I wasn’t a partier. I didn’t have strong opinions about it either way, but my friends and I didn’t hang out with people who got together to drink beer. Zack and his friends were big drinkers, but he’d never taken me with him to a party.
“This gathering will be everything,” Charlie said, sounding happier since I’d yet to say no. “Keg in the front, trivia in the back, probably a few bros with bongs hiding somewhere upstairs.”
“So I’m going to get an MIP, then.”
“If you go with me, Bay,” he said, his voice soft and quiet and surprisingly genuine, “I guarantee your safe return.”
Every time he called me “Bay,” it made me feel a little weird. Which, honestly, was weird in and of itself, because Nekesa and my mom called me that all the time.
But when Charlie said it, it made me feel closer to him than we actually were. I cleared my throat and said, “You remember the story of my one booze party, right?”
“Puke chunk on leg—yep.” His voice held a tinge of amusement when he added, “I promise I will not leave your side.”
And for some reason, I could tell he meant it. Which surprised me with its reassurance.
“Well,” I said, “how will I know what to wear if I don’t know any more details? Like is it a pj party? Costume party? Will there be a seven-course meal involved? Fancy silverware?”
“Stop overthinking it, Glasses.” I could practically hear Charlie’s eye roll through the phone. “You look cute in that black-and-white sweater that you always wear with jeans and the boots that squeeze your toes.”
That made me pause. I had never considered that Charlie ever—EVER—noticed how I looked or what I was wearing. I’d always felt—since way back at the airport in Fairbanks—that he just saw me as something like the annoying, uptight friend of his sister.
I said teasingly, just to make sure things didn’t get awkward, “Are you into me, Sampson? Are you secretly obsessed with me and have my entire wardrobe memorized?”
“Give me a break,” he said, still sounding like he was amused. “Just because I notice how you look doesn’t mean I’m into you, Glasses.”
“Whew.”
“Although I would like it if you pretend to be marginally potentially into me at the party.”
“You are really blowing my mind tonight.”
“Why? I just want to show up at the party with a cute girl that appears to be my date. It doesn’t mean I want to lick your neck or call you my girlfriend; it just means I’m an insecure little bitch about the party. Okay?”
I laughed—I couldn’t help it. He just sounded so unhappy to call me cute and also so disgusted with himself for caring about appearances.
It was ridiculous, but the fact that Charlie thought I was cute meant something to me. He was an obnoxious butthead, but since he didn’t like a lot of people, it felt good that I registered.
“Yeah—keep laughing, it’s hilarious,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re a real dick, kid.”
“Oh, come on, Charlie—I am not.” I laughed, and I realized that I actually wanted to help him. “And fine—I’ll go with you.”
“Seriously?” he asked, sounding surprised even though I thought it’d been obvious the whole time.
“Sure,” I said, cracking my back and wishing I didn’t have more studying to do. “I don’t know any of your friends, so I don’t have to act cool.”
“Can you please act a little cool?”
“What are we talking here?”
“Okay.” His voice was deeper now and he sounded comfortable, like he was lying on a couch, watching TV. “I would prefer no bathroom accidents and no public vomitings.”
“I think I can accommodate you on that. How do you feel about spontaneous show-tune outbursts?”
“As long as it isn’t Gershwin,” he said, sounding disgusted. “Can’t stomach Gershwin.”
“Are you a communist?” I asked.
“Communists hate Gershwin?”
“No one hates Gershwin,” I said, wondering how it could be fun to talk to Charlie on the phone when he was such a royal pain in the ass most of the time. “Hence the communist assumption.”
“You should be careful with assumptions, Glasses.”
“I know. Forgive me.”
“I will,” he said, “but only because you’re pretending to dig me Friday night.”
I closed my book, got up from my desk, and proceeded to flop down onto my bed. “That is going to be the hardest challenge of my life. I should be immediately nominated for an Oscar on Saturday morning if I pull it off.”
“Oh, you’ll pull it off,” he said, sounding almost flirty as he teased. “I’ll make it so easy that you’ll forget you don’t actually dig me in real life.”
“Impossible,” I said, snuggling into my blanket.
“Wait and see, Glasses,” he said. “Just you wait and see.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Charlie
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.”
“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.