I Love My Friend’s Bigfoot Boyfriend

Katie and I have been good friends for nearly a decade, but I’ve never met her long-term partner. He’s what we can call a “Bigfoot Boyfriend.” Allegedly, he exists, but I’ve never caught a glimpse of him in real life.

I know a few basics, of course: They live together. He goes rock climbing on the weekends, and I’m pretty sure he likes horror movies. His ex watches Katie’s Instagram Stories on a daily basis.

I’ve heard that he’s affable and funny and I’d like to meet him. I’ve come close. Once, Katie invited him to get dinner with us, but he wasn’t feeling well and had to cancel. We’ve tried to organize a double date with my boyfriend, but navigating four people’s schedules is tricky.

I met Katie when we were both staff writers at the same publication in our 20s. She was refreshingly open for a coworker, discussing everything from assignments to ridiculous stories from college with the same cheerful ease. We quickly transitioned to happy hours outside the office.

These days, our typical nights out go like this: We meet at our favorite Mexican restaurant and immediately ask about each other’s writing; I’m an editor at Bustle now, she pivoted to PR, and we’re both novelists on the side. We apologize to the waiter and ask for “just one more minute” to look at the menu — twice. We sheepishly order tacos, then fall into a sprawling conversation about writing fiction, publishing, ambition, and creativity until the restaurant empties out. We chat about our respective relationships, too — it’s just that our conversations don’t stay there for long.

My hunch is that I’ve never met her Bigfoot Boyfriend because Katie and I knew each other professionally before we became real friends; work was our entry point into conversation. When I was single, my romantic life provided endless fodder for conversation with certain friends: Should I ask this guy on a second date, or wait to see if he asks me? What does this text mean? Do I actually like him, or is he just tall? With Katie, though, it was more exciting to talk about first drafts than first dates.

When it comes to writing, Katie gets me like nobody else. We hash out each other’s plot holes and confess which authors we’ve muted on Instagram out of envy. Once, I received a brutal rejection from an editor who said there was no reason a reader would bother turning my pages. I was mortified; my confidence was shredded. It wasn’t until a week later, when I recited the email to Katie and she lit up with rage, that I let myself consider the possibility that I wasn’t a talentless failure. She convinced me to keep at it. (That book eventually found a publisher and hit shelves a few years later.)

Of course, other subjects come up, too. Katie is passionate, thoughtful, and extremely funny. We talk about our love lives, but also money, politics, and family. We wade into the hazy question marks of our futures: How will we balance writing with work and kids someday? Why have we seen close to zero women over 40 in media? Where do they all go? Where will we?

I realize this essay has veered away from Bigfoot, which is fitting. Katie and I care about each other’s happiness in our respective relationships, but that’s not the heart of our friendship, and we like it that way. I’ll probably meet him eventually, maybe even on a double date. Until then, I don’t mind if he stays elusive.