Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ruby
Tonight’s event is Pitch-a-Friend.
When Madison had given me a heads-up a couple of days ago that this is what she was planning for me, I had said no.
Very, very firmly.
“It’s so cool,” she’d said, following me around the condo and explaining it to me while I pretended she wasn’t there.
She’d finished, looking delighted with her idea. “What do you think?”
“You signed up to do a slide presentation for a bunch of strangers where you’re going to try to convince them to date me? And you thought I would be into this?”
“People love it,” she’d said. “I promise. A girl in my finance class was telling us about it and how much fun she had. Everything I could find was positive. Newspaper articles, forums, Yelp. Social media hashtags. All of it was good.”
“Maybe for people who like standing up in front of a crowd and being judged. What made you think I would be into this?”
“Because it’s such low stakes,” Madison said.
“You don’t have to hype yourself like you do on an app or a blind date.
No one else in the room is going to know if everyone or no one contacts you, so there’s no public rejection.
It’s a mellow vibe because everyone there is supportive.
You get to watch all the pitches and see if anything speaks to you too.
Worst case scenario is you get to hear me shower you with words of affirmation for three minutes straight, and don’t you deserve that? ”
Madison had so clearly been coming from a good place that I’d given in, but I don’t like the plan any better now that it’s here.
I park in front of Garza’s and stare at it through the rain drizzling my windshield.
It’s a quintessential Austin space, having served many purposes and destined to serve many more.
The small main building was Austin’s first Spanish-music station but now it’s a music venue for small live shows.
Behind the building, there’s a large green space covered with wooden café tables beneath yellow umbrellas, which is where the event is supposed to happen.
I call Madison. “It’s raining. Their umbrellas are for sun, not rain, so that’s too bad.” I don’t even try to hide how cheerful this makes me feel.
She snorts. “Nice try. They have a message on their Facebook page saying they’ve moved it inside, so go to the front. You’re already registered, so just give them your name at the check-in. Grab a seat and save another, and I’ll take it from there.”
“Are you here yet?”
“No. Trust me, you won’t be sorry. Get in there. Byeee.”
At least I can feel good about my outfit when I spot other people walking in.
Madison had said to shoot for “funnest girl at the middlebrow bar,” and based on the other arrivals, I’ve struck the right note.
Orange cardigan over a fitted white cami, gray pinstripe trousers, white Adidas Gazelles.
Maybe the newcomers are slightly more casual, but I’d five thousand percent rather overdress than underdress.
The host inside finds my info without any problem. “Here’s your name tag,” she says as she smiles and hands it to me. “We’re going to be cozy tonight, but it’s a nice crowd. Enjoy!”
I give her a smile that’s meant to communicate, “I will try!” but she laughs and says, “Really, this is a fun event. Everybody vibes.”
I navigate the seating, a combination of low pub tables, high bar tables, and the bar itself. The place is two-thirds full already, and I choose a standing bar table in the back left so I can bolt easily if this is a disaster.
Scanning the crowd does ease my anxiety. There’s lots of smiles and laughs, alt-country playing in the background low enough to make conversation easy, and it flows with a steady hum.
This is more of an Oliver place than a Madison one, but it’s Charlie who materializes in front of me a couple of minutes later.
“Hey,” he says.
This is more than awkward; it’s like watching bad karma manifest. There is no way I’m going to make Charlie listen to Madison try to pitch me to an audience nearly half full of guys.
“Chuckles,” I say, trying to keep it light. And then a worse thought hits me. Why is Charlie here? I can’t think of anyone he’d try to pitch, which means . . .
My stomach turns sour. I don’t want to make Charlie listen to Madison pitch me, and I want to listen to someone pitch Charlie even less.
“Rubles,” he answers with a slight smile.
“I’m waiting for Madison. What are you doing here?” Is . . . Oliver going to pitch Charlie? They better have told Charlie that I’d be here, but knowing Madison, this is some misguided exposure therapy designed to help Charlie.
He sighs. “Tonight the part of Madison Armstrong will be played by me.”
I squint like that is somehow going to improve my hearing. “What?”
“She called me an hour ago and asked me if I could fill in for her,” he says. “She said the only other options were Ava or your brother because Sami—”
“Has a gig in Dallas tonight,” I finish. “Why can’t Madison do it?”
“Something about her mom having to go to the hospital. She doubts it’s anything, but she wasn’t sure she’d make it here in time either way.”
Mrs. Armstrong is a hypochondriac, and since Katie and Madison have started repairing their relationship, Madison now takes turns with Katie in managing their mom’s many, many emergency visits.
“She shouldn’t have asked you to do this, Charlie.”
“Would you rather have Ava or Joey do it?” His smile is still subdued but both sides of his mouth tip up this time, and I have to smile back.
“What a choice. Would I rather have Ava, who would choose death by papercuts over public speaking, or my worst brother pitch me as a date? Neither. Time to go.”
He holds up a hand. Wait. “I could have said no, but she says you deserve to have someone to hype you up, and I agree. Besides, I’ll be back at O’Connor in three weeks, so we might as well practice being normal around each other.”
I forget everything else. “You’re coming back?”
He rolls his eyes. “Obviously. This was a temporary assignment, remember?”
“How would I know? We argued and then you’re working at Central without telling me you were going.”
“I’m covering someone’s maternity leave, remember?”
“Yeah, but . . .” I remember the awful feeling of realizing that he wasn’t coming into work that day or anytime soon, and how much worse it got if I let myself worry that he’d turn it into a permanent transfer. It was bad-shrimp awful. Rotten-garbage awful. Stomach-ulcer-starter-kit awful.
“But?” He’s leaning close, and I realize the room is nearing max capacity. Charlie has shifted toward me to make more room for other people.
I take a deep breath. “Ivory soap, clean living, and the faint trace of secrets,” I say instead of getting into the misery. “That’s what you smell like.”
His eyes turn soft. “Funny, Roo. But what were you going to say?”
I crook my head at the screen at the front of the room with “Welcome to Pitch-a-Friend Austin” projected on it. “Thank you for being here and doing this. You’re overqualified.”
“I’ll do you justice. Don’t worry. But also, don’t be hurt if I take off as soon as the pitches are over. And don’t tell me if you go on any dates from this.”
“I won’t. But I don’t want to go on any dates. I’m over it.”
He gives a small head shake. “Don’t tell me that either. You don’t have to. Let’s leave dating out of things, yeah?”
“You mean minus the over-the-top dating event we’re here for?”
He smiles again. “Right. Minus that.”
A redhead in her late twenties wearing a Pitch-a-Friend shirt walks to the front of the room and calls, “We’re going to start in about ninety seconds, folks. Please leave room for the servers to navigate the tables. Find somewhere to squeeze in, because the fun is about to begin.”
There’s an increase in chatter and shuffling, moving even more people to the back wall and around the bar tables. Charlie shifts even closer when two women around my age ask if they can join us.
The moderator reminds everyone of the rules. Keep it positive, pitches should be three to five minutes, and if we’re interested in someone, their contact info will be on the final slide, or we can find them after the event if we stick around to mingle.
From the minute the first pitch starts, I understand why Madison chose this.
It’s a guy pitching his friend, Akram, who has to sit in a bar chair and listen while the friend hypes him up.
Akram is short and kind of squishy-looking, but his friend does such a good job of highlighting all of Akram’s good qualities that I think every single woman snaps a picture of the final slide for his info.
Except me, of course. Not only because Charlie’s here.
Akram seems like a great guy for someone else.
That’s how every guy seems to me lately.
I don’t want to have everyone stare at me when it’s our turn in a few minutes, but at least I know the crowd will be kind. And I won’t have to reject anyone directly. It’s a best-case scenario . . . except for one massive thing.
I feel that one thing even more keenly when the moderator calls, “Next up, we have Madison pitching her bestie, Ruby!”
“You ready?” Charlie asks.
“No.”
He flashes his adventure begins smile. “Too bad. We’re up.”
We thread through the tables to the front amidst cheers and applause, and when I struggle to climb onto the high bar chair, my anxiety spikes like it never left.
I’m not tall enough to hop up bum first, and I’m mortified because I’m going to have to turn around and climb up the front way, like a toddler.
But then Charlie is there. He stands in front of me, bends his knees, and pats his shoulders.
Relief floods me as I set my hands on those shoulders—geez, they are so jacked—and hitch my heel on the chair’s lowest cross bar. I push, Charlie straightens, and in one second flat, I’m seated like the chair isn’t biased against petite people as the first slide appears.