Page 66 of Betting on You

“Pretty much.”

“So when you say ‘stroking your beard,’ you actually mean that you’re touching your pathetic little chin hairs, right?”

“Now, come on, Bay, no need to get nasty,” he said, and I liked the way his voice sounded when I could tell he was smiling. “Those hairs are concrete evidence of an impending beard.”

“Doubtful,” I teased.

“Evidence of my manliness,” he replied.

“Facial hair isnotevidence of manliness,” I corrected, “not that what you have on your chin even qualifies as such.”

“I cannot believe you’re so hateful about my beard,” he said, feigning outrage but failing because I heard the laugh that slipped out.

“I cannot believe you’re doubling down on calling that a beard.”

He asked, “Do you want me to shave it before tomorrow?”

That surprised me. “It’s your face, and you can do whatever you want.”

“But your vote is…?” he asked, and I wondered if he actually cared what my opinion was.

“Shave it,” I said, picturing his face. “It’s not that the hair is offensive, per se, but you have a nice face and the beard hides that.”

Silence and then… “Oh my God, you’re so in love with my face.”

“Shut up and stop making me queasy.” I leaned back againstmy headboard and said, “Objectively, you have a very nice face that other people probably enjoy.”

I heard him laugh again. “But not you.”

“God, no.” I actually thought it was funny that I was friends with someone so objectively attractive but sowhateverto me. “Sometimes I squeeze my eyes shut when we’re together, just so I don’t have to see your eyes and cheeks and that atrocious nose.”

He laughed again. “Okay—confession.”

“Ugh—I hate those.”

“I know,” he said. “The worst.”

“Go ahead, though,” I pressed.

“Okay. So. When I saw you at the movies last year, before you opened your mouth and reminded me of what a pain in the ass you are, I thought you were hot.”

I coughed out a laugh. “Did you seriously just say that you thought I was hot until you remembered my personality? Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Come on, Bay, you know what I mean.” His voice was a little crackly when he said, “I looked up, thought,Damn, she’s pretty, and then I was like,Oh, holy shit, it’s the whackjob from the plane but with normal hair.”

Ididknow what he meant. I’d felt the same way when I’d seen him. “Awwww—thank you, Charlie.”

“So…?”

Oh my God, he wanted me to return it. I admitted, “Okay. When we saw the promposal, I thought you looked kind of cute and kind of jacked. But only until you looked at me. Then Iwas like,Oh shit, oh shit, I need to run because I hate that guy.”

He chuckled, a deep, scratchy thing that made me want to make him laugh more often. “Oh, Glasses, you never hated me.”

I rolled onto my side and snuggled into my blanket. “Trust me, on that flight, I hated you with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.”

“For which you would’ve requested special sunscreen that was half-organic, half-regular.”

“Whatever.” I looked over at my suitcase and said, “So what are you doing when we get off the phone?”

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