Page 65 of Betting on You

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” he said, his deep voice teasing over the phone line.

“How could that ever be said in a good way?” I quipped.

“I just meant that with your skinny legs and big feet, you sometimes remind me of a puppy.”

“Oh my God.” I laughed. “This just keeps getting better and better.”

“What?” he said with a smile in his voice. “Puppies are cute. Puppies are adorable. People loooooove puppies.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, clicking into Netflix.

“Did I annoy you enough to make the nerves about Colorado go away?” he asked.

I leaned back against my pillow. “I can’t believe you’re going with me. It’s a little surreal, to be honest.”

Wildly, absurdly, overwhelmingly surreal.

“I know. I’m excited for Colorado, but I’m not sure about road-tripping with you.”

“What?” I foundYou’ve Got Mailunder Romantic Comedies and clicked it on. “Why? I’m a dreamboat road-tripper.”

“I’ve traveled with you before, remember?”

Of course I did. He knew it. I knew it. Even if it felt like a lifetime ago.

I said, “Which is whyI’mdreading this. Me, though—I’m a fantastic traveler.”

“Come on, Glasses,” he chided, and I could almostseehis teasing smirk. “I bet you have every stop timed out, snacks packed in little baggies, and playlists created specifically for where you are on the map.”

It was a little jarring, how well he knew me.

And ugh. I liked it.

He knew all of my neuroses and hang-ups, and not once did I feel that he was disappointed or turned off.

Ilikedwhen he teased me about them because it made me amused by them too. Comfortable with them. It feltgoodto laugh at myself instead of being embarrassed for once.

“The stops are merely suggestions,” I said, “you’re wrong about the snacks”—he wasn’t—“and I think it’s amazing to have a musical accompaniment for every leg of your journey.”

“You sound like an insane person. Also, since I’m driving, I control the music.”

I couldn’t even imagine what Charlie listened to.Bo Burnham, but rap.“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is the fact that I’m driving,” he said, trying to land his point.

“I can take a turn,” I replied, even though I didn’t want to.

“And let you threaten the sanctity of the bond between me and my vehicle?” he asked. “I don’t think so.”

I chuckled quietly, watching on the TV as Tom Hanks navigated New York in the fall, and asked, “What are you doing right now?”

“Watching Lawrence Welk and touching myself.”

“First of all, ewwwwww,” I said, laughing in spite of myself. “Second of all, Lawrence Welk?”

“Stroking my beard, you pervert—get your mind out of the gutter.” He sounded like he was smiling when he said, “And I lost the remote, if you must know, and my TV always goes back to public television when I turn it on.”

“So you’re seriously lying there, watching an ancient show where a bunch of people stand around singing, because you’re too lazy to look for the controller?”

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