Page 93 of Betting on the Best Friend
I look back to Ruby. “Imagine if that were actually true,” I say as if it’s actually true.
“You know I love a good fantasy,” Ruby says giving me a look so seductive that we just changed the movie rating on this drama. “But work calls.”
She reaches for my hand and pulls me in the direction of made-up work. As an especially evil touch, she slowly lets my hand slip from hers like she’s trying to be inconspicuous. It gives off the vibe of two people trying to hide a relationship when they can’t keep their hands off each other.
“You’re the worst,” I say as she leads us out of the main doors.
She whirls, her face distressed. “I’m so sorry, Charlie.”
“Why? That was a nice touch at the end. Literally and figuratively.”
A grin tugs at the corner of her lips. “We played that pretty well.”
“We might have escaped right before the top of your idiot ex’s head blew off.”
Her emerging smile disappears. “I’m sorry you got sucked into all that. I didn’t want to make you feel like I was using you.”
I force my smile to stay relaxed, but her words punch me in the gut. She’s working so hard to make sure I don’t misread her, thatI don’t turn it into more than it is. “I didn’t feel that way. I can read the situation.”
Her face turns more anxious. “I don’t want to set us back. I’ve hated this distance.”
“It’s fine, Ruby,” I say, even as my gut twists. I know she’s trying. “I chose everything that just happened, you didn’t take advantage of me, and we’re not set back.”
“If you’re sure . . .” She bites her lip, and I want to groan. They’re warm and full, and they were so soft against my fingers.
“Do you have any idea how much I enjoyed ruining his afternoon?”
Her smile comes back. “I do, yeah.”
“Let’s eat and then judge all the hats.”
“We can’t forsake our most sacred duty.”
I make sure our fingers don’t touch as we pluck the last of the tea treats from the plate, and for dang sure that I feed only myself.
When she’s reaching for the door, I say, “Wait. You should smudge your lipstick so Niles sees you and tortures himself with what you’ve been up to. Then I’ll make a panic gesture that you should wipe it off, like I know exactly what you’ve been up to because I was there.”
She pulls open the door, laughing.
If I’d known that my whole job this afternoon was going to be acting like we came here straight from my bedroom, I’d have driven at high speed in the opposite direction.
But I have to admit when Niles glares at us as soon as we walk in: pettiness has never been this fun.
We take our judging seriously as we walk around from table to table, admiring the fascinators and conferring as if we’re awarding the Nobel Prize in Hats. This delights the guests, who vogue for us to consider all their angles.
At the table Niles and Tally chose, we act as if we don’t see them while teasing and role-playing with everyone else, tapping furiously on the iPad and having heated disagreements about the scores in loud whispers.
This is Ruby and me at our best. All in and silly, safe and comfortable, feeding off each other’s energy.
Happy.
This is a mess, but I’d rather be in it than not. That’s what a month of distance has taught me.
Part of circulating the tables is also to let Sandy know when people are largely done with their tea, and we give her a sign when it’s time for the next part of the program. Every year, we put a small dais at the front of the room with two armchairs and a small tea table. That’s where Sandy and the visiting author will sit and do a conversational “tea talk.”
She takes to the front of the room and announces that the honored judges will retire to tabulate their scores for the winning headpiece, and both that winner and the winning table setting will be announced after hearing from our special guest, Emma St. Clair.
It’s possible—even likely—that competing for those prizes is the main reason at least a quarter of the women are here over even hearing from the visiting author.
