Page 80 of Betting on the Best Friend
“How would I know? We argued and then you’re working at Central without telling me you were going.”
“I’m covering someone’s maternity leave, remember?”
“Yeah, but . . .” I remember the awful feeling of realizing that he wasn’t coming into work that day or anytime soon, and howmuch worse it got if I let myself worry that he’d turn it into a permanent transfer. It was bad-shrimp awful. Rotten-garbage awful. Stomach-ulcer-starter-kit awful.
“But?” He’s leaning close, and I realize the room is nearing max capacity. Charlie has shifted toward me to make more room for other people.
I take a deep breath. “Ivory soap, clean living, and the faint trace of secrets,” I say instead of getting into the misery. “That’s what you smell like.”
His eyes turn soft. “Funny, Roo. But what were you going to say?”
I crook my head at the screen at the front of the room with “Welcome to Pitch-a-Friend Austin” projected on it. “Thank you for being here and doing this. You’re overqualified.”
“I’ll do you justice. Don’t worry. But also, don’t be hurt if I take off as soon as the pitches are over. And don’t tell me if you go on any dates from this.”
“I won’t. But I don’t want to go on any dates. I’m over it.”
He gives a small head shake. “Don’t tell me that either. You don’t have to. Let’s leave dating out of things, yeah?”
“You mean minus the over-the-top dating event we’re here for?”
He smiles again. “Right. Minus that.”
A redhead in her late twenties wearing a Pitch-a-Friend shirt walks to the front of the room and calls, “We’re going to start in about ninety seconds, folks. Please leave room for the servers to navigate the tables. Find somewhere to squeeze in, because the fun is about to begin.”
There’s an increase in chatter and shuffling, moving even more people to the back wall and around the bar tables. Charlie shifts even closer when two women around my age ask if they can join us.
The moderator reminds everyone of the rules. Keep it positive, pitches should be three to five minutes, and if we’re interested in someone, their contact info will be on the final slide, or we can find them after the event if we stick around to mingle.
From the minute the first pitch starts, I understand why Madison chose this. It’s a guy pitching his friend, Akram, who has to sit in a bar chair and listen while the friend hypes him up. Akram is short and kind of squishy-looking, but his friend does such a good job of highlighting all of Akram’s good qualities that I think every single woman snaps a picture of the final slide for his info. Except me, of course. Not only because Charlie’s here. Akram seems like a great guy for someone else. That’s how every guy seems to me lately.
I don’t want to have everyone stare at me when it’s our turn in a few minutes, but at least I know the crowd will be kind. And I won’t have to reject anyone directly. It’s a best-case scenario . . . except for one massive thing.
I feel that one thing even more keenly when the moderator calls, “Next up, we have Madison pitching her bestie, Ruby!”
“You ready?” Charlie asks.
“No.”
He flashes hisadventure beginssmile. “Too bad. We’re up.”
We thread through the tables to the front amidst cheers and applause, and when I struggle to climb onto the high bar chair, my anxiety spikes like it never left. I’m not tall enough to hop up bum first, and I’m mortified because I’m going to have to turn around and climb up the front way, like a toddler.
But then Charlie is there. He stands in front of me, bends his knees, and pats his shoulders.
Relief floods me as I set my hands on those shoulders—geez, they are sojacked—and hitch my heel on the chair’s lowest cross bar. I push, Charlie straightens, and in one second flat, I’mseated like the chair isn’t biased against petite people as the first slide appears.
It’s cute, very Madison. And that’s the problem. Istillcan’t believe she made Charlie do this. It’s so wrong.Sowrong, and she is going to hear about it at length when I get home. And then she’s going to call Charlie and figure out how to make this up to him, like maybe skim a cool million off the top of her trust fund and give it to him for his pain and suffering.
Charlie looks at me, his face worried. Keeping the mic down, he mouths,You good?
I am straight up thinking murderous thoughts about Madison, and the audience looks anywhere from confused to worried with a few expressions of anticipatory glee—the kind my brothers get on their faces every time someone is about to lose it at a Ramos party.
I take a deep breath, straighten, cross my legs and pose my hands on my knee, princess-style. Then I give a head shake to set my hair moving and beam out at the audience with an exaggerated Crest smile.
It works. They laugh, and Charlie smiles.
“Hey, y’all,” he says into the mic. He’s not doing it hype man style, but he’s nice and clear, and the audience immediately adjusts to his energy, leaning back, reaching for drinks, eyes on us.
