“Do you think a guy that serious about manscaping,” Charlie said quietly, out of the side of his mouth, “would ever introduce Funyun dust into his chestal thatch?”
I snorted. “Be nice.”
“I am,” he said, still watching the guy. “I have mad respect for anyone who chooses to keep it bear-thick on top and nonexistent on the bottom. He marches to his own drum.”
“Shhhh,” I said, watching intently as the man fed dollar bills into the machine.
Charlie shifted the weight of his body to lean fully on me and make me stumble. “You shhh.”
“Stop it,” I said, but we both froze as the man pressed his selection.
“Yes.” Charlie pumped a fist in the air. He leaned his face down closer to mine and said, “Who’s the winner, Bay? Is it you or me?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re insufferable when you’re winning?” I asked, unable to hold in the smile as he acted like a child.
“Then I must be insufferable all the time,” he said, his grin wide and cocky.
“You actually are. That is the perfect way to describe you. Constantly insufferable.”
When we weren’t working together, I was pretty much just begging him to come over because one of two things happened when he did. Either he came over and it made Scott quiet, which made me feel like Charlie was buying me time by slowing their relationship progression, or he came over before Scott got there, and magically, Scott never showed up.
Almost as if he doesn’t want to come over when Charlie is there.
That being said, my mom still seemed happy with Scott and things weren’t falling apart. But for someone dealing with their relationship on a day-to-day basis, anytime Scott wasn’t there, I considered a win.
Which was how I ended up owing Charlie a favor.
I was studying in my room on a random Wednesday night, with music cranked in my AirPods so I couldn’t hear Scott and my mom in the living room, when Charlie texted.
I need a favor, Glasses.
I texted: What’s the favor?
Charlie: I want you to go with me to a party Friday night.
What? That made me hit pause on the song. He wanted me to go to a party with him? With him? We didn’t really do things like that; we only hung out at work and at my house. Why would he want me to go to a party with him? I texted: What????
Instead of him texting back, my phone started ringing. Which, to be fair, was something Charlie did all the time. If something required explanation, he almost always bailed for the phone call.
I answered with, “What kind of a party? Like a child’s birthday party?”
I wanted him to say yes to that, because I didn’t want this to be something that made things weird with us.
“Like I’d subject you to that kind of torture,” he said, his voice quiet and a little hoarse, like he’d been sleeping. “It’s just a small party at one of my friends’ houses.”
A small party at one of his friends’ houses?
Without thinking, I said, “Okay, but we don’t do that.”
I walked over to the window and closed my blinds, trying to explain without sounding like I thought he was into me. “We’ve never crossed school and friend lines.”
“That’s why this is called a favor,” he said, and he cleared his throat. “My ex and her douche will be there—and I so do not care about that—but I also don’t want to seem pathetic. If you go with me, I can relax and have fun without worrying about looking sad.”
Okay, that didn’t sound bad. I was relieved he wasn’t asking me out, even though for some reason a tiny knot of something was in my stomach. “Will I have fun?”
“Of course you will—you’ll be with me.”
“That isn’t the reassurance you think it is,” I said, wondering what his friends were like. “I’m fairly certain you’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.”
“Wrong,” he said, and I thought I heard a dog bark in the background. “It’s a known fact that repressed people mistake ‘fun’ for ‘obnoxious’ all the time.”
“Obnoxious people mistake ‘normal’ for ‘repressed’ all the time,” I replied. “Get it right.”
“Oh, Glasses, you’re adorable when you’re in a huff.”
That made me smile, which I was glad he couldn’t see. The boy did not need to know that his sarcastic boobishness was amusing at times. I said, “It’s like you’re trying to make me say no.”
“Pleeeeeeeeeease say yes,” he begged. “Please, please, please, please, please.”
“Are your friends, like, keg-stand party people,” I asked, my mind switching over to the idea of the party itself, “or are they more of the playing-board-games party people?”
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.”