Kiernan and Montana aren't looking for complicated in their Chicago summer, but somehow complicated has found them.
[co-written with @w1ldflow3r]
[extended summary inside]
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I didn't love my job.
Did I have a general understanding that when I took on a double major in finance and accounting at Notre Dame that at some point in my life I'd be drowning in audit reports and income tax return controversies to see where people who shouldn't be running businesses were potentially breaking the law? Begrudgingly, yes, but not like this.
After reading a book on Bernie Madoff, the guy who concocted the most elaborate and expensive ponzi scheme in history, I turned into one of those people who was obsessed with true crime - except I went down the white collar path. I took a minor in journalism my sophomore year with the intention of pursuing financial journalism, but other than being the resident grammar/spelling/syntax checker for my manager Carlo's emails, I'd never actually put it to use. My dad had been an executive at KPMG, and it was just understood that eventually I would be too.
I never got the chance to tell him that it wasn't really what I wanted, and guilt had a shitty way of steering your decision-making into a ditch. So here I was, rushing out of the KPMG office at 5:45 because I was a god damn guilty yes man.
Okay, I didn't hate my job either. I made good money for a 25-year-old - good enough for a nice apartment a mile from my office, a stylishly-stocked closet, and my BMW 3 series that I treated like my own child. But what I did hate was having to wear a three piece suit in the dead heat of summer and sweating through my undershirt walking from the office to Goodfunk for our default Notre Dame crew happy hour, dodging all the other post-work bodies downtown, desperate for AC and a stiff fucking drink.
As I approached the brown and white striped awning that hung above the doors of Goodfunk, it seemed I'd need an exceptionally stiff fucking drink as Jed had claimed one of the white iron tables outside. He spotted me and gave me a cheery wave, unfazed and oblivious to the scowl I undoubtedly wore.
"Why the fuck are we outside?" I gestured to the table with a sweeping motion of my hand.
"It's nice out," he shrugged. "And there's not enough room inside for all of us."
Of course he thought it was nice out when he got to wear a short sleeve button down and a White Sox hat shading his face from the sun's sweltering rays. At this point I probably resembled an egg that had been cracked and cooked on the sidewalk to show how hot it was.
"I need a fucking drink." I dropped into the chair across from Jed and ran a hand along my forehead, still slick with sweat. I used to have the stereotypical baseball bro flow in college, but summers in the city and my complete intolerance of heat had me sticking with a buzzcut since I'd moved. I shrugged off my suit jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, but the shredded layer offered bare minimum relief. "Is Em here yet?"
"She's inside getting drinks," Jed replied, leaning forward on the table and waving me towards him, like a kid with a secret. "But Montana, I need to tell you something."
