Parisa raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Imagine Drunk Charlie interpretive dancing to Whitney Houston at a wedding with a guest list of two hundred. He looks over at my cousin with her new husband and he points at them—I mean points, like noticeably across the dance floor, people were staring—and he says to me: ‘I want that.’？” Parisa pauses in her story and lets the weight of Charlie’s words wash over Dev. “Maureen Scott had been hounding me to let Charlie do the show for months, and there Charlie was, drunkenly admitting that some part of him wants a relationship, so I just thought…”
“Wait. Your ulterior motive for sending Charlie on this show is the actual purpose of this show?”
Parisa smooths down her ponytail. “Well, yeah. Maybe it sounds ridiculous to think he could fall in love with a woman on this show, but—”
“It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all. Not to me.”
They both sip wine in the silence for a minute. “Has he told you anything about his family?” Parisa asks, her voice even quieter.
“Not really.”
“He hasn’t told me much either. Just bits and pieces over the years. From what I’ve put together, the Winshaws are a bunch of pricks who can all burn in hell for the way they treated him.”
Dev decides Parisa is definitely the coolest person he’s ever met.
“His family didn’t deserve him. Charlie is wonderful, and they made him feel like shit growing up because his beautiful brain works a little differently sometimes.” She pauses again, and when she speaks, her voice is gentle. “I can’t really imagine what it would be like if the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally didn’t, but I think maybe if I’d grown up like that, I might have a hard time thinking I deserve love, too.”
The shower shuts off, and they both startle as if they’ve been caught. Dev unfurls his legs. Parisa slides off the bed.
“He considers you a good friend, and I’m glad,” she says as she downs the rest of the wine. “Platonic love is important, too. Night, Dev.”
The hotel door closes behind Parisa, and Dev collapses under the weight of this new guilt. Parisa sent Charlie on this show to find love, and in five weeks, Charlie can have what he wants: a fiancée and a job in tech. If Dev doesn’t screw it all up, Charlie could have everything.
The bathroom door opens, and the humid sweetness of Charlie’s oatmeal body wash rushes into the room before Charlie steps out and freezes. He stands by the bathroom door, no shirt, navy sweatpants slung so low on his hips, they’re practically inconsequential. Dev is still sitting on the bed with his wine, and he gives himself exactly thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to lament the injustice of a world where a man who looks like that kissed him and doesn’t remember it.
He doesn’t even like muscles, really. Usually.
“Sorry,” Dev finally says. “I was just about to head back to my room.”
“It’s fine,” Charlie replies, but his voice sounds oddly strained.
Dev sets his cup on the bedside table next to Charlie’s lotion. “Did you have a good birthday?”
Charlie smiles. “I had a perfect birthday. Thank you, Dev.”
Dev wonders if he’ll ever be able to hear Charlie say the words thank you without imagining him wrecked and wanting against a brick wall, thanking him for a kiss. A furious blush spreads over Charlie’s face, almost like he’s remembering the same thing. But Charlie doesn’t remember. “I meant, thank you for the birthday. For Parisa and the cake and stuff. That’s all I meant.”
“Yeah, I figured.…”
Charlie starts suspiciously fidgeting around the room like a caged bird. “I really need to go to bed now, actually, so…”