chapterone
It isthe truth universally acknowledged that a single man of good fortune must be in want of a friend who doesn't give a damn about his net worth.
Okay, so maybe it'snotuniversally acknowledged, but I am convinced it's why Keegan McQuade and I have been friends for so long. And who am I to argue with Jane Austen?
To make matters worse, Keegan is single, rich, and ridiculously good looking. Which means everyone—women, men, little old ladies with walkers, over-eager golden retrievers ... everyone—falls all over him to get his attention, so he needs someone in his life who wants nothing from him and isn't constantly trying to hump his leg. I am lucky enough to be that person.
This is how our relationship has worked ever since we met our freshman year of college. I pretend he is an average guy, and he pretends I'm not an awkward nerd with a stutter who spends too much time in her own head.
For example, right now—a Saturday evening, during our normal weekly 'hang'—I'm pretending he has nothing more exciting to do than order take out and lounge on my sofa.
And he is pretending that it's perfectly normal for a woman to lie on the floor glaring at a vacuum cleaner.
The vacuum in question is the latest model of the cordless Butler Steam Vac. It's a combination vacuum and steam cleaner with sleek lines and retro styling. In three days, the team I'm on at Forester+Blake ad agency has to pitch an idea for a new ad campaign to Butler.
I've worked on a three-person team at Forester+Blake for the past four years. Teresa is the team lead, and (I guess) sort of my boss. Tad, the youngest member, does all the tech stuff—putting together the multimedia and making things look great. I do all the preliminary sketches and, if I'm being honest, come up with most of the ideas.
And here is the crux of the problem. For this pitch, I got nada. Ziltch, zero, zip-zip-zipperoni.
Okay, notnothing. We have a pitch ready.
But what we have is just ... blah.
My gut says it's not good enough.
I sigh.
I squint.
Behind me I hear Keegan, who is sitting patiently on my sofa, shift. I'm vaguely aware of him tapping away on his phone. Then the theme music fromThe Good, the Bad and the Uglyfills my living room.
I shift to see him holding up his phone, a grin on his face. I glare in return.
“What?” He chuckles. “I just thought, with the right soundtrack, maybe you'd draw your weapon and finally have this shootout with the poor vacuum.”
I don't glare at him for long, but sigh and flop down on the floor and stare at the ceiling. “I'm sorry. This sucks. I won't blame you if y-you want to ditch me for the night.”
“What?” he asks in mock shock. “And miss this epic battle between good and evil? This showdown between woman and machine? This is the stuff of legend.”
I grab a throw pillow and toss it at his head. He catches it.
“Besides,” He turns his phone to show off the update from DoorDash. “Take out should be here in ten minutes. So whatever inspiration you're going to get, it needs to hit before then, or I'm starting the movie without you.”
Despite our apparent differences—of which there are many—Keegan and I connect on a soul deep level when it comes to low-key hangs.
By which I mean we both love sci-fi TV shows, Asian takeout, cheap red wine, and post-punk music from the eighties.
I secretly suspect that Keegan also loves expensive red wine, but keeps his standards low to appease my bank account's ego.
By unspoken mutual agreement, we usually pretend that our income brackets aren't separated by several digits. Usually.
Even though he's lived his entire life in Texas, Keegan has the unmistakable vibe of a California surfer dude. He's tall and lean, with shaggy blond hair that falls almost to his shoulders and these intense gray-blue eyes. They remind me of pictures I’ve seen of the beaches in the Caribbean, where the water is so clear, you can see right through the depths to the reefs beneath.
He has one of those perfectly symmetrical faces. Between full lips and that little dip in his chin, he'd be almost too pretty if it weren't for the perpetual scruff on his jaw. Of course, he's got a surfer's perfect golden skin, so he always looks like he's just got home from the beach.
Once, not long after we became friends, I asked him if he surfed. He answered, “Only when I'm in Hawaii.”
Who says stuff like that?
