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All Keefe wanted was to peacefully stroll through the park, gazing at the trees and walking his dog.
Technically, Flint isn't his dog, but Keefe basically shares parental duties with Marella. He's taken Flint to the vet the past three times. Honestly, Marella's been shirking responsibility lately, and he's beginning to think he should be Flint's first emergency contact, but maybe he'll wait to have that conversation until after his peaceful walk.
As Keefe considers how to approach the subject with Marella—"Hey, Ella, can I assume co-ownership of your Doberman real quick? Thanks, you're the best!"—the Doberman in question goes from quietly ambling along to suddenly releasing a series of nasty barks at a passing cat, then taking the fuck off.
"WHAT!" screams Keefe, dragged forward by the leash, which he had securely wrapped around his wrist not once, not twice, but three times. He is now severely regretting that choice. "WHAT! OW! FLINT, WHAT?"
Flint does not reply to him. He keeps running forward, all sleek speed, and Keefe desperately follows, all fumbling limbs. He tries to dig his heels into the path, becomes too scared of falling flat on his face, and focuses on keeping up with Marella's goddamn dog.
"FLINT! PLEASE, WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS!" Keefe tries.
Still no response.
Then Flint abruptly stops running. Keefe notices, of course, but his reflexes are nowhere near as quick. Time slows down. He watches himself run straight into a park bench. Momentarily after, his legs explode with pain.
"Ow," Keefe whispers. He would have continued to lay there, melting into the grass, if it weren't for the issue that Flint was once more tugging at his leash. "I'm disowning you," Keefe threatens, though he's mostly speaking at the ground. He remembers the three vet visits Marella needs to atone for. "No, wait, I'm officially co-adopting you. Then I'm disowning you."
"Oh, hey boy."
This new voice is very warm, very deep, something plucked from Keefe's dreams. Calling a grown man "boy" was definitely a choice but Keefe could overcome it, and anyway, he was currently facedown in the grass showing no sign of resurfacing, so maybe it was the appropriate term for the situation? How does one respond suavely to being called "boy"?
Flint barks happily.
"Oh." All the blood rushes into Keefe's face as he realizes, "You're talking to the dog."
There's a laugh, which is impossibly warmer and deeper than that voice. "Hi to you too."
Oh, fuck.
Keefe finally gets himself vaguely upright. "I think my legs are broken," he says, inspecting his shins as an excuse to not look up at this new person, who sounds impossibly sexy and better not ruin Keefe's soaring imagination with reality.
"Yeah, I saw that fall. Don't worry, they don't look broken. Just... gonna be a little bruised. " Another laugh, this one more sympathetic. "You alright, though? What happened?"
"My annoying neighbor's annoying dog decided to be the sole competitor in a 100-meter dash," Keefe says. He cradles his wrist, where the skin has been rubbed tender by that dumb, overwound leash. "I was the unfortunate victim."
"Aw, poor you," says the guy, and Keefe blinks down at his shoes in surprise. Is he concussed? Did that sound vaguely flirty?
He slowly inches his gaze up, terrified to finally look at this mysterious, possibly-vaguely-flirty stranger, and is stunned into further silence when he discovers the most gorgeous man he's ever seen. "Discovers" is definitely the right word—like stumbling upon a cave filled with crystals, a sparkling desert oasis. Those eyes.
Keefe forgets all about his broken legs. He tries to think of what to say next. Did he even say hi? Has he always been this impolite? "I, um."
"Need company?" The beautiful man doesn't wait for a response, just sits beside Keefe on the grass. There's a perfectly fine park bench behind them. It goes unused. "My name's Fitz, by the way."
"Um, Keefe. That's me. I'm Keefe."
Fitz gives another one of his beautiful, benevolent smiles. "It's nice to meet you." And he's so polite? "So, what's your annoying neighbor's annoying dog's name?"
"Um," says Keefe, and maybe he is concussed because his brain is totally failing him. He can't stop focusing on that voice, that smile. "Well, um, his name. The dog's name. Is Flint."
"Wait. That's kind of an awesome name."
"Right? I came up with it," Keefe says, with far too much pride.
"Nice. I've been thinking of getting a dog, actually, but maybe I'll wait till my life gets less crazy."
"Oh, yeah. This one," Keefe says, nodding to Flint, "is a total handful. When I met him, he tried to bite me. And kept trying. For six months. But now he's mostly a sweetheart."
"Of course he is."
Flint, who had previously been sniffing a random patch of grass, is narcissistically drawn to their conversation. He nudges his head into Fitz's lap, and in any other situation, Keefe would take that as a total betrayal. Now, however, he understands. He wishes he could be in Flint's position, actually.
"Hey boy," Fitz says. He's scratching Flint's chin and Flint looks positively orgasmic, or, as orgasmic as a dog can look. "Oh, you like that, don't you?"
Keefe is seething with jealousy. Can dogs even appreciate human beauty? After a couple more scratches, he decides Flint has gotten enough attention.
"How long do you think it'll take for my legs to work again?"
"Oh, I don't know." Fitz returns his gaze to Keefe, all warm and steady. "Maybe six months, with extensive physical therapy?"
"What are you, a doctor?"
"Yeah."
"What?" Keefe does a double-take. His heart pounds even faster, if possible. "Really?"
"I'm doing my residency right now."
Keefe doesn't know what that means, but it's okay. A voice in his head won't stop screaming, AND he's a doctor!
He suddenly hopes that his legs truly do stop working, that he loses his ability to walk and Fitz heroically calls 9-1-1. When the ambulance comes, Keefe will tearfully beg Fitz to ride along with him, and Fitz will agree because he doesn't want their time together to end either. They will bond in the hospital room, sharing secrets and dreams under fluorescent lights, and—
"So, need help getting up?"
Keefe blinks, realizing Fitz has already gotten to his feet, hands outstretched like—
"Oh," he says, late to understanding once more. "Thanks."
He takes Fitz's hands and tries not to collapse again. They're incredible hands. He didn't even know hands could be incredible, but now he's mourning letting go.
"Good luck walking Flint," says Fitz. "I have to get back to my run, but you know, you were a pretty good distraction."
Then he winks.
"Same with you," Keefe says, suddenly very hoarse. This—Now this had to be flirting. Right? "Um, I—Well—"
"Can I get your Instagram?"
"Oh. Yeah."
"I want to marry him."
"Wow," says Marella. "Okay."
"That's not too dramatic, right?" Keefe asks.
"No, of course not," says Sophie, who is their unofficial third neighbor, even though she lives half an hour away and is usually only present through FaceTime. Today, however, she's here in the flesh. And eating all of Keefe's Oreos. "I want to marry lots of people. Like, Chappell Roan?"
"Oh, totally," Marella agrees.
"No, but seriously, I want to marry him. Guys. You don't get it. He sat down with me. And asked me about my dog—"
"My dog."
"Oh yeah, also, I might petition for custody of Flint—" Marella opens her mouth, and Keefe plows on, "—but we can talk about that later, because I just met my future husband. Guys! He's a doctor."
"Yes, we know, you've mentioned it every two seconds. Have you ever met a doctor before? Are they foreign to you?"
"Shut up, Marella."
She cackles. Sophie eats another Oreo. Keefe replays Fitz's smile in his head, again.
"So, like, you have his Instagram?" Sophie asks, eventually.
"Yes! He was all like, can I get your Instagram? and it was so smooth. So hot. I literally almost fainted." Keefe dreamily leans back on the couch, fully living out his rom-com moment.
Sophie nods. "Okay, and?"
"What do you mean?"
"And, what does his Instagram look like? Is it normal?" asks Sophie. "Is he, like, a gym bro?"
Keefe's brow furrows. "Well, I mean, I haven't looked at it yet—"
"He better not be a gym bro," says Marella.
"Um, he runs. Voluntarily. Does that make him a gym bro?"
"Sorry. Yes. You're doomed."
"Don't listen to Marella," says Sophie. "Focus. The Instagram. Can we see it?"
"Oh, um, yeah." Keefe fumbles with his phone. "Wait. Why won't Face ID work? The fuck? Okay, hold on, um—"
"Oh my God," says Marella, snatching Keefe's phone and tapping in his password.
"How do you know my password?"
"It's literally 123456."
"Focus!" Sophie repeats.
"I got it!" Marella triumphantly waves the phone in the air, then hunches back over it. "Okay, don't worry, not a gym bro."
"Wait, let me see!" Sophie scooches over and Marella obligingly tilts the screen. Now they are both hunched over.
"It's my phone," complains Keefe.
They simultaneously shush him, continuing to scroll through the contents of Gorgeous Fitz's Instagram. Keefe watches with increased dread.
"Um, Keefe?" says Sophie, after a couple minutes.
"Don't tell me. Wait, no, tell me." Keefe is panicking. "Is he a Trumpie?"
"No," she says quickly. "It's just... how sure are you? That he was flirting? And not just being nice?"
"He... He winked."
Marella inhales sharply. Sophie looks at the screen again, and her own eyes widen, a quick wow escaping her lips.
"What is it? Guys, please. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. What is it? Tell me. Tell me—"
Marella places a calming hand on Keefe's shoulder. "He might... have a girlfriend?"
Keefe is decidedly not calm. "No he doesn't!"
"Well," says Sophie. "We don't know for sure."
"But," says Marella, ever the contradictor, "All his posts have this one girl in them. Who's like, really pretty, by the way."
"Marella."
Keefe feels sick down to his stomach. So much for weddings. "Let me see."
They quietly pass the phone over.
Keefe looks at the profile. Okay. The profile picture is pretty good. Stunning, actually. Fitz is smiling and his face is thrown in golden light, all cheekbones and smooth angles. "Did I tell you guys he's a doctor?"
"Yes," says Sophie.
"I'm so sick of you," says Marella. "Scroll through his posts."
Keefe rolls his eyes. "Fine."
He begins scrolling through Fitz's posts. And notices a common theme. Or, more accurately, a common person.
The same girl features in every post, almost every picture, always beside Fitz. They both beam their gorgeous smiles, looking too perfect to be real. Keefe is reminded that he never wore his retainers, and he kicks himself. He could have a gorgeous, perfect smile too, if only he'd tried harder.
"Who is she?" he asks, scrolling through yet another photo dump that the girl is painfully present in. She comments on everything too, an overuse of purple hearts and exclamation points.
Marella and Sophie share a sympathetic glance. "Look," says Sophie. "We don't know for sure—"
"Why is she always with him? She's in a bikini? Why's she in a bikini on his Instagram?" His voice is sorta loud. Why's it so loud?
"And look at this one," says Marella. "Her face is like, completely tucked into his shoulder. Who posts that?"
"Maybe he does that with everyone?"
They give him twin expressions of pity.
"Maybe," Sophie says kindly.
Keefe groans. He keeps scrolling.
This girl really is beautiful, all dark hair and full lips. It's a match made in heaven. Keefe wants to hate her, but he's mostly just deeply jealous.
"But then... why'd he sit down with me?" Keefe says, and it's sort of a whine. "It was just such a meet cute, you know? He literally helped me off the ground."
"Maybe he's just a really nice person," Sophie suggests. "Wouldn't it be sorta horrible to leave you lying there and keep walking?"
"I'd do that," Marella says.
"My point exactly."
"He was so nice, you guys," says Keefe. "Like, so sweet and funny."
They all stare at the phone screen in silence for a moment.
"Do you want to message him?" Marella says finally.
Sophie swats her. "No! He's taken!"
"But, like, he gave out his Instagram! He wants to be messaged!"
"Then he's a cheater and he sucks and he doesn't deserve anyone."
"Oh God, I can't believe I'm in love with a cheater," Keefe groans.
"You're not in love with him!" Sophie complains.
"What if I message him, just to be friends?"
"Do not message him."
"Fine." Keefe sits back, sulking. "I can't believe my dream guy found someone equally as hot as him. That's so not okay. Give us normal people a chance."
"Wait, so, are you sure your interaction was super flirty?" Marella says, ignoring him. "Because from what you told us, this doesn't really add up. Why would he give you his Instagram if he's so obviously dating somebody?"
"Because he's a douchebag! He probably thought Keefe would be just as douchey and ignore the girlfriend!"
"Maybe he was just so hot that I ignored everything else," Keefe mumbles. "He could've been wearing a wedding ring, and I wouldn't have noticed. Did I mention I might be concussed? He's a doctor. What if I go to the ER and he treats me? "
"Dude." Sophie snatches the phone from him. "He's not worth it."
"At all," agrees Marella.
Another stretch of silence follows, which Keefe interrupts with, "I just want him so bad."
"Well," says Marella, and Sophie gives her an unsubtle glare. "He is pretty hot. Like, I thought you were exaggerating, but... Yeah. Wow."
"He's not all that," Sophie sniffs.
"I'm going to dream about his eyes for the rest of my life," Keefe says. "Have you ever seen eyes like that before?"
A pause. Then, "Wait."
Keefe and Marella both look at Sophie.
"Guys," she says, suddenly excited. "Guys. She has those eyes."
"Oh my God," says Marella, at the same time Keefe says, "What."
"Look!" Sophie starts tapping with frantic speed. She pulls up a new post and shoves it in their faces.
The beautiful girl is hanging off Fitz's shoulders, their hair flying loose in the wind, screaming with joy.
"I can't look at this," Keefe proclaims. "I'm going to throw away my entire phone."
"Oh my God," Marella repeats. "Keefe, shut up. Look."
Keefe squints to read the caption.
best sis ever
His heart drops, then soars out of his chest. He leaps up from the coach, pumping his fists in the air. "FUCK YEAH!"
"You know, they actually look pretty similar," Marella observes.
Sophie's smiling widely. "At least he's not a cheater."
"Hot, nice, and not a cheater. Keefe, you found the full package."
"Keefe?"
Keefe is staring ahead into the wall, dazed and a little shaky. "Guys."
"What?"
"Now I have to message him."