Betting on You

“Scott?” I yelled.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want spaghetti or fettuccini?”

I heard him mutter something to my mom—they were in the living room—before he said with a smile in his voice, “Spaghetti, please.”

“Told you,” Charlie said, grabbing a box of pasta from the cupboard.

“I really would’ve pegged him as a fettuccini man.”

“When he’s alone,” he said in a quiet voice, “I bet he’s all about the elbows.”

“That sicko,” I said, sticking a spoon into Charlie’s sauce to slurp off another sample before dropping it into the sink beside my other four sampling spoons.

When we’d gotten back to the condo, Scott and my mom greeted us at the door with a list of ground rules. He didn’t look mad, though, which really took me by surprise. Of course, when he said Once it’s lights-out, you’re not allowed to leave your room and Charlie snorted, that made him glare, but he still seemed pretty stuck in the “happy vacationer” role.

Which I didn’t want for the sake of our plan, but for my mom’s sake, it was probably good for the first night.

After the listing of the rules, they gave us a tour of the place, and everyone got in a surprisingly good mood.

Charlie shocked the hell out of me by volunteering us to make dinner.

“If you two want to relax, Bailey and I can make dinner. It takes no time for me to whip up a batch of my mom’s quick spaghetti sauce—you’ve got the ingredients in the pantry—and I’m sure Bay can handle boiling a pot of water.”

Scott and my mom looked at us like we’d offered them millions, and I looked at Charlie like he’d lost his mind.

So we were off to a good start.

“This is really good,” I said, a little shocked that Charlie could make a spaghetti sauce from scratch.

“I’m pretty sure my Italian grandmother taught me to sauce when I was a toddler,” he said, pulling a roll of TUMS out of his pocket and popping one into his mouth.

“Prodigy.” I grabbed the pasta from Charlie, opened the box, and dropped it into the boiling water. “Do you still see her a lot?”

He gave me a look as he chewed. “Now is not the time.”

“To talk about grandmothers?”

“To remind me of shitty things.” He opened the utensil drawer, pulled out a big fork, and handed it to me. “Also, this is for stirring, not stabbing.”

“Thank you.” I took it from him and said, “Why are you always popping TUMS, by the way?”

Something crossed his face as he said, “What?”

He looked guilty or surprised or… I don’t know… something.

“You’re always eating antacids, Sampson.”

“Oh, that.” He shrugged and said, “I get heartburn sometimes.”

“It’s just heartburn sometimes?” I asked, not wanting to pry but also really wanting to know more about him. “Then why did you look all weird when I mentioned TUMS?”

“Can you shut up about my afflictions, weirdo?” He gave me a patented Charlie smirk and said, “Now please hand me the garlic salt, Nosy.”

“Are you sick?” I asked, hating the thought of that.

“Of your line of questioning?” He stirred the pot and said, “Absolutely. But physically? No.”

I gave him the garlic salt. “You’re a very complex fellow.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said, and then started barking orders like he was the head chef.

He was surprisingly capable in a kitchen.

Make a sauce, whisk out the tomato paste, do the conversion of how much jarred minced garlic equals a clove; he was a professional.

I pretty much only made microwave things and frozen pizza at my house.

When we drained the pasta and had everything ready to serve, Charlie moved in close. He tugged on a strand of my hair with his right hand, smiling down at me like we shared a secret, and warmth spread through me.

The coziness of the condo, the smell of the marinara, the grin in his eyes as we conspired together—it all linked up to make the moment feel like hot chocolate after a day in the snow.

“Shall we serve?” he asked, letting go of my curl to reach for the sauce.

Lksjflskjfksljfklsdjfklsd, I thought, my breath stopping in my chest.

“We shall,” I replied, feeling buzzy from his touch as I grabbed the big bowl of noodles and followed him toward the table on wobbly legs.

I don’t know what I’d expected, but dinner was okay. Yes, I got a stomach knot every time Scott teased my mom or called me Bay, but between Charlie’s ridiculous stories and my mother’s hilarious responses, that nonsense was kept to a minimum and the meal was actually kind of nice.

Weird, right?

Somewhere around eleven, my mom made up the pullout sofa for Charlie and we all went to our respective beds. I’d just turned off the light to go to sleep when my phone buzzed.

Charlie: When are we going to start dating?

I stared at the phone in the darkness and wondered what it would feel like to have Charlie Sampson say that for real. Obviously, I didn’t want that, but still… I couldn’t stop myself from imagining it.

Because Charlie’s emotional contradictions… intrigued me.

He teased relentlessly and was the funniest person I’d ever met, yet I knew for a fact that he listened to Conan Gray and Gracie Abrams on repeat all the time (I had his Spotify password).

He was brazen and outgoing with his friends, yet sweetly vulnerable when discussing himself.

And even though he was cynical Mr. Nothing, I was starting to suspect that his cynicism existed not because he was unfeeling but because he felt things so deeply. His family issues, his ex-girlfriend—he hated love because he hated the way his love for them had felt.

When Charlie got that horrible, awful look on his face when he talked about Becca, I couldn’t help but imagine what it must’ve felt like—for Becca—to have all that emotion pointed in her direction.

To have Charlie Sampson look at you the way he’d looked at her at the party?

Dear God, the swoon.

I looked down at the phone in my hand, at his question, and my brain returned from its brief excursion to Charlietown. Ahem.

When are we going to start dating?

The thought of doing it—fake dating—still made me nervous, but I texted: I suppose tomorrow—we’re only here for a few days, right?

Charlie: Agreed. And we should get it rolling first thing—no reason to wait, right?

Me: What do you have planned? Feeding each other breakfast?

Charlie: That’s EXACTLY what I have planned, only I’ll be sitting on your lap.

That made me snort. YOU will be on MY lap?

Charlie: It’s more interesting that way.

Me: True.

Charlie: After that I thought I could just carry you around all day like you’re a baby who doesn’t know how to walk.

That made me start laughing, all by myself in the dark. I texted: Can we be serious for two minutes?

Charlie: Doubt it but I’m listening.

Me: Is there anything I should know about you—or we should know about each other—as fake boyfriend/girlfriend?

Charlie: My favorite thing about you is the way you always bite the inside of your cheek when I tease you.

I made a noise in my throat and texted: what???

Charlie: For real. It’s like you don’t want me to know I got to you. But Glasses—the minute I see your move, it’s like the gauntlet has been thrown and I can’t stop until you’re smiling at me.

Another noise—something like a squeal—emanated from me, unbidden.

Because that was an incredible answer.

I tried to think of a snappy retort, some sarcastically charming something, but I couldn’t come up with anything.

What were words again?

I gasped when my phone buzzed.

Charlie:……? No response?

I held the phone, but literally had no words.

Charming Charlie had rendered me speechless.