I texted him: My mom just confirmed that we WILL be moving in with Scott.
And two hours later, he still hadn’t responded.
So I hadn’t been paranoid.
If it were someone else, it would be possible that he was just too busy to text me back.
But I knew Charlie.
I knew his work schedule—he was off today; I knew his texting habits—he always had his phone on him; and I knew his family’s schedule—they were out of town and he was home alone.
There was no reason—other than a freak accident—that he wouldn’t have responded to me by now. So there was only one explanation.
He was post-makeout ghosting me.
I flopped down on my bed, mortified and confused and sad by what appeared to be Charlie’s rejection. Because as unorthodox as we’d always been—first as strangers who didn’t like each other, then as coworkers and sort-of-friends—he’d never done anything to make me feel bad about myself.
He’d always teased, but he’d never been unkind.
What an asshole, I thought as Mr. Squishy jumped onto my bed with a little mreow grunt. What a complete and total asshole.
Because he knew me—really knew me. He knew my anxieties and neuroses, and he knew something like this would make my brain turn endless cartwheels.
And apparently he didn’t care.
Maybe he was the jerk that I first thought he was.
Part of me thought I was ridiculous for being pissed, because Charlie hadn’t technically made any promises.
But the angry part of me disagreed, because dammit, he had made promises. We might not have labeled what we were, but when he’d kissed away my tears, that was a promise. When he’d held me while I cried, that was a promise.
Maybe not a promise to be my boyfriend, but a promise to be something to me.
He knew that he’d become my something, and it felt so fucking personal that he was fine with just leaving me alone when he knew I needed him. If he were to text me about something happening with his mom and her boyfriend, I’d respond—even this very second—because aside from everything else, I cared about his feelings.
He obviously didn’t feel the same.
I felt tears start to sting my eyes as I realized that everything that had passed between us was all just a big lie.
And I had fallen for it. All of it.
How could I be such a fool?
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX Bailey
I took a deep breath, rubbed my freshly glossed lips together, and opened the door to the employee entrance. Charlie had literally ghosted me the entire weekend, and now we were going to have to work together. I was sad, hurt, and also white-hot pissed. I had no idea how I was going to behave around him.
Or how he was going to behave around me.
My stomach was full of butterflies as I opened the back door that led to the area behind the front desk. I hung my coat and purse on a hook, took a deep breath, and walked through the doorway that led to check-in.
“Hey, Bailey.”
I blinked and stared into Theo’s face. I took a step back—he was bad about personal space—and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, that’s really nice,” he teased, smiling and adjusting his name tag. “Way to make me feel unwanted.”
“Sorry,” I said, wanting to cut through the bullshit and figure out where Charlie was. “I just didn’t expect—I mean, you never work on Tuesdays. Wasn’t Charlie scheduled tonight?”
“Yeah,” he said, opening the drawer that was full of office supplies. “He’s got some kind of conflict this week, so we swapped shifts.”
“Oh.” I swallowed and watched him grab a box of staples. “What was the conflict?”
“He didn’t say,” Theo muttered as he opened the stapler and started loading it. “All he said was that Tuesday/Thursday wouldn’t work for him.”
I stood there, frozen in place, as it hit me.
Holy shit, Charlie was full-on avoiding me. As in, avoiding so hard that he was rearranging his work schedule so he wouldn’t have to see me. My stomach clenched and I felt queasy as the reality of his absence—of the planning behind his absence—slammed into me.
He was willing to do anything not to see me.
What was I, so pathetic that he couldn’t stand to be in the same building as me?
Shit—was I?
Had I been so pathetic and desperate as I’d bawled in his arms that (after making out with me first) he didn’t even want to see me? Could Charlie really be this cruel?
I worked with Theo, numb, super grateful that it was a busy night. The check-ins were constant because of a national DECA event in town, so I was able to not lose my mind thinking about Charlie as I juggled room keys and activities bracelets.
The minute things finally slowed down, though, I decided to do it.
Screw it, I needed to know.
I pulled out my phone and texted Charlie.
I cannot believe you switched shifts to avoid me. Can we talk? Plz don’t ignore this.
I gasped when I saw conversation bubbles. Holy shit, was he finally going to acknowledge my existence? I watched in nail-biting anticipation as those bubbles bounced around.
Then—finally—a text appeared.
Charlie: Can we NOT talk about it, Glasses? Let’s just move on.
I reread it three times, the near-vomitous feeling getting worse with every read. Let’s just move on.
I’d known, but it still felt like a knife to the chest to realize that I was actually right about him. Charlie had been avoiding me after that night and wanted to keep avoiding me.
Oh my God.
He didn’t ask about my mom, or how I was doing, or try to brush off that night by saying something cruel in its kindness.
No, he just wanted to move on.
I honestly didn’t even know what that meant. Did he want to return to our normal friendship, or did he want to move on from even that?
I went into the storage room to inventory the rollaways, blankets, and cribs, but once I got there, I just leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes.
It felt like too much to bear.
He’d always warned me that girls and guys couldn’t be friends.
Turned out he was right.
And I hated him for it.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN Charlie
Shit, shit, shit.
I looked at her message and felt like such an asshole, but what the hell was I supposed to say? The truth? The truth was that yes, I’d absolutely switched shifts to avoid Bailey, because I couldn’t handle my feelings.
Or hers.
I turned up the volume on my Spotify playlist, but the music didn’t help. Conan Gray just made it worse—he always made it worse, but I was a masochist that way—and Volbeat wasn’t doing a damn thing to drown out the thoughts pinging around in my head.
Ridiculously pathetic thoughts that didn’t matter even a tiny little bit.
Because I was doing the right thing, pretending that night hadn’t existed.