Page 83 of Betting on the Best Friend
It makes me the most selfish friend ever, I know.
I owe him at least the generosity he showed me by doing Madison’s stupid pitch for her.
All these things are true at once.
I pull out my phone to start my pitch deck. It kills me to have to choose a basic theme from the slide presets. I, who love to have highly curated and nuanced themes chosen from custom sites, pick one and force myself to get over it. I’ll have to make up for it in my presentation.
Next, I go through my pictures of Charlie. Almost every single one shows us together. Here I’m on his lap, that one I’ve photobombed by popping in front of him with jazz hands, another one we’re feeding each other ice cream while missing as badly as possible, faces serious as we concentrate on this important job.
After much combing through my photos and eight more pitches from attendees, the moderator announces from thestage, “And now, for our grand finale, please welcome back Ruby to pitch Charlie!”
Applause sweeps us up to the stage and a woman shouts, “Don’t need it! Give us that cutie’s contact info!”
This earns whistles and cheers.
I email the slide link to the address the moderator gives me, and hustle over to Charlie, who’s about to hoist himself into the bar chair.
“Allow me.” I stand in front of him and pat my shoulders. The audience laughs, but they laugh even louder when he ignores my shoulders and puts his hand on top of my head and pretends to use it for leverage to boost himself.
I cross my eyes at him, and he smiles.
A (boring) slide appears with a picture of Charlie giving that same smile, the words “Charlie Bucket” beneath it in large print.
Charlie glances at the screen and sighs but turns to the audience and leans back in the chair, elbow propped on an armrest, chin resting on the L-shape of his fingers. It’s his listening face I’ve seen in any staff meeting ever.
“Meet Charlie, Renaissance Man and man of the people. A man of letters. A man of his word. It’s Charlie, man!”
Charlie’s smile appears, and he nods.Good one,Roo.
“Charlie is a bucket of muscles.” I reveal the next slide, the one of him rock climbing I stole from his dating profile. “He gets them by carrying the burdens of others, carrying his weight at the library, carrying his side of interesting conversations, but I think maybe his constant rock climbing might have helped?”
Next slide. “Charlie is a bucket of fun.” It’s the picture of him from the S party. “He will go along with your theme parties.” Next picture. “He’ll even party with Eeyore.”
“Piglet,” someone calls in delight.
“Or wear your friend’s stupid groomsman outfit for their 7-Eleven–themed wedding.” This picture is Charlie in hisauthentic 7-Eleven–branded leisure wear. More whoops from the crowd, this time mostly dudes who clearly wish they got to be inthosekinds of weddings.
“Charlie can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but he loves music, and you will likely go to many live shows together.” Picture of him at a Pixie Luna show. Pit in my stomach as I imagine someone else jumping around beside him instead of me in the part I cropped out.
“He will make you cry buckets of tears . . . oflaughterwhen you catch the dry jokes he makes ten seconds too late. He will never make you sweat buckets because he’s dependable. In the good way, not the boring one. He’s going to do whatever he says he’s going to do, when he says he’s going to do it.”
I click to the last slide. It’s Charlie sitting on the bank of Barton Springs, arms wrapped around his crossed legs as he stares into the distance with a slight smile. “All of this is only a drop in the bucket of what makes Charlie one of my favorite humans but dating him should definitely be on your bucket list. He is the anti-sleazebucket, the actual jackbucket of men—and jackbucket should definitely be a word because it’s probably bigger than a jackpot.”
I click so his Instagram handle appears. “People of Austin, mercy buckets for letting us steal an extra slot.”
Wild applause, and Charlie looks over at me, a full smile, shaking his head.
“Can NOT believe you’re not dating that sexy bucket,” someone calls.
It echoes exactly what a tiny part of my brain is saying loudly. Very loudly. Not surprising in an environment where the whole point is to look at everyone as dateable. I try hard to turn the volume down on the brain voice, but dang, it’s feisty today.
“Mercy buckets to Ruby and Charlie!” the moderator says, taking the stage as we leave it to enthusiastic applause. “Thanks for jumping in.”
“I wasn’t planning to stay for the mingle,” I tell him quietly when we get back to the table. “But if you need a wingman . . .”
He glances around the room and shakes his head.
“The Pitch-a-Friend is officially over,” the moderator announces, “but the bar is open and we’ll keep the music low enough for you to talk. About each other if you want, buttoeach other might be even more productive. Reach out to anyone who interested you via the contact info their friend provided, but if they decline or don’t respond, respect that. Let the mingling begin!”
