by Lauren Rowe
I uncross my arms and immediately cross them again. He’s... wow.
“Thanks for the ride,” Keane says breezily. “It’s gonna be a pleasure hanging out with you, Maddy.”
“Thanks?” I say.
“And, hey, I’m sorry again about my laggery these past few days. I’ve been stretched like an Abba Zaba lately—ya know, work hard, play hard.”
“Stretched like... huh?”
“Stretched like an Abba Zaba.” He gesticulates like he’s stretching something between his hands. “You know—taffy?”
“Oh.”
“You’ve never had an Abba Zaba bar?”
I shake my head.
“Chewy taffy with a peanut butter center?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, holy shit, Mad Dog. We gotta pop your Abba Zaba cherry as soon as humanly possible. Abba Zaba’s one of life’s simple”—he grins and winks again— “pleasures.”
There’s an awkward beat as I stare at Keane, dumbfounded. What the heck on a Ritz cracker is this strange creature standing before me who says the word “pleasure” every third word? This blue-haired, blue-eyed, dimpled, broad-shouldered creature who within the first thirty seconds of meeting me has already called me “Mad Dog” and said he wants to “pop my Abba Zaba cherry”? Did he talk like this during our brief phone call last night? I really don’t think so. In fact, I’m pretty sure he talked like a regular human last night.
I point to the small duffel bag in Keane’s hand. “Is that all you’re bringing with you?”
“Yup, this is it, Maddy.” He holds up the bag. “Everything I need to be handsome and happy all the livelong day, stuffed into one little bag.” He winks at me for the third time in forty seconds. “I guess I’m just a man of simple pleasures, baby doll.”
Aaaaaaaaaand I’m back.
Whatever hormone-induced spell has been threatening to overtake my body was just now broken—or dare I say smashed?—by that “wink + pleasure + baby doll” thing Keane Morgan just tried to pawn off on me as “charm.” I feel like I’ve been smacked across the face with a “pull yourself together!” stick and, just that fast, I’m remembering this blue-haired Adonis is the very same jerk who didn’t have the courtesy to reply to a single one of my messages for days and then, totally unprovoked, sent me an up-close-and-personal photo of his friend’s Alabama black snake.
Honestly, I’m not buying the line of crap Keane tried to peddle me last night on the phone. Am I really supposed to believe that, after Keane’s best friend’s phone battery died, he drunkenly used Keane’s phone to try to send a dick-and-balls photo to his girlfriend, but erroneously sent it to me? Please, child. Does he think I was born yesterday?
And on top of that, does Keane truly expect me to believe he missed all my calls and messages thanks to some sort of self-imposed “technology cleanse”? Seems pretty far-fetched to me, especially now that I’m meeting the guy. I mean, come on, Keane doesn’t strike me as a devout practitioner of transcendental meditation. Pfft.
Okay, so the guy’s physically gorgeous—so what? As far as I’m concerned, Keane is nothing but a big ol’ bullshitter, and quite possibly even a douche. Yeah, I said it. I mean, seriously, who uses the term “baby doll” other than total douches? It’s just plain rude. Not to mention completely sexist.
“So, are you ready to hit the road, then?” I ask, motioning to my car.
“Sure thing.”
I open my car’s hatchback, grab Keane’s bag, and stuff it into a tiny crevice between my jam-packed stuff.
“So, hey, Maddy,” Keane says behind me.
I turn around and look at him.
“So are you game to press the restart button here?” he asks. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Totally my fault, of course.” He flashes a crooked smile. “I’d be grateful if you could find it in your heart to forgive my idiocy and start over.”
Gosh, that was a lovely speech. Perfect, really. He displayed just the right amount of humility and remorse—flashed just the right amount of dimples while maintaining earnest and direct eye contact at all times. Bravo. But, sorry, I’m not buying any of it. If he lied to me last night, then he’s lying to me now.
“Sure, Keane, your idiocy is officially forgotten,” I say (because, whether Keane Morgan is a liar or saint, he’s still my one-way ticket to a free parking spot mere blocks from campus). “Water under the bridge.”
Keane’s smile lights up his entire face. “Awesome,” he says, sounding relieved. He shifts his weight, spreads his legs slightly, and levels me with his astonishing eyes-that-match-his-hair. “Hearing you say that gives me extreme pleasure, Maddy.” He grins and his dimples pop again. “Extreme pleasure, indeed.”
Chapter 11
Keane
For the past forty minutes or so, Maddy and I have been silently driving south on I-5 out of Seattle, listening to a mutually agreed upon indie rock station on Pandora. I’ve tried to start conversations several times, believe me, but it turns out Maddy Milliken’s not what I’d call “a natural conversationalist.”
“Hey, bee tee dubs,” I say after a long stretch of awkward silence. “I can drive whenever you want. Just lemme know if you need a break, baby doll.”
“Thank you, but I prefer to drive,” she replies, pursing her lips. “And please don’t call me ‘baby doll.’”
“I’m an excellent driver,” I say.
“I’m sure you are,” Maddy says, scrunching up her nose like she’s smelling the underside of Zander’s balls. “But I prefer to drive.”
“No,” I say, chuckling. “That’s my Rainman impression, sweet cheeks. ‘I’m an excellent driver.’ You know, Dustin Hoffman in a gray suit?”
Maddy presses her lips together, clearly mustering all her energy to simply tolerate me. “I haven’t seen that one,” she says, her voice tight. “And please don’t call me ‘sweet cheeks.’”
“You haven’t seen Rainman?” I bellow. “Dude. I thought you were going to film school.”
“I am.”
“Well, Rainman won Best Picture. Aren’t film students supposed to be obsessed with watching all the Best Picture winners? You better get on that. It’s a good one, babesicles.”
Maddy lets out a long sigh and touches her forehead like I’ve just given her a migraine. “Thanks for the tip, babesicles,” she says, her mouth tight. “But although some film students might be obsessed with watching Oscar-winning dramas, I’m not one of them, sweet cheeks, because my personal dream is to make award-winning documentaries, baby doll.” She glances away from the road to glower at me. “To each her own, right, sugar lips?”
Wow. That was more verbiage all at once from Maddy than she’s unleashed during the entire past hour—not to mention the most sass she’s displayed, too. Yee-boy! This is gonna be fun.
“Oh dear,” Maddy says, putting her fingertips to her mouth. “I’m sorry. Does repeatedly being called insincere terms of endearment bother you, Keane? Does it perhaps make you feel like a slab of meat?”
“Hell, yes, it makes me feel like a slab of meat,” I say, flashing her a wicked grin. “And I love it.”
Maddy twists her mouth, clearly trying not to smile.
“So you wanna make documentaries, huh?” I say.
“Yup.”
“Like what?”
“Anything, really, as long as it’s real and raw and thought-provoking.” She bites her lower lip, apparently considering her next words. “My favorite thing in the world is finding quiet moments of magic other people maybe don’t notice because they’re too busy looking down at their phones.”
“Well, shit, you’re speaking my language now,” I say. “Not looking down at my phone happens to be my superpower.”
Maddy chuckles. “Yeah, I noticed, dickweed.” She bursts out laughing at her own joke.
“I’m sorry about that again,” I say.
She sighs. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Water under the bridge, remember?” She glances away from the roa
d to flash me a shy smile. “Honestly, we’re good, honey nuggets.”
Okay, that was awesome. I know Maddy said words similar to those this morning, but there’s no comparing the genuine way she just delivered them to the tight-ass way she said them earlier this morning.
“Hey, excuse me real quick,” I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket. I tap out a quick text to Zander: “Not even 9:00 yet and I do believe Maddy Milliken’s been sussed.”
“Niiiiiiiice,” Zander replies. “How’d you do it?”
“Apology + dimples = Forgiven.”
“Well don’t stop now, baby. Suss the living hell outta her! Ask her about her H, H & Ds.”
“Oooooh, yeah. Totes forgot all about that. Doing it now. Bye,” I write.
I shove my phone into my pocket. “Sorry about that,” I say to Maddy. “So, hey, I’ve got a couple questions for you...” I begin, and then I proceed to ask Maddy a shit-ton of questions about her hobbies, hopes, and dreams. And much to my surprise, Maddy’s answers to all my questions are so fucking interesting and entertaining, I soon find myself asking more and more questions just for the fuck of it—not even for the purpose of sussing her—until, finally, I’m shocked to find myself balls-deep in the conversation and hanging on Maddy’s every word.
When my stomach growls, I look down at my watch thinking we’ve probably been talking for about an hour, and I’m shocked outta my skull to discover we’ve been chatting nonstop for close to three solid hours.
“Ho-lee sussage,” I say, looking up from my watch. “Is your hatchback a time machine?”
Maddy looks at the clock on her dashboard. “Oh my gosh,” she says. “I’ve been talking your ear off forever. I’m so sorry. Wow. I never do that, I swear.”
“Don’t apologize. You made documentaries about spelling bees and wheelchair-rugby and gorillas sound cooler than Iron Man, dude.”
She smiles shyly at me.
“So have you made any documentaries yet?”
“I’ve made mostly short films, other than this one full-length documentary I made last year. That film is what got me into UCLA, actually.”
“What’s it about?”
“The men’s and women’s basketball teams at U Dub.”
“Wow. Not at all what I thought you’d say.”
“What’d you think I’d say?”
“Global warming? Shining a spotlight on some sort of social injustice?”
Maddy smiles broadly. “Well, yeah, actually, it’s about how the men’s team gets a shit-ton more support and adulation than the women’s team, even though the women work just as hard.”
I laugh. “Social injustice. Damn, I’m good.”
She laughs and nods. “I know it might sound heavy-handed in the explaining of it, but the actual movie itself doesn’t come across as preachy, I swear. It’s thought provoking, for sure, but it’s also thoroughly entertaining and touching and funny. One critic called it ‘Hoop Dreams with a gender twist.’”
“I’m assuming that’s a huge compliment?”
“Huge.”
“You know how I knew that, even though I’ve never heard of Hoop Dreams?”
“How?
“Because by the expression on your face, it’s clear that other movie is your idea of porn.”
Maddy belly laughs at that. “Yes, it is, actually.”
I laugh with her. “What’s your movie called?”
“Shoot Like a Girl.”
“Ah. Very cool.”
“Thank you.”
“And, just so you know, when I said ‘cool’ just now? I was spelling that ‘k-e-w-l.’”
“Wow. It must be really cool, then.”
“It is.”
We share another huge smile.
“So how’d you get the idea for your movie?” I ask.
“You sure you wanna hear this? It’s kinda long.”
I motion to the road ahead of us. “It appears I’ve got some free time.”
Maddy takes a deep breath and launches into an explanation of how she was hired to film both teams’ basketball games for the coaches to use the footage at practices. “And, right away,” she says, “when I started attending both teams’ games, it irked me how, at the men’s games, the stands were always jam-packed with screaming fans, while at the women’s games, the place was usually only a quarter-filled and as quiet as a morgue. And that gave me my idea. So I got all necessary approvals and was allowed to shoot more than just games—you know, interviews with players, practices, stuff like that. And when I finally started editing all the footage I’d shot, I realized, ‘Oh my effing God, I think I’ve captured lightning in a bottle here.’ I just knew I had the makings of an edge-of-your-seat sports movie combined with thought-provoking social commentary. There was even a little side story of unrequited love, because this one guy on the men’s team was obviously in love with one of the female players, and she had no idea about it. I kept showing footage of the guy sitting in the stands at the women’s games, yearning for her. It was so sweet.”
“Did the guy wind up getting the girl after she saw the movie?”
“No,” Maddy says, clearly disappointed. “She saw the movie—but they didn’t get together.”
“What? How is that possible?”
Maddy makes an exaggerated sad face. “She told him she just wanted to be friends.”
“What the fuck?” I say. “I’m so bummed. That’s not the way that story’s supposed to end.”
“I know. The dreaded friend zone.” She smiles ruefully. “Unfortunately, it’s a permanent address for some of us.”
“Damn. I was thinking you were gonna say she saw the movie and they lived happily ever after.”
“That’s definitely the ending I would have written if my film had been scripted.”
“Shit, I feel like I wanna call that guy up and give him some lessons on slaying it with the ladies. There’s absolutely no excuse for a guy to get friend-zoned, ever.”
“Well, it’s not his fault. If there’s no chemistry, there’s no chemistry. Some things can’t be forced.”
“It’s not about forcing a goddamned thing. If a guy knows what he’s doing, then chemistry with any girl he wants is a foregone conclusion.”
Maddy glances away from the road to shoot me a snarky look. “You do realize you sounded like a serial-killer-psychopath just now, right?”
“I thought that guy was a baller?”
“Well, he plays basketball, yes, but he’s really shy. Not everyone is like you, Keane.”
“Shy or not, there’s no excuse for a guy to get friend-zoned, especially a baller.”
“So you’re telling me you’ve never been friend-zoned?”
I scoff. “Of course not.”
“Oh my God. I’m driving twelve hundred miles with a psychopath.”
“It’s never happened to me. How does that make me a psychopath?”
“It’s awfully hard for me to believe you’ve never been rejected once in your whole life.”
“Oh, I’ve been rejected—girls have broken up with me when I’ve acted like a dick. I’ve just never been ‘friend-zoned’ before. Every single time I’ve been sexually attracted to a woman and made a move, she’s been sexually attracted to me in return. And then, just to be clear, that’s the part of the story when we’ve had fucking awesome sex.”
Maddy blushes.
“So, hey,” I say. “We’ve gotten sidetracked again. Finish telling me about Shoot Like a Girl. You’ve got my full attention—although I should mention that’s a lot like having the full attention of a gnat, so don’t get too excited.”
Maddy laughs. “How about this—given your gnat-like attention span, I’ll try to make my movie sound as much like Ironman as humanly possible.”
“Excellent plan.”
Maddy proceeds to tell me a shit-ton more about her movie, throwing in the phrase “and then everyone put on an iron suit” at random intervals, and I must admit, her excitement for her movie is infect
ious. “My favorite part was the juxtaposition of the male experience with the female one. For example, I’d show a bunch of the guys talking about their dreams of going into the NBA and buying houses for their mothers, and then I’d immediately toggle to female athletes saying they knew their college careers wouldn’t lead to fame or fortune, but they played for the love of the game and their teammates, or maybe I’d show them playing in an empty stadium.”
“Very cool,” I say.
“Is that k-e-w-l?” Maddy asks.
“Absolutely. Great word, bee tee dubs: juxtaposition.” I stop and think for a beat. “‘When an army of neuroscientists studied and compared the very large brain of Maddy Milliken with the pea-sized brain of Keane Morgan, they couldn’t help noticing the juxtaposition was a stark one, indeed.’”
Maddy laughs.
“So, anyway,” I say. “You were saying?”
“No, no, I’m done talking. You’ve now heard everything there is to hear about my movie. Sorry my explanation was so long. You must be pulling your hair out from boredom.”
“Not at all,” I say. “I feel like I just watched a TED talk. And, just so you know, even if you’d bored me to tears (which you didn’t), I wouldn’t pull out even a strand of my glorious blue mane. My azure locks are my crowning glory.”
Maddy giggles. “You’re so funny, Keane.”
“I might be funny, but you’re amazing. Seriously, Maddy, you’re the Steve Jobs of documentaries.”
“Oh my gosh, Keane, you’re making me blush.”
“I’ve noticed that’s not a hard thing to do.”
Maddy blushes again.
“So when can I see this masterpiece of yours, Scorsese? Gimme some popcorn and Milk Duds and sign me the fuck up.”
Maddy’s face lights up. “You’d watch my movie? Wow. Well, you can watch it tonight, if you want. It’s on a hard drive in my bag.”
“Hell yeah, I wanna watch it tonight. We’ll do a basketball-documentary double-header: Shoot Like a Girl and that other basketball documentary, too—the porno you mentioned.”
“Hoop Dreams?”
“That’s the one. I should warn you, though: I’ve never watched a documentary before, other than at school and on ESPN. You’ll be popping my documentary-cherry, so be gentle with me.”
