Page 9 of Betting on the Best Friend
Ava leans back, her face understanding. “That’s true. You’re right. It’s no big deal if all of Niles’s friends start swiping through your photos and realize you haven’t moved on.”
“I’ve moved on,” I protest. “I wouldn’t have dumped him if I wanted to be with him." But even to my own ears, I sound like someone trying to recast a sinking boat as a submarine. Our mutuals will absolutely pity me.
“You’ve definitely moved on,” Ava says. “Who cares if it doesn’t look like it to anyone else? We know the truth and that’s what matters.”
It’s whatshouldmatter. I know this. But the problem with a lifelong bestie is that she knows exactly which buttons to push.
“Besides,” Madison says, “you know we all love having you as a permanent third wheel. Forget about Niles. It doesn’t matter if the talking Dockers thinks he wins.”
What am I thinking? Of course I’m not letting that speed bump win. “You’re going to need to give back the Ruby Woo lipstick you borrowed, Sami.”
They burst into cheers. It’s my “going out” lipstick.
I grin. Or maybe it’s a grim smile. But I lean forward. “Tell me how this love bet will work.”
Chapter Four
Charlie
I don’t strut intowork the next morning, but I want to.
Today is the day I start helping Ruby see I’m her next chapter, because sometimes, epiphanies need a nudge. Even Newton had to be bonked with an apple.
I grin when I hear Ruby’s voice in my head.Well, actually, the apple thing is a myth. And Ruby in my head is right, but the point about epiphanies needing a nudge stands.
I key in the code to the library offices and drop my backpack at my desk. As a junior reference librarian, I only have a cubicle—shared with Ruby—but I’m usually at the main reference desk, anyway.
Ruby’s stuff isn’t here yet, but she’ll show up any minute. I’m too restless to wait for her, so I head to the room where we store book donations for sorting to scan for anything worth pulling into regular circulation. Popular titles with long wait lists, required reading by local schools, the high demand classics. I find a copy ofThings Fall Apartas well asFahrenheit 451, both in decent condition, and set them aside for processing as Ruby pokes her head in.
She walks in wearing plaid pants and a sleeveless vest with flowers across the chest. I wouldn’t expect mustard yellow pants to go with blue that’s kind of peacocky, or flowers to go with the stripes in the plaid, but it makes sense on her somehow. She and Sami go thrifting together and get into each other’s closets a lot because they’re both—uh, not tall. (They hate being called short.) They’re both pocket-sized, and with all the wardrobe raiding, Ruby’s vibe is kind of Classy Punk Rock Librarian.
“Charlie Bucket,” she says.
“Ruby Slippers,” I answer. This is how bad I’ve got it: I hate the nickname Charlie Bucket. He’s the sad sack kid who wins the Golden Ticket to Wonka’s factory. And yeah, he’s the hero in the end, but he’s . . . nice. So nice. And boring. But have I ever told Ruby that? No. Because today and every day before this one, seeing her dark head of hair pop in with her eyes already laughing at me, or herself, or the world, makes my heart give an extra beat. So I accepted the nickname because it’s from her, and I gave her a nickname thatsoundslike it’s not that deep. Except it is. Because like Dorothy’s ruby slippers, Ruby is magic.
She starts on a box of donations, looking for books to add to her special interest collection: fiction in Spanish, bonus points if it’s not a translation. She talks fast as she skims the titles.
“The girls ambushed me last night, held me down and tickle tortured me, and made me promise to go along with a dumb love bet they made. By the time they let me up, I had agreed to live my life for the ’gram and maybe avenge any evils done to them ever? It’s blurry. They talked a lot and wouldn’t let me eat my chocolate until I said yes.”
“Sorry, what? A bet?” That’s a trigger word with Ruby. Specifically, it’s a starting pistol.
“Yeah. They want to set me up on dates and whoever finds me a boyfriend wins.” She sounds mildly exasperated, like she hasa fly problem, not like she just pulled Seismic Wall, one of my regular outdoor climbs, down on my head.
When the girls had left last night after pizza, they hadn’t said they were cooking up something else. I thought I’d squashed any plotting with my “Ruby should pick who she wants” speech. I even skipped stopping by their place after the game to avoid stirring up any more ideas.
I’m not a panic kind of guy, but this is the second time in less than a day that the roommates are doing those shock paddles on my heart andno one asked them to. How did they pitch this bet to Ruby? Did they tell her about our conversation? Bring up my name as an option? Did she dismiss it, or did it plant a seed? If they didn’t bring up my name, then whose?
This is an unhelpful spiral. I force myself to quit chasing what-ifs and calmly get actual facts. “What’s your part of the bet, and why are you living your life for the ’gram?”
“Their bet is with each other. My only part is to go on the dates.”
I bite back curse words as I peruse the next donation box, not registering a single word in a single title. No room for them with all the cursing in my head. So much cursing that even Ahab, the cursing parrot who lives next door to Ruby, would have learned a few phrases.
For a split second, I consider texting her roommates and confessing.
But my instincts are stronger than my impulses, so I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to be next just because I’m here and Ruby has a boyfriend habit.
I want to be chosen because Rubywantsme. Because she recognizes there’s a tension that isn’t safe or tidy simmering beneath our friend chemistry, something that could burn us both if we gave into it.
