Page 23 of Tied Up In Tinsel
“Shall we talk over tea, milady?” I asked.
“Oh, why yes,” she cooed, slipping into her own highborn accent. “That sounds quite delightful.”
I followed her, her skirts sweeping like she was floating, into the living room. She’d set up a small table and two chairs right in the center of the space. The TV flickered with a fake fireplace, adding the glow and crackle of flames that didn’t exist. Around the table sat an impressive guest list of stuffed animals, each propped on tiny stools.
I pulled out a chair with a flourish and gestured for her to sit.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she replied, settling into her seat with dignity.
Leaving her there, I made my way to the kitchen, where our tea—a grape juice kettle—was waiting alongside two miniature cups and saucers. I carried it back like I was delivering fine china worth more than my truck, setting it gently on the table.
Ruby grabbed the pot and poured with steady hands, filling each cup just shy of the rim. She extended one toward me on its saucer, giving a slight nod like she was bestowing an honor.
I took it carefully. I can say with full confidence that I’d never worn a dress while attending a tea party before, but surprisingly… it felt empowering.
Slipping deeper into the game, I adopted a fake accent—somewhere between British royalty and bad community theater.
“Tell me, dearest Ruby, do we drink pinkies up?”
I raised my cup and saucer to my lips, my pinky extended to an almost painful angle. She mirrored me instantly.
“Pinkies up, always,” she declared.
We sipped, smirked, and made polite conversation about the state of her stuffed-animal kingdom. I complimented Sir Fluffington on his excellent posture, assured Princess Sprinkles that her gown was the finest in the land, and even agreed to dance with a giraffe named Gerald when the ball began “after tea.”
“I’m having the best time, Sir Brooks,” Ruby announced, her tiny pinky jutting out as she sipped from her plastic tea cup.
“Me too, Princess Ruby,” I said, leaning forward to clink my plastic cup against hers.
She set her drink down and leaned in. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course. I’m an excellent secret keeper,” I assured her, lowering my voice in mock seriousness.
Ruby stared me straight in the eye—steady, unblinking, and without an ounce of hesitation. “I’m glad I’m not with my dad. I’m glad I get to stay here with you and Mom instead.”
I wasn’t expecting that. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting—a confession about sneaking cookies, maybe, or the revelation that her favorite stuffed animal could talk at night. But not this.
“Why’s that?” I asked gently.
“Because Dad would never do tea parties with me,” she said matter-of-factly. “All he does is make me sit inside while he works or watches TV. You’re way better than my dad.”
My chest tightened. Seven years old and she could already tell the difference between being loved and being tolerated. A man she’s known for two days had somehow earned a spot above the one who should’ve been here her whole life.
It wasn’t pride I felt—it was something heavier. Sadness for her. Anger for her. Maybe a small, fierce hope that she’d never have to settle for that kind of half-hearted love again.
“I’m glad I’m with you and your mom too,” I told her quietly.
Ruby tilted her head. “Do you have a family?”
I thought about how to explain it. “I do, but we’re… not close.”
She sipped her juice, then shrugged like she’d solved the mystery. “They must suck then.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”
“You can always spend the holidays with us,” she offered, completely serious. “Snowberry Peak is, like, the best for holidays. And no one should ever be alone. If your family sucks, you can share my mom. She’s pretty great. We can be your family.”
For someone so young, she carried this well of kindness and generosity that hit me square in the chest. Annie was clearly raising her with an open and gentle heart.
