Betting on You

When Charlie texted me Friday night to let me know he was at my house, I messaged my mom, Hanging out with Charlie at his friend’s house, and walked outside. I didn’t even have to wonder where Charlie was parked because he started honking.

Loudly.

Incessantly.

I rolled my eyes and ran over to his black Honda something, pulled open the door, and climbed inside. “You are a jackass.”

Sitting relaxed behind the wheel, Charlie grinned wildly, like he was having the best time messing with me. His eyes were warm and all over me—my face, my outfit, my legs, and back up again—and the appreciative gaze brought out the butterflies in my stomach.

Then he said, “Holy shit, you wore exactly what I told you to wear. You are such a good girl.”

I reached for the seat belt after I slammed my door, the butterflies calming as he looked away from me and into his rearview mirror. “Do you really want to cause me to go back inside and change?”

“I’ll shut up,” he said, putting the car in reverse and backing out of the spot. “But it looks good. You look really nice.”

“Did you just compliment me?” I asked, buckling up.

“Weird, right?”

“I don’t know how to deal with it, honestly.” And I also didn’t know how to deal with him looking like that. I’d known T-shirt Charlie, hoodie Charlie, and flight suit Charlie, but this Charlie…

Whoa. He was wearing a plaid button-down—was that Ralph Lauren?—a nice watch, jeans, and really good shoes.

But that wasn’t the whoa.

The whoa was the combination of the smell of his soap and the way his thick hair looked like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. The close proximity of Charlie trying put him on another level I wasn’t used to dealing with.

Like, Charlie Sampson was cute, but Party Charlie was hot.

He glanced at me, and the corner of his mouth tilted up. “Well, don’t get weird on me. The outfit looks good, but the fact that you probably have everything in your purse lined up by shape takes away a lot of the attractiveness.”

“There it is.” I pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror. “So what’s your ex’s name again?”

“Huh?” He glanced over again, then returned his gaze to the road. “Oh. Becca.”

“Becca.” I reached into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out my lipstick. “Are you guys civil to each other?”

He made a scoffing sound and switched lanes. “For God’s sake, I’m not some melodramatic puffball. Of course we’re civil.”

I looked at his face, which was all seriousness as he drove down Maple Street. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Really.”

“Yes.” He shook his head like I was a moron. “Knock off your bullshit. I treat her exactly the same as I treat you.”

“Oh, so you’re kind of a sarcastic prick, but funny enough to make it acceptable.”

He raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Got it.” I put on lipstick, flipped the visor back up, and turned toward Charlie. “And what are your friends like? Loud? Quiet? Funny? Snobby?”

“My friends are pretty chill. And funny.”

I don’t know why, but I nervously asked him, “Do you think they’ll like me?”

He gave me a quick glance and looked like he wanted to laugh; it was in the squint of his eyes when he said, “You might’ve changed on the outside, but you’re kind of still the brace face from the airport, aren’t you?”

“No, I most definitely am not,” I said defensively, irritated that he was mocking my moment of insecurity. “But you, Charlie—you are absolutely still the know-it-all jackass that I met in Fairbanks.”

“Whoa,” he said, and now he did cough out a little laugh as he slowed for a stoplight. “Calm down. I liked the brace face.”

“And now you’re lying,” I said, turning in my seat to face him better. “Because we’ve already established that we hated each other.”

His eyes moved from my face to my hair and back to my face again before he said, “How could I forget?”

“I mean,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ears and thinking back to that day, “I was just a nice girl, trying to safely maneuver my first solo flight, and there you were, being a jerk and macking on a girl in the security line like a mini–Hugh Hefner.”

“First of all, ‘macking’?” he said, hitting the gas after the light turned green. “Do better, Glasses.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“Second of all, Hugh Hefner was an asshole. Young Charlie, on the other hand, had enough game for Grace Bassett to make the first move with that airport kiss.”

“Really?” I didn’t hide the sarcasm in my voice. “I don’t believe it.”

“Trust me, she begged for that kiss.”

“That’s what you want me to think.”

“Touché.”

When Charlie pulled to a stop in front of a nice-looking cookie-cutter split-entry house at the top of a cul-de-sac, I got a few butterflies. There were three cars in the driveway and a few on the street, so though it didn’t appear to be a huge party, it was bigger than my usual four-friend get-togethers.

It was like Charlie knew I was nervous, though, because as he pulled a little roll of TUMS out of his pocket and popped two into his mouth, he said reassuringly, “I’ll make it fun—I promise.”

We got out of the car and walked toward the porch, and I wondered what he’d be like at the party. Who was Charlie Sampson with his friends?

“It’ll be quick and painless. Don’t worry.” We went up the two porch steps, and Charlie pushed open the front door like he’d been there a hundred times. There was loud music playing—“Nobody Knows” by the Driver Era (I loved the X album)—with people floating around everywhere.

I followed him inside, taking a deep breath and reminding myself that this didn’t matter. I didn’t know anyone at that party, so they could all hate me and it wouldn’t even count.

We walked by two guys on a couch, listening to a pretty blonde tell them something that appeared to be fascinating. A group of people on my right huddled around the dining room table, which was covered in cards and beer cans, as others watched whatever game they were playing with deep interest. We wove through more people standing around laughing or caught in light conversation. Following Charlie, I quickly eyed the kitchen, my hungry stomach wondering if that’s where the snacks or chips or some kind of delicious dips resided, before figuring this wasn’t a party where casserole dishes filled with any sort of seven-layer jalapeño popper dip existed.

It was exactly what you’d expect from a party, yet it wasn’t out of control.

But it was early.

People glanced at us as we passed, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that all eyes were on us. I tucked my hair behind my ears, tugged at the hem of my sweater. Yes, I was starting to feel a bit insecure, which was probably why Charlie leaned closer and murmured into my ear, “Let’s go in the kitchen.”

It was in the kitchen—I was right; ZERO dips—where a tall blond guy said, “Fucking finally, Sampson. I was starting to think you were blowing us off.”

Charlie gestured toward me. “I had to pick up Bailey first.”

“Finally we meet Bailey.” The blond guy, who was leaning casually against the counter, flashed me a nice grin. “I’m Adam—I’m sure he’s told you all about me—and this is Evan and Eli.”

I floundered for a second, totally taken aback as I glanced toward the two guys sitting at the table. Charlie mentioned me to his friends?

“Hey,” I said, smiling and pretending like I’d previously known of their existence. “Nice to meet you guys.”

“What do you think of this shirt?” Evan asked, pointing at his pink button-down.

“Christ, man, can you shut up about the shirt?” Adam muttered, grinning and shaking his head.Content (C) Nôv/elDra/ma.Org.

“I would but you won’t,” Evan said loudly.

Eli laughed and said, “It’s fucking beautiful, dude—just shut up about it already.”

“I like it,” I said, unsure if Evan actually wanted my opinion.

“Beer?” Adam asked.

“No, thanks,” Charlie said. “Bay?”

“No, thanks,” I agreed, looking at him and wondering if he usually drank and was just saying no because of me. Regardless, I was glad he wasn’t drinking that night. I wasn’t anti-booze, but I was a little too much of a control freak to handle the idea of losing my inhibitions in front of other people.

“I gotta be honest,” Eli said, “I pictured you a little more, uh—”

“Ugly?” Evan looked at Eli and nodded his head in agreement. “Same.”

“What?” I looked at Charlie. “You told them I’m ugly?”

“No.” He laughed.

“No,” Eli said. “He just talks about you like you’re some guy he works with. He failed to mention that you’re—”

“Not that ugly?” I said, looking at Charlie, unable to hold in a laugh.

“Exactly,” Eli said, looking relieved that I hadn’t taken his words the wrong way.

“Charlie,” someone yelled from the living room. “We need you.”

He looked at me and said, “Care to be the official phone-a-friend with me?”

“Huh?”

“Charlie is a trivia god, so everyone wants him on their team,” Eli said, picking up the can of Ultra in front of him. “So much so that he’s become a free agent, where players can pay to phone-a-Charlie.”

I looked at him in shock. “Is this true? Are you smart?”

“I’m a genius,” he said, so typically Charlie.

“He actually is,” Eli said.

“Shut up.” I mean, Charlie was obviously an intelligent person, but he’d never struck me as someone who would care enough to do well in school. People with attitudes like his usually ditched class and slept during lectures.

Was he seriously a genius?

“Charlie!” The group at the dining room table all yelled like their favorite person in the world had just walked in, but he gave them a half smile and lifted a hand in the air as if this was normal.

Actually, it seemed like everyone was happy to see him, and not just because of his apparent trivia prowess. Just about each person we passed as we went into the living room smiled and shouted a “Charlie!” in his direction. As if Charlie were their old buddy back from some sort of long trip.

I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I liked Charlie—wow, I actually did like Charlie—but it was somehow surprising that so many other people did. I would’ve imagined him being too much of an acquired taste for the general population. Kind of an IYKYK type of guy.

“Sampson!” A guy in a black-and-white T-shirt and red jeans—and a full beard—screamed. “When Tad said you were coming, I couldn’t believe it. I haven’t seen you out in forever.”

“I work every weekend,” Charlie said, then looked at me. “This is Bailey, by the way.”

“Hey, Bailey,” he said, grinning like I was fantastic just for being with Charlie. “I’m Austin.”

“I love your pants, Austin,” I said, wishing I’d taken Eli’s proffered beer just so I had something in my hand to make me look like I fit in. “Bold choice.”

“Right?” he agreed, looking down at his red jeans. “The way I see it, these babies send a message that I know exactly who I am.”

“You are Red Jeans Man,” I said around a laugh, instantly taking to Austin. He looked like the kind of guy who was always smiling. And there was some sort of positive energy surrounding him, which was a definite contrast to Charlie’s aura. These two are friends? I guess opposites do attract.

“Also known as Questionable Choices Man,” Charlie added. “Or perhaps Fashion Don’t Dude.”

That made Austin cackle and launch into a story about someone they knew.

But as I engaged with his friends, I wondered why Charlie hadn’t been out in a long time. He worked weekends, yes, but I knew that he was off every single Friday night.

So, what was he doing with his free time? Was he home alone, pining over his ex? Did he have some sort of family obligation that kept him away from his friends? Why had he been MIA?

He was obviously a social person, if the party’s reaction to his appearance was any indication, so what was the deal?

And why am I so curious?

“Oh my God, it’s Charles!” a tiny redhead squealed, then ran over and grabbed Charlie in a big bear hug. She looked overjoyed to see him. “You’ve come back to us!”

She looked at me and said, “Hi. I’m Clio.”

“Bailey,” I said, grinning wildly, because it was impossible not to. Clio had a warm smile, the kind that reached the corners of her eyes and made them crinkle. She just projected kindness. I could feel my shoulders relax.

“Bless you, Bailey, for getting this asshole to quit being a hermit.”

Seriously, what is the story with Charlie’s apparent hermitatude?

Charlie put his hand over Clio’s face and teasingly pushed. “Just because I have a life doesn’t mean I’m a hermit.”

“Whatever.” She reached around him and grabbed a can of Old Milwaukee off the coffee table. “Sit down and get ready to feed us the answers.”

We sat down on the couch, and Charlie leaned closer to me and said, “Just pinch my leg or something if you’re bored, and we’ll go.”

“Like this?” I asked, pinching his leg hard.

He gave his head a slow shake and said, “You are so lucky I’m a nice guy. If Eli did that, I’d drop him.”

“Wow—so macho,” I said under my breath, pulling my phone out to make sure neither of my parents had texted.

I heard Charlie laugh as Clio started telling me the rules of the game. It was like Trivial Pursuit, but made for our generation. All the questions were about things everyone was familiar with, but they hinged upon the tiniest of details.

What color robe was Jess wearing when she and Nick had their first kiss on New Girl?

Every time a team lost a point, they had to stand on the dining room table and perform a song selected by the other players. I teamed up with Clio, and everyone in the house seemed to gravitate over to the living room to get in the game.

Charlie was, apparently, a mercenary. If a team didn’t know the answer, they had the right to pay him a dollar for his help. And shockingly, he was right every single time he was called to serve. So when Clio and I were unsure about the answer to List the exact wrappings around Michael Scott’s foot after he grilled it in his Foreman, Charlie bumped his leg against mine.

I looked at him, and he gave me an obnoxious eyebrow waggle. “You might want to consider sliding a single into my rhetorical thong on this one, Glasses.”

“I’m queasy now—thanks a lot.”

“Do you have a buck, Bailey?” Clio asked me. “Because he might be right. I know Michael Scott’s got Bubble Wrap, but I can’t remember what else.”

I couldn’t. I couldn’t pay Charlie when he was looking so smug, and when he started chanting “Pay the Chuck, pay the Chuck”—and everyone joined in with him, I had to take a stand.

“We don’t need to pay the Chuck,” I said, looking at Charlie and raising my eyebrows. “Michael Scott’s foot was wrapped with clear plastic Bubble Wrap, and that is all.”

“Judges?” Charlie asked, and I did a double take at his face. He looked very pleased, so I knew I’d made a mistake.

“Bailey is right,” the blond girl with the answer card in her hand said. “It is wrapped in Bubble Wrap.”

“Boom,” I said.

“But,” she added, dropping the card and grinning. “That Bubble Wrap is held in place by clear packing tape.”

“That’s not a wrapping,” I yelled, arguing as the room exploded into laughter and noise. “Tape isn’t part of the wrapping; it’s the adhesive.”

Charlie shook his head, laughing, and said, “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“Because I’d rather sing on a table than let you be right,” I replied.

“Get up and come on,” Clio said to me, smiling a tipsy grin. “We’re up.”

“I mean, I’m just here with Charlie,” I tried as she grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. “As a guest. I shouldn’t be subjected to the same—”

“Come on,” she said, pulling me toward the dining room.

“Charlie,” I said, looking back at him. “Shouldn’t you save me?”

“I tried,” he said, smiling, “but you didn’t want to dip into the proverbial G-string.”

“What song?” Clio asked, using a remote to turn on the karaoke machine after we climbed on top of the dining room table.

Everyone started yelling out suggestions, and then Charlie said, “ ‘All Too Well.’ The ten-minute version.”