“Bullshit.” I bonk him over the head with my empty Pocky box.
Thanks to Keegan's trust fund and his family's real estate development, he owns a condo downtown that is, by every definition, nicer than my place.
I have never understood why he likes to hang out here instead of at his place, only that he calls his condo “soulless.”
I've tried to remedy the problem by buying him pillows and cozy throws, but he still prefers to hang out at my quirky little townhouse, despite the fact that it's got three floors and too many stairs. Every time Keegan describes my townhouse as “cozy,” I accuse him of having a stair fetish.
“If you want it to be warmer, you could start a fire,” I suggest gently.
“Shush,” he tells me, hitting play on the remote. “Don't talk over the movie.”
I roll my eyes, since he's the one who started the conversation with his criticism of my cold toes, but I don't. Instead, I get lost in the movie. I bury my face in his shoulder during the big emotional scene where Tom Allen has to tell the Thermians that he's just an actor, because that part always kills me.
By the time the movie ends, it's so warm and cozy on the sofa, I have trouble summoning the energy to get up.
I need to though, because I have to pee and my wine glass is empty. I just can't make myself. For the first time all day, my toes actually feel warm, so I'm relaxed and sleepy.
Which must be obvious, because Keegan gives my calf a squeeze and says, “Are you falling asleep?” There's humor in his voice.
I free my toes enough to give his thigh a light, playful kick. “No.”
“Yes, you were.”
“So what if I was?”
He's openly laughing at me now. “It's only 8 o'clock. On a Saturday.”
“Not all of us are cool, hip night owls who stay up all night managing bars and hanging out with musicians after.”
This is the problem with having a best friend who owns a bar. Our schedules are so diametrically opposed. What's dinner for me is practically breakfast for him. Which is why our “shared” love of cheap wine works. He rarely drinks and probably pours himself a glass just so that I don't feel like I'm drinking alone.
“You know you never sleep well if you fall asleep on the sofa. And I don't wanna be the one listening to you complain about being tired tomorrow morning.”
“It's not my fault I'm sleepy. I haven't slept well this week. That's all.”
He shifts, turning to face me, as he pulls his leg up onto the sofa next to him and rearranges my feet so that they're in his lap instead of under his leg. Then he takes my feet in his hands and starts massaging my soles. “What's up?”
“Nothing,” I say, dodging the question.
It's not nothing, but sometimes I worry Keegan gets bored listening to me talk about work. I don't blame him. His job is inherently more interesting than mine. His bar is a favorite among the professors and the students alike. It's regularly on the best-of-Austin lists put out by the Austin American Statesman and the Austin Chronicle. Last year, the city asked him to join the Green Business Leaders advisory board.
So when he talks about work, it's one interesting antidote after another.
I work at an ad agency. I love my work—which is creative and challenging—but when I talk about work, it's all about demographic trends, emerging technologies, and metadata. I can't blame him for not being interested.
However, Keegan clearly knows me too well and hears the deflection in my voice, because he asks, “Trouble at work?”
At his prodding, I unapologetically open the can of bitch-fest flavored worms. “You could say that,” I say with a sigh. “I've been there for six years now. I've gotten raises on par with my work, but no promotion yet.”
He glances up at me, his gaze uncharacteristically dark. “And you want that promotion, don't you?”
“Yeah. Do you blame me? Sometimes, it just feels like I'm spinning my wheels.” I love the creative aspect of my job, but success in advertising requires a certain style and confidence I simply don't have. I'm shy and dorky. I'd be at a disadvantage even without the stutter. Ergo, there are natural limitations to my success. “I love working at Forester+Blake. I don't want to work anywhere else, but I want more control over the work I do.”
He sighs. “And it's the recognition you want, right?”
“I want more creative control.”
Teresa is fantastic, but our visions don't always line up. And when they don't, she gets defensive. If I ran my own creative team, my work could be more innovative and I wouldn't have to fight so hard for the good ideas. Plus, as team leader, I would get a raise.
