Chapter Fifteen
Ruby
“Lunch date,” I say when Charlie comes in at noon for his shift on Wednesday. I’m so glad I have this news to open with.
He was off yesterday, so I haven’t seen him since The Closet Shift on Monday—yes, it lives capitalized in my head.
We’d worked the rest of the day like normal, but that tutoring session keeps intruding on my thoughts.
The wiring problem is getting worse, and I blame the bowling date debrief and everyone telling me to help Charlie with PDA and Sydney.
You know what spells disaster in a library?
Sparks. They must be stomped out and starved of fuel.
“You’d have to take a late lunch,” Charlie says. Our breaks don’t align when we work opposite shifts.
“No, I mean I have a lunch date today. An Ava setup.”
“Oh. How’s the potential?” He settles into the chair at the reference desk.
I pull out my phone to double-check the details. “Alton, CFO of a brewery, thirty-one. We’re meeting at a gastropub that carries his company’s beer.”
“You don’t like beer.”
“Gastropubs have good food.”
“Okay, but remember how you used to go to microbreweries Niles wanted to try, and it wasn’t fun for you? Don’t do that.”
“Alton is a date, not a relationship. It’s fine.”
“Promise me you’ll tell him you don’t like beer.” His face is serious.
“I’m a new Ruby. Don’t worry.”
Charlie shakes his head. “You don’t need to be new Ruby. Regular Ruby is always enough.”
“Aww, that’s sweet, Charlie Bucket.” This isn’t a spark. This is a warm ember. “I promise I’ll tell him I don’t like beer.”
“Also, tell him you don’t like his name. Alton sounds like a sofa style in a West Elm catalog.”
“That’s less sweet, Charlie Bucket, and I respect it. Now give me a fit check. It’s hard to dress for work and a date with the same outfit.”
He glances over to give me a quick up and down. “It works.”
“I tried for hot but in a professional way, and professional in a hipster-brewery way.” I chose wide-leg navy pants topped with a loose cream mock turtleneck sweater, tucked in for a blousy look. I added a needlepoint belt with a wild mushroom pattern Ava made me for Christmas for notes of hipster.
My shoes are caramel brown Mary Jane heels because I prefer more height when I meet new people. I’m not under the delusion that heels make me tall. But they make me feel tall, which means I act tall, and that’s an advantage.
“Hot but professional hipster,” he repeats, turning to give me a better look. “Nailed it.”
“I’m glad you have sisters,” I say. “They’ve trained you so well.”
He looks amused by this. “For what? Fashion consulting?”
“Yes, and it’s a big deal. It’s the second most valuable thing my roommates do for me.”
“First being . . .”
“Letting me borrow the clothes for the outfits I make them consult on.”
“Wish I could help you with that, but you’d drown in one of my shirts.” A distracted expression crosses his face, and he turns back to his monitor.
“You’re not the Hulk. I’m not going to drown in an adult medium, even a man’s.”
“I wear a large now,” he says, not turning around. “You’d drown.”
I run my eyes over his upper body, unsurprised. It’s no wonder Sydney didn’t give up. She met Charlie the lean athlete with sun-streaked hair, not Charlie the wiry librarian with a pale winter glow. He’d have me looking twice if I didn’t already know him.
It’s going to take practice to adjust to that paradigm shift.
“Anyway,” I say, leaving paradigms for later, “wish me luck. If I don’t come back, it’s a kidnapping, not an elopement.”
“Of course I’ll assume it’s a kidnapping,” he says. “The girls haven’t been doing great with these picks, and now you’ve got Alton.”
There’s so much skepticism in the way Charlie says the name that I laugh. “You’re fired as my cheerleader.”
“Just for your dates. I’m your number one cheerleader for anything else.”
His attention is already back on the computer, but it sends me out to my car with a smile, because it’s true.
Charlie really is my cheerleader for everything.
World’s most laidback cheerleader, yes. But whether it’s overhauling a library display or an intricate plan to make my best friend and my brother fall in love, Charlie is the first to nod and say, “I’m in. ”
Everyone really needs a Charlie.
Alton needs a Charlie.
We’re fifteen minutes into our date, and I’m having a hard time getting him to talk about himself. He finally told me—after a lot of prodding—that he got an MBA at UT, something business guys usually volunteer without prompting.
It’s not that Alton is hard to talk to, but rather, every time I ask him a question about himself, I realize after a couple of minutes that he’s managed to answer vaguely and turn the question around on me.
When the server brings our drink orders—a lager for him and a blackberry mint mocktail for me—I stir mine and watch him, trying to figure him out.
He’s cute. A solid eight, with sandy blond hair and brown eyes, a nice smile, fit without being a meathead, and around five-ten, so I don’t feel dwarfed.
He pauses when he realizes I’m studying him. “Uh oh. Do I have a booger?” He crosses his eyes like he’s trying to check for himself.
I laugh. “No, sorry. I was thinking.”
“About?”
About how I’m watching him at a detached distance, clocking details so I can report on this date to my friends. About how I’ve done this on every date so far.
I shrug. “About how you don’t answer any questions about yourself. We’ve been talking a lot about me.”
“Oh, that.” He sighs. “I don’t really work for a brewery. I’m a spy for a book banning group, here to psychologically profile you.”
I like the teasing glint in his eye. Maybe instead of watching my own date like an observer, I should try to be in it.
I lean forward with a serious look. “What kind of books are you trying to ban?”
“Gardening.”
I keep a straight face. “You don’t want people to learn about the birds and the bees?”
“Not the literal ones.”
“You don’t want anyone to learn how to grow their own food?”
He looks both ways before he answers in a low voice. “I’m with Big Ag. We’ve been increasing profits for years by manipulating food trends, like kale in everything, and making every food out of cauliflower.”
I gasp. “You’re with the bad guys.”
He makes a “keep it down” gesture. “Is it so bad if people get more vegetables?”
“I won’t be silenced. Riced cauliflower is just cauliflower.” I glare at him. “What a dirty trick.”
He hides a smile by coughing into his fist. “Yes, well, you aren’t the only one who thinks so. None of our latest tricks have caught on. Vegetable consumption has plateaued. We have to cut out all competitors. We’re going after the home garden market.”
“Shocking,” I say. “You’ll get our gardening books when you pry them from my mulch-covered fingers.”
He slumps slightly. “Foiled again.”
The rest of the lunch is good. By the time he insists on picking up the check but reluctantly agreeing to let me cover the tip, I decide this is officially my first decent date.
I’m not sure we have enough in common, but I like his sense of humor, and when he asks for my number, I only hesitate for a second before I give it to him.
When I rejoin Charlie at the reference desk, he takes one look at me and says, “You had an okay time.”
“I did,” I confirm. “Maybe even a good one.”
“That’s nice.”
I frown at him. “Why did you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you didn’t mean it.”
He swivels his chair so he’s facing me with a big smile and does a happy clap. “Ruby, that’s so awesome!”
“Ew, don’t smile like that. You’re giving reanimated corpse vibes.”
He relaxes his face. “Glad you had a good time. Was it good enough for a second date?”
“Maybe? I gave him my number.”
“If you did the moves, he’ll call.”
“The moves?”
“The ones you taught me during seven minutes in heaven.” He nudges my knee with his. “Like that.”
“Seven minutes in heaven is only a thing in movies, and to be honest, I think movies stole those from Judy Blume novels, and furthermore, if those are the eighties novels they channeled, I’m pretty sure she made up that game, and no one has played it in real life.”
His eyebrows go up. “Everyone has played seven minutes in heaven. Are you trying to tell me no boy was smart enough to try and get you in a kissing closet in middle school?”
I’m starting a message to the group text to disprove his claim that “everyone” has played it, but I pause my typing to give him a say what look. “Middle school? That’s young.”
He gives me a slight smile. “Maybe for you.”
“Charlie!”
But a patron has reached the desk, and he turns his chair and attention to them, leaving me to consider a young Charlie confident enough to play kissing games in middle school.
I finish my message and send it, then spend fifteen minutes helping a young mom choose seeds from our seed collection while she wears a baby against her chest and holds the hand of a toddler who she promises a trip to the kids’ section every ninety seconds if he stops saying, “Mama, Mama, Mama.”
My phone vibrates with incoming messages, but I have two more patrons to help at the desk before I can check them.
Who has played seven minutes in heaven in real life?
Sami
me
Madison
me
Ava
who hasn’t?
AVA ??
Sami
AVA ??
Madison
AVA ??
I HAVEN’T
Madison
Pick the date you like best and we’ll have a party so you can play
no thanks
when did you play? High school, right?
Madison
8th
Sami
Freshman
Ava
. . .
. . .
. . .
Ava!
Ava
7th
Madison
??
I huff.
Charlie glances over. “What’s up?”
“Ava played Seven Minutes in Heaven when we were in seventh grade.”
“Okay, Ava,” he says with a note of admiration. “Don’t be judgy, Roo.”
“I don’t care that she played. I care that I’m only hearing about it now.”
“What did the group poll reveal?”
I twitch my nose and say nothing, which makes Charlie smile.
“Why were we even talking about Seven Minutes in Heaven anyway?” I grumble.
“I asked you if you used any of the moves you tried to put on me in the makeout closet.”
“Oh my gosh, stop. It’s a storage room, and I didn’t put any moves on you.”
He reaches out to rest a hand on my forearm. “You didn’t?”
“No. I was helping.” His hand is warm, almost hot, through the sleeve of my sweater.
“I know you were trying to.” He gives me a light squeeze, his eyes trained on mine, serious, searching.
A wisp of concern feathers through my mind as I meet Charlie’s gaze for a couple of seconds.
Is he taking my help the wrong way? My eyes drift to his hand on my arm, a subtle signal that he should move it.
Instead, he gives me another soft squeeze, and it sends a shiver up my arm.
I hate being so ticklish. Wait a minute . . .
I shoot him an annoyed look. “Very funny.”
He removes his hand in the same unhurried way he does everything. “You’re a good teacher. Sydney will appreciate it.”
“Have her send me a thank-you card. Now, if you’re done being the worst, I’m going to the children’s section to cover so Thùy can go on lunch.”
“Toddler terror time is all yours.”
My arm tingles where he squeezed it, and I resist the impulse to rub the spot in case he’s watching as I walk to the kids’ section. But why would he be? I even glance over my shoulder to confirm that I’m being ridiculous, but Charlie is watching me.
I whip my head straight ahead, which is not a normal thing to do. But neither is checking to see if he’s watching me. And neither is him watching me, is it?
“Be cool, Ruby,” I mutter under my breath as I walk to the kids’ section at my normal pace.
But . . . why do I feel like I’m running away from Charlie?