“Nick Miller is the GOAT,” I said.
“Winston,” he corrected, “is the total underrated GOAT.”
We watched for a while, quietly commenting and laughing at the show, and I was almost asleep when Charlie said, “For the record, I’m not a full-scale germophobe.”
I stared into the darkness. “For the record, I wouldn’t give a shit if you were.”
“I just, like, I just get skeeved about public restrooms and the thought of sleeping on a stranger’s floor. I’d happily eat a meatball off the counter or lick your finger; that wouldn’t bother me at all.”
“You did not just say that.” I laughed, snuggling a little deeper under the covers and wondering why it didn’t feel awkward, having this impromptu sleepover with Charlie. I was sleepy and comfortable, absolutely relaxed; the opposite of awkward.
“Seriously, though. I don’t even own hand sanitizer or wipes,” he said, sounding like he desperately wanted to convince me.
But he didn’t have to. I knew nothing about Charlie’s situation, but I’d had my own terrible experiences with panic attacks so I got it. Just because his brain made his body have physical reactions to certain things didn’t mean he was… I don’t know… anything other than what he was supposed to be.
I said, “I dare you to eat a counter meatball.”
“Probably cleaner than your fingers,” he teased. “Rumor has it you jammed them into a urinal today.”
“I did. I was like, These fingers are so clean. I wonder if there’s a filthy urinal in which I could soil them.”
He laughed, and I rolled over and closed my eyes again. “Thanks again for coming with me, Charlie.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” he said, and I really hoped he meant it.
Because I wanted him to be having as much fun as I （surprisingly） was.
“G’night, Charlie,” I said.
“G’night, Bailey,” he replied, his voice deep and crackly in the dark of the living room.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Bailey
I woke to the smell—and sounds—of breakfast.
Opening my eyes, I blinked, reached for my glasses, and got my bearings.
Living room pullout sofa—got it.
I looked to my left, but Charlie wasn’t over there, on the floor, where he’d spent the night. The cushions and bedding were all stacked up in the corner like he’d never been there.
I grabbed my phone—seven thirty.
No text from Zack, not that I was checking.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I heard. I turned to my right, and there was Scott, sitting at the table, drinking coffee.
“Good morning,” I said, giving ol’ Scott a smile. It was hard to be irritated by his presence at breakfast when he’d procured the vacation for us and also rescued us from a killing-by-goose.
“Your mom and Charlie are making breakfast, so I hope you’re hungry.”
“I could eat,” I lied, pushing my hair out of my face. I wasn’t a breakfast person at all, so I’d just be happy if I could find some liquified caffeine for now. I got up and went into the kitchen, and as soon as I hit the doorway, I wanted to laugh.
My mom was sitting on a stool, talking about the Kansas City Chiefs’ defense, and Charlie was making scrambled eggs.
“Good morning,” my mom said, smiling.
“Wow,” Charlie said, his eyes almost twinkling as he looked at me. “Good morning, Bedhead.”
I flipped him off.
He laughed.
My mom smiled and said, “There’s Frapp in the fridge.”
“Oh, God bless you,” I replied.
“So, Emily—do you think they even have a shot if he’s out all season?” Charlie stirred the eggs and talked football with my mother, who was a die-hard Chiefs fan. “I mean…”
I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of mocha Frappuccino, unable to believe I’d just heard Charlie call my mom Emily. When exactly had they become best friends? It was a little adorable, but it made me uneasy.
I didn’t want my clueless mother to form a bond with my fake boyfriend.
That couldn’t end well, right?
“I mean, he’s just one guy, so of course they have a shot, but it’ll be a lot harder without him,” my mom said.
I couldn’t watch them for another minute because it made me feel too guilty.
The Frappuccino lid came off with a click as I said, “I’m going to go shower.”
“But breakfast is almost ready,” my mom said.
She knew I never ate breakfast, so she was saying that just to make sure I didn’t hurt Charlie’s feelings by not eating his food. I cleared my throat and said, “I’m not hungry yet.”
“But Charlie made this entire spread,” she said, looking at Charlie like he was Santa Claus.
“I’ll for sure have some when I’m done,” I reassured her.
“Go fix that hair,” Charlie teased, and I liked the relaxed expression on his face. But I also wondered how he was so comfortable hanging out with my mom and making breakfast.
I worried about it as I showered, but I pretty much worried about everything while I showered. I worried about the “plan”—now that we were here, would it actually work? And if it did, would it result in my mom being devasted?
And what was happening with Charlie? There had been multiple moments with him yesterday, and I wasn’t sure if it was just me, overthinking, or if it was something more?
“No.” I said it out loud in the shower as I poured shampoo into my palm because no way. There was nothing going on between me and Charlie aside from complex emotions that had everything to do with each of our individual battles and nothing whatsoever to do with “us” as a whole.
He wouldn’t even use the word “friend” in regards to me, for God’s sake; he definitely wasn’t feeling something romantic.
By the time I convinced myself to chill and go back downstairs, things weren’t so relaxed anymore. The three of them were sitting at the table, my mom and Scott eating breakfast while Charlie talked about his mom’s boyfriend （and Scott’s face got red）。
“He’s not a bad guy,” Charlie said, lifting his coffee mug to his mouth. “But shouldn’t he be at his own place with his own kids, instead of crashing at my mom’s every night?”
Holy shit. I couldn’t believe he said that.
“Any eggs left?” I asked as I walked into the room. “I’m starving.”
My mom looked incredibly happy to see me, Charlie gave me an amused grin, and Scott looked ready to fight.
“I’m on it,” Charlie said, taking a gulp of his coffee and standing. “They’ve eaten already, but I was waiting for you.”
We went into the kitchen, and the minute we crossed through the doorway, I heard Scott loud-whisper to my mom, “I do not like that kid.”
“Oh, he wasn’t talking about you,” my mom defended, her voice in that motherly singsong tone that was good at soothing tempers. “I asked him about his mom, and he was answering. That’s it.”
I glanced at Charlie, who winked at me. Then his eyes narrowed the tiniest bit before he quietly said, “Wait. C’mere.”