Betting on You

I shook my head as I slid my phone into my pocket, knowing I was a complete and total dumbshit for inviting Bailey to the party.

I’d told her that I wanted her to come so I didn’t look pathetic to Becca, which was true, but the bigger reason was to show Bec that I was moving on.

I walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed the gallon of milk.

“Did you try TUMS?”

I turned around, and my mom was standing in the kitchen doorway. I nodded. “Yep.”© 2024 Nôv/el/Dram/a.Org.

“Did you try any of the exercises Dr. Bitz gave you?” she asked, looking concerned as she walked over to the sink and grabbed a wineglass from the drying rack.

I swallowed and didn’t want to answer. I hated that question, hated that the question was even a thing. Because as much as everyone liked to spew words about the importance of taking care of one’s mental health, it felt like a fail, having this problem.

And it wasn’t even a fucking problem.

I overthought things, and the result was fucking annoying acid reflux. That was it—no big deal. But something about it made me feel like I was broken, especially when my mom tried to help by bringing up mental exercises that the therapist thought could help me.

But again—it was no big deal.

“Yeah,” I said, closing the fridge and taking the milk to the table, where my cup was. “It’s no big deal. I think it’s just because I had leftover pizza for dinner.”

“Oh, good,” she said, looking relieved as she grabbed the bottle of red wine on the counter and poured a glass. “We went out for chicken before you got home.”

“Glad I missed it,” I said, giving her a reassuring smile. “I hate chicken.”

“I know,” she said, giving me one of those big Mom smiles that made me happy and melancholy, all at the same time. “You always have.”

“Someone has to be the genius in the family,” I replied.

To which she quipped, “Talk to me when your calc grade goes up.”

“Touché.”

After she went upstairs, I started thinking about Friday night again as I pounded milk (my homemade acid reflux prevention that never worked).

I’d been avoiding hanging out with anyone since the Becca breakup, mostly because I didn’t want to see her or hear people ask about what happened. I only agreed to go to Chuck’s on Friday because he was moving the following week and it might be the last time to see him.

But now it felt like an opportunity, I thought as I chugged milk like a frat boy with a can of beer during rush.

I was too much of a simp to actually tell Bec to stop texting me unless she wanted to get back together, but it was how I felt. I was glad she was happy (sort of), but I had zero interest in becoming her fucking bestie.

So maybe if I did something like this, it might send the same message: Charlie is available for boyfriending if you realize you miss FaceTiming him in the dark at 3 a.m., but he’s got other options if you’re only interested in platonic messaging.

I wasn’t planning on lying and telling people that Bailey and I were a thing, but if Bec wanted to make her own assumptions and respond accordingly, well, I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop her, right?

I poured another glass of milk and set down the gallon.

But I also couldn’t ignore the part of me that was the tiniest bit excited to seeing Bailey outside of work and our partnership to destroy her mom’s relationship. What was social, let’s-go-hit-the-town Bailey like?

Who was Bailey, aside from Glasses? And why was I so fucking curious to find out?

Something about her had drawn me in the very first time we’d met, and God help me, there was something I liked about interacting with her.

We had nothing in common. NOTHING.

Still, I’d never forget the nerd in glasses at the airport, clearing her throat and repeatedly saying Excuse me. There was something ballsy in her rule-following repression that I found entertaining, something sweet in the way she wouldn’t let me cut but felt bad about it.

Bailey wasn’t like other people.

So even though I knew she’d likely drive me fucking nuts at the party, why was I looking forward to it?