Betting on You

It was hard to determine what sound—exactly—woke me up at one thirty.

It might’ve been the shattering of the glass, it might’ve been the squawking, or it might’ve been the wild wing flapping, but the goose flying through my window was definitely the culprit.

I jolted awake, sitting straight up, and I could see by the outside light’s illumination that something was in my room, freaking out in the darkness.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!

I was afraid to move because I didn’t want whatever it was to see me, but that was a moot point when Scott threw open my door and said, “What the hell was that?”

He flipped on the light, and—holy shit—there was a goose in my room.

There was a huge goose standing in front of the now shattered window, squealing maniacally (if that was possible) and kind of hissing.

“Oh my God,” my mom yelled from behind him as I leaped from the bed and ran toward the doorway. She grabbed me and pushed me behind her, as if to protect me from the bird, as she said, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, staring over her shoulder.

The bird must’ve flown right through the window, and even though it was dark, he didn’t look injured.

Just pissed.

Again—if that was even possible.

I didn’t think I’d ever had an interaction with a goose before, so my goose knowledge was minuscule.

Scott, wearing boxers and his dumb socks, leaned down and picked up one of my tall boots. I watched in disbelief as he crept closer to the goose, like he was trying to sneak up on it, and for a second I wondered if he was going to bludgeon the goose to death with the lefty member of my favorite pair of boots.

But then he started waving it around, waving it in the direction of the bird.

“Scott,” my mom scolded, whispering for some reason, “what are you doing?”

“Is that a goose?” I heard from behind me.

“Yes,” I said, also whispering for no apparent reason as I watched.

“Oh,” Charlie said calmly, as if this was no big deal. “Wow.”

The goose did not appreciate Scott and started honking frantically while puffing up, hissing as he stared the man down.

Scott kept waving my boot, almost like he was trying to fan the goose, for God’s sake, and the man looked like an absolute moron.

But then it worked.

The goose took a couple of awkward steps before flapping those wings and flying right out the window.

Where glass had once been.

In an instant, the room seemed incredibly quiet.

And cold.

Scott dropped my boot and slowly walked toward the window.

“No,” my mom said, still talking quietly. “Scott. He could come back.”

That made him stop and look at her over his shoulder. “He’s not trying to kill us, Em.”

Charlie snorted behind me, which made me cough out a laugh.

My mom shuffled farther into the room, creeping toward Scott, who was looking out the window. His hands were on his hips as he surveyed the landscape below, and after a moment Scott said in a loud announcer voice, “The goose has left the building.”

“Listen, you two,” my mom said, her hair sticking up as she stood there in her nightgown. “I need your promise that you’re going to follow the rules.”

I didn’t look at Charlie—I couldn’t—as I stood there in my flannel duckie pajamas, holding my pillow to my chest.

“Of course we will,” I said, suddenly exhausted. “Even if we had bad intentions—which we don’t—there is no door to close. No privacy. I wouldn’t mack on some guy in the middle of the living room when anyone could walk in.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say ‘mack on’ again?” Charlie asked, a smirk in his voice. “I thought we killed that.”

“Hush,” I growled, just wanting to go back to sleep.

My mom said, “One of you can have the pullout sofa, and the other will have to sleep on the floor. There’s a pile of sheets and blankets over there, on the chair.”

After the goose’s exit, Scott—who was obviously the hero of the night whether I liked it or not—covered the window with cardboard and duct tape. The owner of the condo promised to have someone out to fix the window in the morning, but cold air poured through that hole so I was promptly relocated downstairs.

To the same living room where Charlie was sleeping on the pullout sofa.

Hence the rule paranoia.

“Well, then, good night,” my mom said, turning and heading for the stairs.

“Good night,” Charlie said in his super-nice kiss-ass voice. “Sweet dreams.”

“I want to vomit,” I said, shaking my head. “You are such a suck-up.”

“I like your mom,” he said, still sitting on the pullout bed, where he’d been since the goose incident. “And I want her to like me. Is that so wrong?”

“Nauseating, but not wrong,” I said, finding it a little sweet as I looked over at the blankets. “So which one of us gets the bed?”

His eyebrows went down. “You do. Duh.”

Now my eyebrows went down. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not going to let you sleep on the floor while I get the bed.”

“Oh my God, that’s so sexist,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “If I were a dude, I bet you’d let me have the floor.”

“It’s not sexist. It’s friendist,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Come again?”

“You’re such a pervert, Glasses.”

“Charlie.”

“I just mean that you’re my friend,” he said in an irritated voice, “and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. So you should get the bed.”

“But if I were your dude friend—”

“Fine—sleep on the floor, dude,” he said, annoyed. “Good night.”

“Wait.”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“I thought so,” he said, wearing a smug smile.

“First of all, thank you for recognizing that we are, in fact, friends,” I said, unsure why his usage of the f-word in regards to me felt like something big, “and second—maybe we should rock-paper-scissor for it.”

“Dear God, ‘friend’ is easier to say than ‘coworker’—settle your ass down.”

“Whatever you say,” I said in a singsong voice, unwilling to let it go.

“And think about this for a second,” Charlie said. “What will your mom—and King Dipshit—think of me if they come down here for a glass of water, and they see that I didn’t give you the bed?”

Ooh—he definitely had a point. “They’ll think you’re a jerk.”

“And the trip was bought for you, not me,” he added.

“Also true,” I agreed.

“So this is your bed, Mitchell, and I’ll make myself a floor pallet.”

He stood, and my eyes froze on his pajama pants.

“What?” he asked dryly, like he had no idea why I was staring.

“Nothing,” I said, pressing my lips together and shaking my head. “I just, um, really like your pants.”

Charlie was wearing pink flannel pajama pants that had red hearts all over them. The pattern might’ve been a little unorthodox for men’s pj’s, but it was the fact that he was six and a half feet tall and they were at least four inches too short for him that made it quite the look.

“They were a gift from my little sister,” he said, pointing a finger at me. “So if you mock them, you’re a monster.”

“Not mocking,” I said, trying my hardest not to laugh while also finding it really freaking sweet that he wore pants his sister gave him. “They’re actually incredibly sexy. Shows just enough ankle to tease yet stay classy.”

“Oh, I know.” He put his hands on his hips as if to strike a pose. “My heart pants bring all the girls to the yard.”

“Sure they do.” My eyes moved up to his shirt, and his chest in that Henley actually was sexy. It was just a faded old shirt, but the soft fabric clung to his obviously defined and surprisingly wide chest, and I couldn’t stop stealing glances at it.

It was just so… broad.

And solid.

I mean, he even had that pectoral-cleavage ridge thing.

Was Charlie shredded?

Gahhhh—what is wrong with me?

I nodded dumbly, struggling to remember what he’d just said as I attempted to return to normal after the brain detour through Charlie’s physique.

He interrupted my thoughts with, “Give me a sec to put new sheets on the pullout, and then you can move in.”

“Did you,” I said, grinning at his ultra-helpful persona, “do something to the sheets?”

“No.” He scowled, looking offended.

“Then I think I can handle sleeping on the sheets you laid upon for under an hour.”

He raised his eyes from the pullout to me. “You sure?”

“Yep.”

He walked over to the stack of sheets and blankets, then glanced at the floor. A look crossed his face, just a flash of what I’d seen in the gas station bathroom, and I said, “Charlie, just take the bed. I’m good sleeping anywhere.”

He scowled—again—at that. “Fuck, Bay, please don’t be nice to me like I’m—”

“What if we make a bed out of couch cushions?” I spoke over him on purpose, because his having some issue with germs didn’t matter to me. It didn’t matter, and I didn’t want him to think I’d even noticed. “That way you’re not on the floor, even though you’re sleeping on the floor. Get it?”

“Bailey.” He swallowed and said, “Stop.”

“Charlie.” I crossed my arms and said, “If you want me to pretend I don’t know, I totally will, because I don’t want to make you feel weird. But you’re my friend. If it were Nekesa instead of you, I’d just help her find a way to be comfortable.”

“Coworker,” he corrected, making a noise like he begrudgingly agreed while his smirk reappeared. “And you mentioned couch pillows…?”

I went over and started grabbing the discarded sofa cushions off the floor. “Let’s just make a little mattress with these.”

I dropped them onto an open area of floor at the other end of the living room, and Charlie grabbed the cushions from the two big chairs by the fireplace and added them to my pile. He picked up and unfolded what looked to be a king-sized fitted sheet.

“Y’know, you’re a pretty decent coworker,” Charlie said, giving me a look that felt important. Meaningful. It felt like he was acknowledging that our friendship was more than work, even though he was saying the literal opposite.

“I know,” I said, and after I helped him make the floor bed, I climbed onto the pullout. “Do you care if I turn on the TV? I’m kind of wide awake now.”

“Nah,” he said, and then he hit a light switch that plunged the room into darkness, aside from the glow of the television. I could hear him settling onto his cushions.

“Is that comfortable at all?” I asked, stopping on an old episode of New Girl.

“Not too bad,” he said, his voice quiet in the darkness.

“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.