Page 88 of Betting on the Best Friend
Except have we ever thought Sandy is exploiting the proletariat?
As in us?
Yeah
Tricked me into helping at the tea
YES
Yes that you’re helping!
Yes she exploited you
Don’t lie and say you care
You love the tea
It’s fine
I grin because we both know I love the tea. It’s an annual fundraiser at the O’Connor branch where the library invites an author with a book that features tea. Sometimes it’s a nonfiction writer. Often it’s a cozy mystery or historical fiction author. The library closes two hours early on a Saturday to host it, and it features finger foods, book talk, and most importantly, hats.
The hats, man.
Everyone dresses in their best “smart casual,” and in addition to the ticket they purchase to cover their admission, they mustcommit to make an additional donation equal to the cost of their hat.
The ladies wear fascinators. That’s not a part of a formal high tea in most places, but this is Texas: we like hats. We likestatementhats, even in laidback Austin.
The ladies do not hold back. They come in with swooping feathers, glitter, wax fruit, bedazzled birds, silk flowers, real flowers, mesh, velvet, satin.
Ruby and I volunteer to work the tea every year because it’s fun. From a fashion standpoint, it’s wilder than the Eeyore party in its own way.
I don’t make any plans with Ruby for the rest of the week, although I think about it. I consider seeing if she wants to grab lunch when I’m off on Tuesday, or if she wants to see the major summer movie releasing on Wednesday. We love big, loud action movies, and that goes double for superhero movies. But I need to keep our in-person hangs spaced out while I adjust, and Ruby must sense this because she doesn’t invite me to anything either. It’s enough to know we’ll see each other on Saturday.
In other ways, it almost feels like before. We text constantly. Dumb stuff. Regular stuff. Funny stuff. Quirky stuff that happens at work. Ruby tells me she’s pretty sure Josh is going to propose soon, and how she’s happy for them, but not sure how to navigate the changes as each of her roommates moves on. I remind her that it’s her fault, and she sends back aSummer I Turned Prettygif wherein Belly says something isn’t her fault.
After a long day shipping out shoes on my day off, I text her to complain that I don’t love it, and I resent that it makes me money, but also I like having money, so could she confirm whether I’m a sellout?
She sends me a gif of Yoda telling me to search my feelings followed by a meme of some guy rolling in a pile of money, which accurately reflects my feelings on the subject.
Saturday morning, I wake up happy because today I’ll see Ruby. It confirms that spacing out the time I spend with her is the right move for now. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s the scarcity that’s making me want her more. Maybe I’m the victim of my own stupid supply chain manipulation.
That tracks.
But that afternoon, I dress for Ruby. Everyone who knows me probably expects me to roll up in seersucker or a bowtie and suspenders, but I’m bringing out a secret weapon. I choose light gray linen trousers and a silk blend dress shirt, pale blue with a faded navy floral pattern on it. I leave it open at the collar. The floral print is the key. Joey and I may be the only dudes I know who truly know how to enjoy fashion, and that the number of women who want more of your time increases when you wear a floral. Operating theory: it projects security in our masculinity?
When I walk into the transformed library event room, trellises with fairy lights now covering the municipal walls, tables set with linen and china, I have a moment to take in Ruby as she directs a caterer where to place a tiered plate stand.
She’s chosen a fitted dress, not at all what I expected. Usually, tea guests arrive in flowered dresses with skirts that are the opposite of fitted. But there’s Ruby in solid dark pink, and the way it curves over her backside before ending below her knees nearly has me swallowing my tongue.
When she catches sight of me and calls, “Hey, Charlie Bucket. What’s good,” I can’t actually answer for a second.
She makes her way to me on a pair of tan heels that are as high as I’ve ever seen her in, but she weaves through the tables like it’s easy to strut on toothpicks.
“No hitches so far,” she says as she reaches me.
I blink at her.
“In the prep? No hitches so far,” she repeats. “Not big ones, anyway. Sandy is straightening something out with the ticketsbut sounds like it’ll be fine. We should be ready to start in an hour with no problem.” Ruby can be talkative, but this is chatter. Pre-event nerves?
