Page 83 of Betting on You

Bailey: You’re making me queasy. I’ll just stick with Charlie.

I replied:Or Sex God?

Bailey: No one in the history of the world has ever used Sex God as a pet name. Can you even imagine?? Example: Can you pick up milk on the way home, Sex God? DOESN’T WORK.

I chuckled and texted:I would fucking speed to the milk store if you sent me that.

Bailey: The milk store?

I wanted to laugh as I replied:You’re biting your cheek right now, aren’t you?

Bailey: LMAO that is scary.

Me: But true.

Bailey: Sleep tight.

I smiled in the darkness.Good night, Lover.

Bailey: Good night… Sex God.

Oh. Fuck.

What was I doing?

CHAPTER THIRTYBailey

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 thatsomethingwas 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 shatteredwindow, squealing maniacally (if that was possible) and kind of hissing.

“Oh myGod,” 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?”

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