being paranoid, I told myself.

After Nekesa picked me up, she drove to Starbucks so she could “breathe for an ungrounded five minutes” while I told her what was going on.

And tell her I did; I told her everything.

I told her about the proposal, about Charlie picking me up, about sweet blanket forts, and about making out.

After she choked on her coffee, she scratched her eyebrow and said, “But the only actual words you said were that you had more-than-coworkerly feelings, right?”

Oh God. Those really were the only words we’d said.

More than coworkerly. That was hardly a love confession.

Had I been so emotional that I’d interpreted something that was nothing to be something? My heart sank—shit, shit, shit—as I considered what she was saying.

But he’d been so sweet, and I’d felt so close to him; surely it meant more than just “non-coworkerly.” The kiss—hell, the kisses—definitely didn’t feel coworkerly.

Right?

I swallowed and said, “Right.”

She dragged her bottom lip between her teeth and said, “Is it possible he was literally talking about his funny ‘we’re only coworkers, not friends’ shtick?”

“No,” I said, doubting myself as I said it. “I mean… yes, it’s possible, but you weren’t there. The chemistry—”

“You were alone in the apartment, in the dark, lying together on a bed.” Nekesa raised her eyebrows and said, “He’s a guy, Bay. Sometimes they say things—”

“No.” No. I shook my head and said, “It wasn’t like that. He was the one who stopped things.”

“I’m just saying that you two might’ve seen the night differently, that’s all.”

I kept hearing her words on the way home—could she be right? Had we? Had it been something less meaningful to him than it’d been to me?

And why in the hell isn’t he texting me back?

As soon as she pulled up in front of my building, all thoughts of Charlie disappeared because it was time to go face reality.

God, I so didn’t want to do this.

I knew my mom well enough to know she was going to hug me and tell me that everything was going to be fine.

Because for her, it would be.

She was going to have a wonderful new husband.

Shit—what if Scott was inside? What if they wanted to sit down together and discuss it with me?

My stomach hurt.

And what if they’d already decided how our lives would look now?

“Thanks for getting me,” I said, unbuckling and opening my door. “God, you don’t know how badly I don’t want to go inside.”

“I get that,” she said, giving me an empathetic smile. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” I went into the building, climbed the stairs as slowly as humanly possible, and took a deep breath before going into the apartment. I closed the door quietly behind me and said, “Mom?”

I dropped my bag in the entryway and slid off my shoes.

“Bay?” My mom’s voice sounded like she was in her room.

“Yeah.”

She came out of her bedroom—alone, thank God—and gave me a questioning look. I could read in her eyes that she didn’t know if I was mad or sad or normal. She said, “Hey.”

“I’m so sorry I left,” I said, overwhelmed with guilt as I looked at her face. That was the only proposal she was going to get from Scott, and I felt bad that I’d taken something from that. “I hope it didn’t ruin your night.”

“It’s okay,” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the couch. “How’s Charlie?”

I tried swallowing, but it felt like there was a rock in my throat. “You know—typical Charlie.”

“Can we talk about the engagement?” she asked, so sweet that it made me sad. Sad for adding stress to her happily ever after, and sad for me, for what I was about to lose.

I nodded, but couldn’t manage more than that.

She looked disappointed by my silence, and then she asked, “So do you not like Scott?”

I pictured Scott, teasing Charlie about PDA in Colorado, and I realized that I actually did like him, just not his place in my world. I didn’t know if she’d get it. I said, “It’s not that I don’t like him; it’s that I don’t want what he brings to our lives.”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

I took a deep breath and went for honesty.

“I mean that I don’t want to move. Like, I’m sure you’ll want to move into his house if you marry him, but I don’t want to move into a strange house. I don’t want to live with him, and I definitely don’t want to live with his kid, who is a total stranger. How will that ever feel normal, moving my things and myself into someone else’s life?”

I hated that I was getting emotional again.

“It’s a nice house,” she said, reaching out and running a hand over my hair. “With an extra room that’s supercute. And it’s downstairs, next to a finished living room and wet bar that no one uses, so it’ll be like your own apartment.”

My stomach hurt—literally—at the confirmation that we would be moving in with him. My vision got blurry, and I wished I could just turn off my emotions.

“Bailey,” she said patiently. “I know change is hard, but I wouldn’t agree to this if I didn’t think it would be good for you.”

I sighed and said, “I know.”

Even though I didn’t mean it. I knew she had my best interests at heart, but I also knew she was an optimist who lived by the motto of It will all work out.

“I know in my heart this will be wonderful, Bay,” she said, still petting my hair like she used to when I was little. “Just give it a chance, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, nodding.

Looked like it was going to happen, whether I liked it or not.

I tried calling Charlie after my mom and I had a long talk, telling myself that it’s what I would’ve done if we hadn’t made out.

But he didn’t answer. I got his voicemail for the first time since I’d met him.

I texted him: My mom just confirmed that we WILL be moving in with Scott.

And two hours later, he still hadn’t responded.

So I hadn’t been paranoid.

If it were someone else, it would be possible that he was just too busy to text me back.

But I knew Charlie.

I knew his work schedule—he was off today; I knew his texting habits—he always had his phone on him; and I knew his family’s schedule—they were out of town and he was home alone.

There was no reason—other than a freak accident—that he wouldn’t have responded to me by now. So there was only one explanation.

He was post-makeout ghosting me.

I flopped down on my bed, mortified and confused and sad by what appeared to be Charlie’s rejection. Because as unorthodox as we’d always been—first as strangers who didn’t like each other, then as coworkers and sort-of-friends—he’d never done anything to make me feel bad about myself.

He’d always teased, but he’d never been unkind.

What an asshole, I thought as Mr. Squishy jumped onto my bed with a little mreow grunt. What a complete and total asshole.

Because he knew me—really knew me. He knew my anxieties and neuroses, and he knew something like this would make my brain turn endless cartwheels.

And apparently he didn’t care.

Maybe he was the jerk that I first thought he was.

Part of me thought I was ridiculous for being pissed, because Charlie hadn’t technically made any promises.

But the angry part of me disagreed, because dammit, he had made promises. We might not have labeled what we were, but when he’d kissed away my tears, that was a promise. When he’d held me while I cried, that was a promise.

Maybe not a promise to be my boyfriend, but a promise to be something to me.

He knew that he’d become my something, and it felt so fucking personal that he was fine with just leaving me alone when he knew I needed him. If he were to text me about something happening with his mom and her boyfriend, I’d respond—even this very second—because aside from everything else, I cared about his feelings.

He obviously didn’t feel the same.

I felt tears start to sting my eyes as I realized that everything that had passed between us was all just a big lie.

And I had fallen for it. All of it.

How could I be such a fool?