Page 14 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
He blushes for the second time today but accepts my gratitude without downplaying it again, stepping back and pointing over his shoulder. “I should probably...”
“Of course. Yeah. Sorry to keep you.”
“You’re not. It’s just...”
“Work. I know.”
“And you need to...”
“Get Aggie settled. Yep. Absolutely.”
He leans around me to wave at her, so earnestly and so sweetly, and I’m struck with a need to do more than fumble my way through another awkward thank you and goodbye.
“Everett?” I ask. “Before you go, can I hug you?”
His smile reappears as his brows flicker with surprise. Then he opens his arms and I step into them, looping my arms around his back and pressing my palms against the planes of his shoulder blades, which I can just discern through his sweater and tee.
Unsurprisingly, Everett Redmond is an excellent hugger. His embrace is firm and earnest as he draws me close and lets his cheek rest against mine, with one hand near my waist and the other perfectly situated on my upper back so the edge of his thumb brushes my bare skin above the collar of my sweater. As he holds me tight, I realize I haven’t hugged anyone but my parents in about two years, not since I last saw Hannah when I flew over for a quick trip while she was dealing with a breakup. I miss it. I missthis. Holding and being held. People talk about sex all the time. How much they love it if they’re having it or miss it if they’re not. I miss it, too. I’d be lying to myself if I claimed I didn’t, even though I haven’t had much to miss.
But a really good hug? I swear. It’s life-changing.
Also, that thumb is going to haunt me.
I’m not sure who pulls away first or if we realize at about the same time that we might be hugging too long for a friendly goodbye. As we back away from each other, he waves at Aggie again, and then at me, before heading down the stairs, wisely opting not to wait for the elevator.
I return to Aggie, flopping down beside her on the floor and leaning back against my bed.
“Well? What do you think?” I ask.
She glances at the door and back at me.
“No, not about the guy,” I say. “About the apartment. The bed. Your new home.”
She blinks at me with her bright, expressive eyes. Then she looks at the door again.
“How about your toys?” I find the stuffed monkey and give it a wiggle near her nose. She sniffs it and then ignores it. I try the squeaky ball. She tilts her head at the noise but shows no particular interest in holding the ball in her mouth or watching it roll across the floor. I also bring her water dish close enough for her to get a drink. She sniffs it, dips her tongue in, and lifts her head as if to say she’s finished. By the time I set down the dish, she’s looking at the door.
“Okay, fine,” I concede. “What do you think about the guy?”
Her funny little tail thumps against her bed.
I break into a laugh as I give her a firm scratch on the head. “Classic. You get a girl everything her heart might desire, and all she wants to do is hang out and talk about boys.”
She lowers her head so it rests between her paws, where she looks up at me with a quiet cheekiness that slays me, like she knows I caught her at something and she’s eagerly awaiting my reaction. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but also, maybe it doesn’t matter, because there are worse things to do on a Tuesday evening than have a conversation with a dog.
In fact, I can’t think of anything better.
“As you’ve clearly discerned for yourself, he’s one of the good ones,” I tell Aggie, assuming this is still her topic of choice. “One of thereallygood ones. But don’t get any ideas. I’m a week behind on homework already, I have to find a new part-time job that allows me more hours at home but still pays enough to afford rent, groceries, and laundry. Andyoucome first. Not a cute boy with floppy curls and swoon-worthy dimples. Everett and I are friends.” I rollthe word around on my tongue, struck by how foreign it feels to say aloud, which speaks volumes about the sad state of my social life. “Friends,” I repeat with more confidence. “Onlyfriends.”
Aggie gives me another look, eyes raised, brows twitching. She’s not buying it.
I’m not sure I’m buying it, either, but I have to. Maybe not forever, but at least while I get a handle on what life will look like for the next few months and how I’ll juggle everything without asking my parents for a loan. I appreciate that this is even an option, but it’s an option that would come with a lifetime ofmaking smart choiceslectures and invasive questions about the state of my personal finances. My dad would want to know how I spend every penny, and if I didn’t spend it the way he thought I should or pay it back on time, I’d never hear the end of it. Meanwhile, my mom would post on Facebook about how elated she is that she and my dad could “chip in” and help me achieve my dreams. Every neighbor who knew me as a kid would see the post, along with several people I went to high school with, plus two exes I deliberately excised from my life. I don’t need any of them thinking I couldn’t make it on my own.
Pride is hardly my tragic flaw, but where my parents are concerned, the less evidence they have about how I’m already failing at adulthood, the better.
The rest of the evening is all about getting to know Aggie, and letting her get to know me. I ramble about whatever comes to mind while we hang out on the floor and I try to engage her interest in the monkey, a ball, or a pair of old socks I tie together, none of which sparks much of a reaction. I figure out where she likes to be touched—her ears, her neck, under her chin—and where shedoesn’t like to be touched—her paws and her tail. I also feed her, which involves spreading digestively balanced canned food onto a grooved rubber dish that’s designed to slow a dog’s eating. The food has a strong odor and I don’t want to think too long or too deeply about the by-product-heavy contents, but Aggie seems to love it, licking away as I hold the dish under her nose and spin it around until she’s polished off every last morsel.
After my own dinner of slightly stale granola, I open my pathology textbook and read tomorrow’s required chapters aloud, as though Aggie might have use for detailed information about cavitary effusions or tissue aspirates. She humors me by listening with her head on my lap and my free hand stroking her ears. I’ve always found petting a dog so calming. The rhythm. The soft fur. Even while reading about parasites, I find myself getting drowsy, and by the time nine o’clock rolls around, I’m ready to get some sleep.
