Keegan holds my hand as I climb into the car. Another one of those unexpectedly polite gestures that I’m not used to.
A moment later, he climbs in on the other side and the driver takes off. It’s not a stretch limo, but it definitely has more room than a standard town car, and there’s a partition between the front seat and the back.
Once we’re settled in the car, Keegan takes my hand in his. I don’t know what gives me away. Maybe there’s a faint tremor in my hand, or maybe he just knows me that well. As soon as my hand is in his, he senses how nervous I am. He gives my hand a squeeze and asks, “Why are you nervous?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I guess I’ve just never been on a date like this.”
“A date like this?” he teases. “I’ve known you for a decade. You’ve been on dates before.”
“No, silly.” I punch him playfully on the arm. “A date like this. Fancy, dressed up, the guy in a suit, a hired driver.”
“What?” He feigns shock. “Ollie never treated you like this?”
Yeah, Ollie was my boyfriend in college and for a couple of years after. Keegan never liked him, so I’m sure he thinks his derision is fair. Still, I dated the guy for nearly four years, so I feel obliged to defend him.
“We were poor college students. So, no, there were no galas.”
“What was that asinine thing he used to say?”
“That he respected my earning potential too much to conform to outdated conventions established by the patriarchy.”
“That’s a lot of words just to say he didn’t want to pay for dinner.”
Keegan and I had this argument a lot when I was dating Ollie. When I was twenty, I admired Ollie’s progressive stance on feminist issues. Besides, I was used to making my own way in the world. My parents’ relationship had taught me early on that a woman shouldn’t, and can’t, depend on a man to support her. Financially or emotionally.
In hindsight, I wish Ollie had tried a little harder. He could have respected my earning potentialandspoiled me every once in a while—like I did for him.
“I still think the guy is just a dick.”
I shrug. “Probably. But on the bright side, he’s someone else’s problem now.”
“What about prom? Did you go to prom?”
“Yes,” I hedge. Prom did not turn out great for me.
I glance over at Keegan and realize he’s grinning, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“I feel like maybe you remember my prom story.”
He tips his head and makes a humming noise like he’s digging deep into his memories. “This is the story that ends with your date making out with your best friend?”
“So, you do remember?” He’s grinning now, and his teasing makes me feel better about the memory. “It’s hard to hold a grudge about prom, when they’re still together and married with two kids. I guess it really was true love.”
“Still, shitty move for your best friend.”
My hand is still in Keegan’s, and I realize, suddenly, that I’m not nervous anymore. All of this teasing, which might’ve seemed harsh coming from anyone else, was his way of helping me relax.
I give his hand a squeeze. “I like to think I upgraded on the best friend front.”
He pulls me closer, wrapping his arm over my shoulder, tucking me to his side. Just like that, any lingering apprehension I have about tonight fades as I’m surrounded by the familiar scent of him. Woodsy and spicy and everything comforting and wonderful in my life.
"Do you want to tell me why you're really nervous?"
I feel his breath in my hair as he asks the question. Did I? Not really. It was ... complex. So complex. And if I said the wrong thing, it could set this night off on the wrong foot.
“You look so professional.” I’m waffling, but it’s the best I could come up with.
It sounds like an accusation when I say it out loud.
