Page 21 of Betting on You

The crinkle between her eyebrows, the hard swallow, the way she’d sucked in a deep breath—it felt like I’d punched her in the stomach.

She’d recovered, but her face had haunted me afterward.

So much so that here I was, trying to assure myself that she was okay.

Fucking weird, that.I said, “We’re like soldiers, comparing scars and stories of our shitty battles. People who haven’t been there don’t understand, but we do.”

She made a noise, like she didn’t necessarily agree, but her eyebrows returned to normal as she said, “That’s actually a terrible analogy.”

“Agreed,” I said, taking a bite, “but misery loves company and I’m a miserable piece of shit. So tell me everything.”

CHAPTER NINEBailey

“What’s weird is that it seems like everyone but me is cool.” I set my elbow on the table and rested my chin on my hand while Charlie finished his third cheeseburger. “I feel like I’m the only one, besides little kids, who can’t just adapt to the divorce and adjust.”

That was the total truth. I was seventeen, for God’s sake, and I’d be out of high school next year. Like a grown-ass person. So why did it still make me unbearably sad when my dad wasn’t around for school events? When the art club had a showcase and our work was hung in an actual gallery, I’d watched for him all night like he was going to just hop on a plane from Alaska to surprise me. Spoiler: he did not.

And why, when my mother’s boyfriend came over and sprawled out on our couch, watching TV in his socks like he was part of my family, did I close myself in my bedroom with the all-encompassing homesickness that felt like it was physically choking me?

Charlie shook his head and took a sip of his soda. “At least you seem to keep it all inside like the type A, repressed person you are.”

“First of all,” I said, surprised that not only was I sharing my story with him but I was actuallyenjoyingthe interaction, “I’m not repressed.”

He was the second person to call me repressed in the past half hour;thatwas an ouch.

“Second of all,” I continued, “how wouldyouknow if I was type A?”

He gave me an irritatingI know everythinglook as he shoved a few fries under the bun of his burger. “Anyone with eyes can see that you are. And that’s okay—it makes for peace, if nothing else. I go off like all the time, so not only does everything just straight-up suck, but my mom, my sister, and the douche boyfriend are always pissed.”

“Like how?” I asked, genuinely curious. “How do you go off?”

He grabbed the pickle spear off the corner of his plate and stuck it under the bun as well and said, “I’m just honest. When I seeClarkin the hall in the middle of the night, I say,Dude, why don’t you stay at your own house like you aren’t a mooching loser?And when my dad cancels on me because his girlfriend’s kid has a Little League game, I tell him that he’s a shitty father for choosing her kid over me.”

“Wow.” I sat up straight and stared at him in awe. I couldn’t imagine that kind of confrontational interaction—God, it gave me anxiety just thinking about it—but I respected Charlie’s ability tonot careabout other people’s feelings.

I mean, I might be able to daydream about that kind of honesty, but when it came down to it, I just didn’t like making people unhappy. I wanted my mom—and my dad, when he remembered I existed—to be happy and I wanted to be the one tomakethem happy.

Rocking the boat might feel good for about five seconds, but I knew myself well enough to know that the guilt that followed would be unbearable. I said, “I cannot believe you say those things.”

“It isn’t received well.” He took a bite of his overstuffed burger and looked at the two girls behind me. “But it’s the truth.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re kind of my hero.” I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms, studying him. I could actually picture him saying those words, and something about it made me sad for him, even as I respected his ballsiness.

That made his mouth turn up into a snarky half smile as he wiped his hands on his napkin. “And you don’t even like me.”

“I know.” I couldn’t stopmysmile—his mischievous ones were contagious—and I shook my head. “But this is revolutionary stuff. Can I live vicariously through you?”

“Why be vicarious? Burn some cities down with your own rage.” He took another bite of his hamburger.

“Yeah, um… no.” I took a sip of my chocolate malt, wishing I could be gutsy enough for honesty. I wanted to, I really did, but there was no doubt I would remain nonconfrontational. I stirred my drink with the straw and said, “I don’t think it helps with anything.”

He dropped the rest of his burger onto his plate, like he was finished. “It makes you feel better.”

“But does it?” I thought back to the way Charlie had been each time I met him. “I don’t see you rolling in happiness with the freedom that your words have given you.”

“Maybe I am on theinside,” he quipped, wiping his hands before dropping his napkin onto his plate.

“Really?” I dipped a fry into the pile of ketchup.

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