by Lauren Rowe
“But, hey, like I say, I’m not your target demographic, so your core belief that every woman wants you is still soundly intact.”
Keane exhales and shakes his head. “This is such bullshit.”
“What’s such bullshit?”
“You think you’re not my target demo, but you so are. You’re a woman and you’re single, so—wait, you’re single, right?”
“Yeah, I’m very, very single.” I snort. “Lately, I might as well be a nun.”
Keane holds up his index finger. “Ah, now that’s an interesting item for our ‘juxtaposition of the genders’ file. A guy says he’s ‘very, very single,’ he means he’s playing the field, handsome and happy all the livelong day. A chick says it and she means she’s not gettin’ any. That’s a kinda interesting juxtaposition, don’t you think?”
I make a face that says, “You’ve made an interesting point.”
“So is your nunnish-ness a religious thing, like a ‘saving-yourself-for-marriage’ thing—or more of a ‘celibacy-because-I-can’t-get-laid’ thing?”
“Why are you so interested in my sex life?”
“I’m interested in everyone’s sex life. I love sex. Doing it, talking about it, thinking about it, researching it, hunting for it. And did I mention ‘doing it’?”
“Hunting for it?” I make a face of disgust.
Keane ignores my obvious distaste. “Hell yeah. My favorite things about sex are, in this order: doing it, hunting for it, and talking about it—and I especially love talking about it with someone like you.”
I feel myself blush. “What’s someone like me?”
“A celibate girl who blushes every time I say anything even remotely sexual.”
My cheeks burn even hotter.
Keane points at my face. “Just like that.”
“I’m not actually celibate,” I say, my cheeks on fire. “I’m just in a bit of a dry spell lately. It’s not a master plan, trust me.”
“Ah. The ol’ ‘married to Jesus by default’ thing.”
“Something like that.”
“You religious?”
“No.”
“Me, neither. But I do believe in something bigger than myself.”
“Same.”
“Okay, well, then, cool. You’re not actually married to Christ; you’re just going steady with him. Plus, it appears you’ve got at least two out of three girl-parts, so that means you’re one hundred percent my target demo, whether you like it or not, which therefore means you’re most definitely swooning over my killer dimples right this very second and wanting to jump my bones like a lion on an alpaca.” He flashes his dimples. “Or, I suppose, like a pickle hurling herself outta jar.”
“I’m not swooning over your dimples and I don’t want to jump your bones.”
“Impossible. When it comes to women wanting me, women are my puppets and I’m their puppet master. It’s as simple as that.”
“Keane, I’m sorry if this disrupts your precarious grasp on reality, but—wait. Two out of three girl parts?”
He points at my chest. “One. Two. I can sorta see the general shape of your merchandise, but I gotta tell ya that blouse ain’t doing you any favors, sweetheart.”
I make a face reflecting my disdain.
“So, anyway, you were saying?” Keane says. “You’re dying to jump my bones like a horny puppet and...?”
“Uh, no. I was saying I’m not the least bit attracted to you in a sexual way, especially now that I know you’re a total and complete pig who ‘hunts’ women and calls them ‘puppets’ and scopes out ‘merchandise.’” I grimace. “And I was also saying you shouldn’t get an inferiority complex over my lack of sexual interest in you because I’m most definitely not your target audience.”
“Okay, first off, I’m not a pig. I’ll have you know I have a deep and abiding respect for women—just ask my mom and sister and any girlfriend I’ve ever had—all of whom still love me, bee tee dubs, ’cause I’ve never cheated or had a messy or mean-spirited breakup in my entire life. I might be flakey and selfish, and sometimes I’m a dick, but I’m not a pig. And, yeah, I love sex. That doesn’t make me a pig. It makes me a twenty-three-year-old dude with a dick and balls. So what if I like making a scavenger hunt outta getting laid sometimes? When you have women throwing themselves at you right and left, you gotta find ways to keep things interesting. Sometimes I’m like, ‘Hey, I wonder if I can get laid today by a soccer mom with brown hair I meet in the produce section by the tangerines?’ You try walking in Ball Peen Hammer’s shoes and see if you don’t start doing the same fucking thing.” He runs his hand through his hair and his bicep bulges under his T-shirt sleeve as he does. “Now, as far as checking out the merchandise. So what? That doesn’t make me a pig, either. That makes me a guy who loves women and everything about them, especially their gorgeous bodies. Okay, and the puppet thing? I stand by my statement. Women are my puppets. In the sack. I pull this string over here and they come for me. I pull that one over there and they do it again. It’s my favorite game. And that makes me a pig in your eyes?” Wow, he’s really working himself up over this. “No, it makes me awesome in the sack—every woman’s fantasy. Believe me, no woman has ever called me a pig after sleeping with me. Quite the contrary.” He takes a huge breath and leans back in his chair. “And second off, why the fuck do you think you’re not my target audience, baby doll?”
I’m absolutely stunned into silence for a very long beat. “I... Wow.” I shake my head like I’m erasing an Etch-a-Sketch board. “I...” But I still can’t find words.
“Cat got your tongue, sweet thing?” He grins.
“That was quite a speech.”
“I feel passionately about the topic.”
“Obviously. Wow. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You did. I’m not a pig. Start that rumor and my mom and sister will string me up by my balls. And I very much like having my balls.”
“Sorry. I take it back. You’re not a pig. You’re just a horny, delusional, psychopathic, arrogant, blue-haired puppet master who collects pickles.”
“Thank you. Glad we cleared that up.”
I chuckle. “You prefer to be called all those things to ‘a pig’?”
“Fuck yeah.” He puts his forearms on the table, his eyes sparkling. “So, let’s talk about the more important issue: what the fuck makes you think you’re not my target audience?”
I shrug. “It’s not personal. You’re just not my type.”
Keane laughs. “I’m everyone’s type.”
“God, you’re so freakin’ cocky, it’s scary.”
“Does cocky connote a heightened but ultimately insupportable sense of confidence?”
“Yes, it does. Very well said.”
“That’s actually a Zander-ism. He says that line whenever a woman calls him cocky, which happens a lot. Zander’s big on fancy words and definitions. You’d love him—he’s super smart like you. But, regardless, the point is I’m not cocky because my heightened confidence is one hundred percent supportable.” He beams a huge smile at me, his eyes twinkling, his dimples taunting me.
“Well, Keane, whether you believe it or not, I’m honestly not the least bit attracted to you.”
“Say that again, please.”
“I’m not the least bit attracted to you.”
“One more time,” Keane says.
“Gladly.” I say it again.
“Hmm,” he says. “I can’t understand that strange jumble of vowels and consonants coming out of your mouth, Maddy Milliken. What do those funny sounds mean?”
“No one’s ever said that to you before?”
“Never.”
I roll my eyes.
“Maddy Milliken, Professional Eye-Roller.”
I do it again.
“They’re gonna get stuck like that, baby doll.” He exhales with sudden frustration. “Why aren’t you admitting you find me attractive? I’m willing to admit I find you attractive.”
&nbs
p; I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “You do?”
“Well, of course. I’m not blind.” He motions to me like he’s saying something self-explanatory.
I feel myself blushing, yet again. “Thank you.”
“You’re super cute—no, you’re more than cute. You’re pretty. In fact, I’d go so far as to say you’re ‘highly attractive.’” He leans forward on his elbows and clasps his hands. “I’m not personally attracted to you, mind you, but I most definitely find you objectively attractive.”
I do a double take. “What the heck does that mean?”
“It means you’re smart and funny and cool and pretty and if I were thinking about setting a bro up with someone—you know, a guy looking for an actual girlfriend, and not just a pretty girl to bang—then I’d be more than confident setting him up with you. It means I consider you my honorary little sister.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I mutter, slapping my palm to my forehead.
“Hey, keep your boyfriend outta this, Maddy Milliken.” Keane leans back into his chair, squinting at me. “You’re really, truly not attracted to me?”
“Same as you. I find you objectively attractive, but I’m not personally attracted to you—at least, not sexually. But, I swear, if I knew a girl who was looking to have one night of meaningless fun with a horny Smurf or a psychopathic bobble-headed troll-doll, I’d totally hook you two up.”
Keane purses his lips but doesn’t say anything.
“All right, here we go,” the waitress says, appearing out of nowhere to lay plates of food onto the table. “Ketchup’s there. You need anything else, kids?”
Keane looks at me and I shrug.
“Nope. I think my honorary little sister and I are good,” he says, his eyes burning.
“Great,” the waitress says. “Enjoy.”
Keane and I silently dig into our food for a very long while, not looking at each other, until Keane suddenly and emphatically puts down his burger and leans forward sharply.
“You’re so full of shit,” he says, scowling. “You totally wanna bone me.”
I’m aghast. “Absolutely not,” I breathe.
He narrows his eyes. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it.”
“Liar.”
“Oh my God. You really are a psychopath. No wonder you think you can have any woman you want—you’ve got delusions of grandeur.”
Keane squints at me and slowly shoves a French fry into his mouth.
“I can prove I’m not sexually attracted to you,” I say emphatically.
“Oh, really? Please do.”
“If I wanted to ‘bone’ you, as you so artfully put it,” I say, “then I wouldn’t even be having this conversation with you. Because when I think a guy’s hot—when I’m even the slightest bit sexually attracted to a guy—I become a babbling, pathetic pile of goo who can’t string two coherent words together. Every freaking time.”
“Well, clearly not ‘every freakin’ time,’ seeing as how you’ve been talking my ear off without taking a breath for the past four fucking hours.”
I gasp and put my palm on my chest. I feel like Keane’s just slapped me across the face. “Gosh, I’m sorry I’ve bored you so horribly with my constant babbling,” I grit out, but my haughtiness is an act. In truth, I feel like I’m on the verge of tearing up, just that fast. “Why the hell did you keep asking me questions if listening to me talk was so torturous for you?” I say, my voice straining. Oh my God. My eyes are burning. My throat feels tight.
“Maddy.”
“For your information, I hardly ever talk the way I’ve been talking to you with anyone, other than my sister. Normally, when I’m talking to someone I’ve just met, male or female, whether they’re rippling with muscles and dimples or not, I have to force myself to talk in complete sentences until I get really comfortable, which usually takes a stupidly long time.” My words are coming out in a torrent of embarrassment and hurt.
“Maddy, you’re—”
“It’s just that you kept asking me so many questions and it seemed like you were genuinely interested in what I was saying and it was just so easy to talk to you and you have that stupid blue hair and those crazy dimples and for some reason I felt like I could let my guard down and—”
“Maddy.”
Keane’s sharp tone has commanded my attention. I abruptly stop talking and bite my lip, trying to keep it together, my chest heaving.
“Calm your tits, dude,” Keane says softly, his tone much kinder than his word choice. “If you’ve got ’em under that god-awful shirt, that is.” He flashes me a kindhearted smile. “Tamp down the crazy just a notch, sweetheart.”
I smash my lips together, trying to keep them from trembling.
“I asked you questions because I was interested in everything you were telling me,” Keane continues in a calm, soothing voice. “Because talking to you is awesome and I’ve never met anyone like you, ever. I was simply making the point you’re clearly capable of coherent conversation with a guy you want to bone, that’s all. Don’t get all wilty-flower-insecure on me, okay? You’ve totally misunderstood me.”
My eyes are stinging, so I blink rapidly, trying to keep my threatening emotions at bay. Other than my first boyfriend, Justin, I honestly can’t remember the last time I’ve warmed to someone so easily and quickly—but I’d certainly never tell Keane that. “I’m not normally so sensitive,” I say, clearing my throat and sucking back my emotion. “I think you just hit the bull’s-eye on a really big insecurity of mine.”
“I get it,” Keane says softly. “But, trust me, Maddy, you haven’t bored me at all. Have I bored you?”
I roll my eyes like that’s a ridiculous question. “I think psychopathic pigs would have to fly before you could ever bore me.” I rub my face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I reacted so strongly.”
“You just misunderstood me, that’s all.”
“I’m not normally so sensitive,” I assure him.
“So what if you are? Maybe I’m abnormal and un-charming, and you’re sensitive. Maybe together, we’re like peanut butter and chocolate.”
A little smile overtakes my lips. “Which one am I?”
“Chocolate, of course. Someone needs to take Zander’s place when he’s not here.”
I grin.
“Maddy, seriously. Even if I were being a prick to you, which I totally wasn’t, why would you give a shit what I think? I’m an abnormal and charm-less idiot.”
A full smile spreads across my face.
“Ah, there it is. Turn that frown upside down, choco-nana. Come on.”
I chuckle. “Where do you get all the weird stuff you say?”
Keane shrugs. “God.”
“God sent you ‘choco-nana’?”
“Hey, God likes ‘quiet moments of magic’ as much as the next guy.”
We share a beaming smile.
“You feeling better now, Mad Dog?”
I nod. “Sorry about that. I’m fine now.”
“Cool.” He looks at me for a long beat. “No more wilty-flower shit, okay? At least not with me. I love hanging with you. Swear to God.”
“I love hanging with you, too.”
“Cool. So now that catastrophe’s been averted, I’m gonna ignore you and suck down this milkshake before it melts, okay?”
“Please do.”
Keane takes a huge swig of his milkshake and his eyes practically pop out of his head. “Oh my fucking God!” he blurts. He shoves the milkshake across the table at me, his eyes on fire. “You gotta taste this, Madagascar. Best milkshake you’ll ever taste.”
I dutifully take a long sip and, oh my effing God, he’s right: it’s the best milkshake I’ve ever tasted.
“Insanity, right?” Keane says.
“Absolute psychosis.”
Keane flags down the waitress and she comes over to the table. “Could you bring us another glass? I gotta share my amazing milkshake with my amazing little sister here. We’re celebr
ating what an awesome, funny, smart, pretty and amazing little badass she is.”
“Wow, that is cause to celebrate,” the waitress says. “Coming right up.”
“It’s okay,” I say to Keane. “I’m pretty stuffed from my sandwich.”
“Hey,” Keane says sharply, pointing his finger at me. “Life’s short, baby doll. You gotta enjoy every ‘quiet moment of magic’ that comes your way—and I’m telling you sharing this milkshake with me is gonna top your list of quiet moments of magic.”
“So that’s your new catchphrase? ‘Quiet moment of magic’?”
“Yeah, pretty cool, right? I figure if I say it enough times, I can trademark it and make a gazillion dollars.”
I laugh for the millionth time today.
The waitress returns with an empty glass and a canister of whipped cream, and Keane takes great care pouring half his shake into the new glass. “You’ll thank me profusely for this,” he says, topping off my half with a mammoth pile of cream. “Which is what all the horny ladies do after I get through with ’em—they thank me profusely.” He winks and pushes the glass toward me. “Here you go, sweet meat.”
“Yeah, um. Back to that women-thanking-you-profusely thing.” I wait for a young family to walk past our table before speaking again. “How exactly do you make women throw themselves at you again? Do you just show up and say, ‘Here I am, baby doll,’ and they tackle you?”
“Pretty much.”
I make a face registering my disbelief.
“It’s true. Women sniff me out like dogs sensing an earthquake. They just know.”
“Oh my God, Keane. Don’t compare women to dogs. Pickles were bad enough.”
“Hey, at least I didn’t call ’em horny bitches, which I usually do when I’m making my earthquake analogy.”
I scowl. “Oh for the love of God. Please don’t call women bitches.”
Keane belly laughs. “I never do. My mom and sister would cut off my balls, trust me. I only do it when I’m making my earthquake analogy ’cause it’s a clever pun. Get it? ’Cause bitches are dogs and dogs sense earthquakes?”
“Yeah, I get it.” I push my plate aside and lean forward. “So, okay, I’ll bite,” I say. “What do women sense about you the same way bitches sense an impending earthquake?”