Betting on You

“Mom?”

I walked into the apartment and closed the door behind me. My mom hadn’t planned on going anywhere that night, so the silence meant that she was probably asleep already.

Which was kind of a bummer, because I’d been looking forward to the brownie batter party, but also a relief because if she was asleep, that meant there was definitely no Scott underfoot and I would have the place all to myself. Mr. Squishy came over and rubbed against my calf before dropping flat onto his back and rolling from side to side.

“Hey, Squish.” I stepped out of my shoes, then rubbed his fluffy belly with my foot before he got spooked by a nonexistent something and ran down the hall.

“Freak.” I went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a can of RC and a can of Diet Rite. I was wide awake after my weird day of training and kind-of-fun evening with Nekesa and Aaron at the bookstore, so I was excited to just stretch out on the couch and mindlessly binge-watch The Bonk. I grabbed a glass out of the cupboard and a bag of Doritos.

I was just pushing the door to exit the kitchen when I heard, “Bay, is that you?”

I gritted my teeth, stopped, and dropped my snacks onto the counter as if they’d been burning my hands. The cans tumbled into the sink. “Yes.”

“Come here, will ya?”

I breathed in through my nose before going into the living room. I wanted to scream as I saw Scott all stretched out on the sofa with only the muted television lighting the room. He was lying on his side, watching football in his stupid white crew socks.

Why can’t he keep his damned shoes on?

“Where’s my mom?”

“She went to bed.”

So why the hell are you still here? He was giving me a sleepy half smile, like he’d been dozing before I showed up, and his obvious level of comfort in our house made me clench my fists so tightly that I knew I’d have crescent-shaped marks on my palms when I escaped to my room.

“Your mom said you’d be home by eleven.”

I blinked and my cheeks got warm. “Yeah?”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s past eleven, Bay.”

Bailey. It’s fucking Bailey. I tucked my hair behind my ears and said, “We, um, got a little carried away at the bookstore.”

“Don’t worry—I’m not going to tell your mom.” He gave me a smile that I think was supposed to be warm and adulty. “But you should probably get less distracted next time so she doesn’t worry, don’t you think?”

My face burned, and all I could manage was, “Yeah. Um. I’m going to bed.”

But inside, I was raging. This man was speaking to me about my mother? Scott was talking about her like she was his primary concern, like it was his job to make sure she was happy?

I clenched my jaw and had taken one step when he asked, “Did you have fun?”

I stopped. “What?”

Again with the fatherly smile. He asked, “Did you guys have a good time shopping?”

I smiled back as I daydreamed about pushing him off the couch. With a cattle prod. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He snuggled back into the couch pillows. “Night, Bay.”

MY NAME IS BAILEY, YOU SHOELESS DOUCHEBAG! I wanted to roar it like a bloodthirsty hellbeast, because only my friends and my mom got to call me that.

But I just said, “Good night.”

As soon as my door closed behind me, I gritted my teeth and threw my head back in a silent scream. It was so unfair. Wasn’t your house supposed to be the one place where you felt at home? Like, relaxed and comfortable? My heart ached with homesickness whenever I thought about the house back in Fairbanks. Not because of the home itself, but because it seemed like a lifetime ago that I’d lived with the wrapped-in-a-blanket comfort of knowing that at any given time, the only inhabitants of the place were the members of my family.

No dates, no boyfriends, no coworkers who liked to yell Whoo when they had girls’ night at our apartment. I missed my home being my home so much that I rarely allowed myself to even remember life before the split.

It hurt too much.

I flipped on my little TV, but Scott’s presence had ruined The Bonk. I was too worked up to get lost in trashy reality TV. I tossed my phone onto the bed and changed into my pajamas—my dad’s faded old Global Weather Central T-shirt that still went down to my knees—as I silently raged.

I felt like I was going to explode.

My phone buzzed, and I didn’t recognize the number that popped up. But when I opened the message, it was from Charlie.

Hey, Glasses.

Even though he’d said he was going to text me, I couldn’t believe he actually kept his word. I stared at the phone in my hand like I’d never seen a phone before, wondering how to proceed. Do I answer and engage with him? Do I ignore it and pretend it never happened?

I felt too ragey about Scott to think rationally.

But as I flopped down onto my bed, I thought about what Charlie had said about his interactions with his mom’s boyfriend. Did he really just go off whenever he felt like it? I could never do that, but imagining it was sublime. Calling Scott a peckerface and telling him to put some shoes on his gnarly feet? That was some euphoric kind of daydreaming.

Instead of responding to his “hey,” I went wild with oversharing.

Me: My mom’s boyfriend just called me out on being late. She’s asleep, as in down for the night in her bedroom, but he is still here watching TV. Is there a way to kill him without getting caught?

There were immediate texting bubbles, and then—

Charlie: Just ask him why he’s still there and throw in the word “loser.” Tell him he’s gotta go.

I couldn’t believe I was smiling, but I was. The idea of that conversation was just too funny. I texted: I can’t do that.

There were more conversation bubbles and then they disappeared.

Just as my phone rang.

It was Charlie.

Almost on instinct, I let my phone slip from my hand.

Why is he calling me?

My heartbeat picked up as I retrieved the phone, unsure yet again on the best way to proceed. Talking to Charlie on the phone, instead of just texting, seemed like a big bump up for us on the friendship scale and seemed somehow unwise.

But for reasons I didn’t have time to explore, I answered.

“Hello?” I said, beyond hesitant about this unexpected form of communication.

“Quit being a wuss. Go out there and get it done.”

I lifted up enough to kick the throw pillows off my bed before flopping back down. “I don’t like confrontation.”

“Do you like hiding in your bedroom?” he asked, his voice sounding deeper over the phone.

“Well, no.”

“And you can’t just give up your territory, by the way.” I could hear music in the background, and I wondered what he was listening to. “As soon as he conquers the living room, he’s only going to advance and take more space. Before you know it, you’ll be living in an occupied state where he is the king. Stand your ground.”

I turned over onto my back, amazed that anyone’s brain worked that way. Love him or hate him, Charlie was definitely his own person. I said, “He’s not advancing, you psycho. This isn’t a war.”

“The hell it isn’t.” It sounded like he was moving around when he said, “I fought hard but not until it was too late. Now the jackass practically lives here.”

“Ugh.” Three stains formed a flower shape on my ceiling, and I wondered what had caused it. “That’s a nightmare.”

“Right?” I heard him bite into something crunchy.

“So he’s there all the time?”

“Every minute.”

“Does he act like he belongs in your family?”

“What?”

“Like, is his role that of your mother’s roommate, where he stays at your house but that’s kind of it, or does he tag along if you guys decide to eat out?”

He sounded like he was smiling when he said, “You sweet little naïve child, hoping for some fictional version of the best. The answer to your question is that Clark is ever-present. He eats with us, watches TV with us, rides in the car with us, texts us, and shares his every dickish opinion with us. Last week, for example, he went to conferences with my mom, asked my trig teacher if it was possible for me to come in early for extra credit, and then he came home and casually mentioned that I wasn’t applying myself.”

“Shut up,” I said, horrified for him. How utterly intrusive.

“Trust me, I wish I could.”

“That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” I said, staring up at those ugly ceiling stains.

“Which is why you need to stand your ground.”

“You’re right.”

“But, Bailey,” he chastised, his tone downright fatherly, “you’re not even going to leave your room, are you?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“You’re just going to hope for the best?” he asked, sounding disappointed in me.

“That’s right.”

“Well, I’ve got a news flash, Glasses—the best never comes.”

“So.” I rolled over onto my side and realized I didn’t want to get off the phone with him. Apparently, when facing depressing Scott thoughts and certain insomnia, I was desperate enough to grab on to ol’ Charlie. “You’re just as positive as ever. Like a freaking ray of sunshine.”

“I’m still a realist, yes,” he said, sounding incredibly serious.

“Well, I’m just going to trust that my mom will bore of Scott over time and then maybe take a hiatus from dating for a while.”

I was counting on that.

He made a noise of dissent, like a snort or an exhale, before saying, “Yeah, that’ll happen.”

“Well, if it doesn’t, I’ll just go back to the murder plan.”

“Smart. You’d probably be one hell of a killer.”

“Why would you say that?” I grabbed the remote from my nightstand and started flipping. “I just told you I hate confrontation.”

“It’s the half-diet, half-regular thing with your soda. You’re meticulous, like a total sociopath. You’d probably chop up a body on a tarp and individually wrap each section in ziplock baggies and newspapers. While wearing rubber cleaning gloves. Wouldn’t even spill a single drop of blood.”

“Oh my God,” I said, laughing in spite of myself. “That’s pretty dark, even for you.”

“You’re the murderer.”

I sped through the channels until I found a rerun of Psych. “Says you.”

“Listen, about the bet—” he started, and I cut him off.

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said, feeling guilty for even discussing it.

“It’s not—it’s a great idea.” He dove right in like he was excited about the wager. “So here’s what I’m thinking. Since we’re all going to be working the front desk, it’ll be cake to see them in action. I say we give it thirty days or a hookup, whichever comes first.”

I crawled under the covers and repeated, “Nope. I have no desire to make a bet with you about my best friend.”

“What if I said your refusal to wager has nothing to do with that.”

I sighed. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me what you think it actually has to do with.”

“You got it.”

Charlie’s confidence in his own opinions was truly remarkable.

“The real reason you don’t want to make the bet is because Nekesa is your friend and you know you should have faith in her. But deep down, you also know the truth about love. You try to deny it, like a little kid convincing themselves that they didn’t see their parents putting Santa labels on the presents under the tree, but it’s there, deep in your psyche.”

“You don’t know jack about my psyche,” I said as I rolled over and snuggled deeper into the covers. “We’re not all jaded like you.”

“You saw her and Theo,” he continued, ignoring me, “and you know that as much as she might like her boyfriend, she has chemistry with that prep school jackass. Love is fickle, and everyone—even Nekesa—is capable of infidelity when faced with chemistry.”

“Wrong,” I muttered, then added, “And you’re a ghoul, by the way.”

“I’ll take your flippant insult as your compliance.” And before I could say no, absolutely not, Charlie’s deep voice asked, “So what’re you going to give me when I win?”

This time I didn’t try to hide my irritated sigh. “No idea.” I took off my glasses and set them on the nightstand. “I’ve got sixty-eight dollars in my bank account and a visually impaired cat, so I’m afraid it’s slim pickings. But you’re not going to get it, so I’m not too concerned.”

He was back to crunching something again. “Let’s just say that when I believe what will happen happens, you have to be at my beck and call for an entire week. If I need a ride somewhere, you have to squeal up to my house as soon as I ring. If I need someone to swing into Baker’s and buy me a Snickers bar and a box of triple-XL condoms, you are my smiley little rubber Snickers wench. Work for you?”

“First of all, you’re disgusting and you wish.” I laughed in spite of myself because when he wasn’t being negative, he was funny in his own way. “But fine, because it’s NEVER. GOING. TO. HAPPEN. Instead, you’ll be scooping Mr. Squishy’s litter box every day. You’ll be my smiley little litter box wench.”

“Three things,” Charlie said. “First, I’m not worried about losing. Second, that is such an idiotic name for a cat. And third…”

He paused, not finishing his statement until I finally asked, “What’s the third?”

“The third is that of course you have a cat. I have never met anyone in my life who’s more of a ‘future cat lady’ than you.”

I turned off my lamp and closed my eyes. “I’m sure you mean that to be insulting, but I accept it as a compliment because cats are awesome; thank you, Charlie. And I’m going to sleep now. G’night.”

“Cats are the worst, actually.” He scoffed and said, “And g’night to you too, Glasses.”

As tired as I was, it took me forever to fall asleep after we hung up. There was some morsel of truth in Charlie’s notions about love.

Logically, I knew better.

But his example about chemistry had been true with my parents. No one cheated, but exposure to chemistry outside of their relationship had shown them that they no longer had it.

And it’d been true with Zack, though beer had played as big a part as chemistry.

I knew Charlie was wrong, but his words had given voice to that tiny part of me that questioned everything.

And that voice didn’t need any encouragement.