I elbow him in the side. “Right. Perfect. That’s a good one.”
“I’m serious, Meg.”
My breath catches, because he’s pinning me with one of those intense looks of his. Like I’m the only person in the room he wants to look at. Like he really does think I’m gorgeous.
“You're smart and dedicated and work twice as hard as anyone else on your team. You shouldn't need to change anything about yourself to do a job you're qualified for and already doing. Especially not the way you look.”
I release that breath I’ve been holding, because of course, he didn’t really mean that he thought I was gorgeous. He’s talking about my work ethic. He’s just being a good friend.
“But I'm not doing all the work I could be doing,” I counter. “If I want to lead my own team, I have to be able to do presentations. If getting a makeover means I can do them, then I'm willing to try.”
I say this with way more conviction that I actually feel. Honestly, I'm still not sold on the makeover thing. But now I feel like I have to defend the idea, because Keegan is pushing me to justify it.
“That's bullshit,” he pushes back, then looks at Reb. “Come on, you agree with me, right? She's amazing at her job. She shouldn’t have to change the way she dresses or wears her hair for them to appreciate her.”
“Of course she shouldn't,” she agrees, nodding, and then holds up a hand, palm out. “But this is the real world. She shouldn'thaveto change those things. But realistically?” She shrugs and waggles her hand. “If it'll help, then shouldn't she use every tool in her toolbox?”
“Again. That's bullshit.” His tone is harder now and his hand has dropped from my shoulder to the back of my chair. “No one would tell a man how to dress for his job.”
Everything about this conversation is stressing me out.
First off, I hate fighting with anyone, but I especially hate fighting with Keegan. And, yeah, I know. This isn't a fight. It's a disagreement, and it's not even me disagreeing with him. Still, it feels like he's disappointed in me.
That layered on top of all this jittery awareness that I don't know what to do with? Gah. It's killing me.
To break the tension, I give a laugh that ends up sounding more like a derisive snort, but whatever, I try.
Everyone turns to look at me.
So I shrug and state the obvious. “Of course no o-one w-w-would tell a man how to dress for his job. But society has been policing the way women dress since the dawn of time.”
“Exactly!” Reb exclaims.
Keegan is full-on glowering now, but I don't give him a chance to comment.
Instead, I say, “But that's not the point here.”
“Wait, it isn't?” Reb asks.
“No. First off, no one is telling me I have to change how I dress to do my job. Secondly, all jobs have a uniform. For some jobs, dictated by company policy, for others it's unwritten. A McDonald's employee can't show up in a ball gown because they have a uniform that's provided to them.” I shift my chair, putting a little more space between Keegan and me, ostensibly so that I can gesture toward him. “This is your uniform. Jeans or cargo pants and some vintage concert tee. If you showed up one day in a tux, it would interfere with your ability to do y-your job.”
He scoffs. “No, it wouldn't. No one notices how I look.”
I laugh at how oblivious he is.
“What?” he asks in what seems like genuine confusion.
I pat him on the cheek like he’s a baby. “It’s adorable when you pretend you’re not stupidly good looking.”
He swats away my hand.
Reb gives him an exaggerated once over, then props her chin in her palm and flutters her eyelashes at him, like a cartoon character. “I think it’s sweet that he’s modest.”
He grins at her. “Come on, Reb, you know you're way too smart for a lowly barkeep like me.”
Then, as if on cue, he turns on the smolder, and I actually see her breath catch. She flushes, sitting back in her chair as if alarmed at being the focus of his attention. Yeah. I get that.
And that's the thing about Keegan. Being the focus of his attention is a heady, intense experience. It's like staring into the sun. There's a compelling, irresistible urge to do it, but at what cost?
