He makes a huff that sounds annoyed. “It's not like I have anything better to do. Besides, I've been a little frustrated lately.”
I glance back to see him lying on his back, one knee bent, the other straight, his forearm draped over his eyes.
He looks relaxed, but there's a kind of tension in his body that indicates he's ... not.
“Your dad giving you a hard time again?”
His father is the CFO of McQuade Development, a local real estate company. He's always badgering Keegan to work for the family business.
Keegan scrubs a hand down his face and stands. He gives me a hard look that makes me think he's working up the courage to say something, but then he sighs. “Something like that.”
Before I can ask for more specifics, an alert dings on Keegan's phone and he's heading down the stairs to the entry level of my townhouse.
“The take out is here,” he calls out, stating the obvious.
“I'll open the wine,” I answer back, trying to keep my voice cheerful and devoid of any incipient awareness of Keegan's undeniable hotness.
But who am I kidding? There’s nothing incipient about my awareness of Keegan. I know he’s hot. I’ve always known it. It’s just something I try really hard not to think about. If I’m thinking about it now, then the stress from work must really be getting to me.
chaptertwo
An hour or so later,we're ensconced on my sofa, nibbling on the last of our dessert. Keegan brought Pocky for dessert. My box is empty, so I reach over and grab one of the chocolate-coated cookie sticks from his open box.
He swats at my hand. “Hands off.”
I snag one anyway and he lets me. “It's not like you're going to finish all of them before the end of the movie, anyway.”
He pauses the movie and shuffles his half-full box to his left hand so it's farther away. “You don't know that.”
“The movie is almost over,” I point out, burrowing my toes under his leg. “Y-you don't have time to finish your Pocky.”
He pretends to fight me over them, but lets me snag a couple. There are several wonderful things about our decade-long friendship. Obviously, he lets me steal his Pocky (as well as assorted other treats). More importantly, he never makes me feel weird about the stutter I've had since childhood.
A stutter?you ask in surprise.Don't most people grow out of those?
Yes. Most people do. People whose parents can afford speech therapists. People who are lucky. People whose asshole fathers don't nag them relentlessly about it.
Even with all of those resources, some people just never do grow out of them. And, no, it's not a sign I'm stupid or slow or nervous. And, yes, when people make a big deal out of it, I do feel stupid, slow, and nervous. Which is why I love hanging out with Keegan, because he never makes me feel that way.
Ollie never went out of his way to make me feel insecure about my stutter, but he wasn't a guy who was comfortable with silences. If no one else was talking, he'd fill the gap. Which, in retrospect, should have been a red flag.
“Why are your toes so cold?” Keegan pushes playfully at my legs.
“Because it's winter,” I mutter, pulling my throw to my chin and burrowing closer to him.
He laughs. “It's late March. That's not winter.”
“Hey, that's winter in some places! And we're having this cold snap!”
“So turn up the heat. It's got to be—what? Sixty-five, sixty-six in here?”
Yes, I keep the heat at 65 in the winter, when I can stand it. A) because it's the environmental thing to do, and B) because my townhouse was built in the early seventies and is an electricity hog. My place is one of four tiny, three-story townhomes snuggled next to each other. Mine is in the middle, which means for most of the winter I can rely on the insulation the other two houses on either side provide. Plus, I have a little wood-burning fireplace. Which I never light, but Keegan does if he's over and it's cold.
This weekend we're having a bit of a cold snap—most likely the last of the spring—and because of its age, my condo feels every temperature swing.
“You know,” I tell him. “If you're cold here, w-we could always do movie night at your place.”
“Nah.” He gives a tug to the blanket, pulling it closer over his side. I follow, burrowing next to him. “Your place is nicer.”
