Page 16 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
Thanks, fire hydrant. Same.
With my afternoon suddenly free, I head home to spend time with Aggie, arriving to find her lying on her side with her head on the pillow Imighthave pulled off my bed last night when she looked like she couldn’t get comfortable. I also might’ve pulled another pillow off the bed and lay down with her for a while, but I left no evidence and I doubt she’ll rat me out.
“What do you think?” I ask as I kneel by her bed. “Should we try to get you outside?”
She blinks at me dubiously, which is understandable, but we have to start somewhere. It might as well be on a beautiful day during a surprise opening in my schedule. We won’t make it to any of the parks that are all within a few blocks of the building, but there’s a grassy patch out front by the big old maple tree, so once she tries a pee, we can sit on the grass and read.
With equal parts effort and encouragement, Aggie inches herself up into a seated position, which allows me to wrap the sling around her middle and raise her back end. She can move her legs in a stiff approximation of walking once I’ve raised her, but we only manage a few faltering steps before I realize there’s no way I can support so much of her weight on my own, not for long enough to get her into the elevator, let alone outside into the yard.
As I lower her back end and set aside the sling, she looks over her shoulder at me with the saddest, sorriest eyes in the world, as though any of this is even remotely her fault.
“It’s not you, baby,” I assure her. “You’re perfect. We just need to strategize.”
While I’m debating what to try next, I hear the unmistakable sounds of Cycle Guy extracting his bike from the elevator, clunking and banging as he lowers it from the vertical position that allows it to fit in the narrow space, and onto both wheels so he can get it through the door. It’s quite the operation, every time, especially when someone else is in the elevator with him, and I’ve wondered more times than I can count why this building doesn’t have a bike room.
I’ve probably spoken fewer words to Cycle Guy in the fourteen months I’ve lived here than I had with Everett in the three or four months since he moved into the building, prior to last week. Mostly, Cycle Guy apologizes about the bike, I say it’s fine, and we carry on as perfectly amicable strangers. However, I need help, and Everett surprised me, so Cycle Guy might, too.
While Aggie stretches out, half on, half off her bed, I open my door and step into the hall. Sure enough, Cycle Guy is wheeling his bike toward apartment 603, the one to the left of mine. He’s in head-to-toe cycling gear, from the bright blue spandex shorts and shirt that are covered in vivid brand logos to the helmet that’s still on his head, its chin strap dangling. The saddlebags on his bike bulge, and I’ve always assumed he commutes by bike, whipping out a nice dress shirt and slacks once he gets to the office, but for all I know, he’s a gig worker and this is his work attire. Either way, he’s extremely fit, and if he has ten minutes to spare...
I flash him an awkward wave, the only kind of wave I know. “Hi.”
He flinches at the sound of my voice, looking around as though I must be greeting someone else. Finding no one, he removes his helmet and tucks it under his arm, revealing a head of sweat-dampened black curls he shakes out with a quick finger-comb.
“Sorry,” he says. “The bike. The elevator. I get it. I know. I’ll try to be quieter.”
“Oh god, no.” I wave my hands in an unnecessarily manic manner. “I didn’t come out here to complain about noise. That’s just, I mean, your bike, whatever.”
“Okay?” He looks around again, and suddenly I feel ridiculous for barely speaking with any of my neighbors for over a year, even if my gestures are too broad and I can’t manage to organize words into a proper sentence. “If you have a problem with the smell of mjadra—”
“If I—Sorry. What?”
“The stew I made last night. If you have a problem with it—”
“I don’t. I swear. I love the smell of your cooking,” I assure him. It’s the unequivocal truth, and now I feel not only ridiculous, but also mortified that my neighbors might all assume I don’t talk to them because I don’t like them, or worse, because I’m a raging asshole. “I came out here because I need a hand with something, and I’m hoping you have a few minutes to spare. Also, I thought maybe I should introduce myself, you know, since we’re neighbors.”
He still looks confused. I suppose I would be, too, if our situations were reversed. It’s not like we haven’t had plenty of chances to do this before now.
“Better late than never?” I attempt a smile that’s at least as awkward as my wave. Then I step forward and extend a hand to shake. “Hi. I’m Cameron Goode. I live in 602, but you probably know that already. I’m a grad student in the veterinary program. Second year. Born in Oregon. Favorite color red. Mediocre runner. Appalling vegetarian. I brought home a rescue dog yesterday. She’s not very mobile and I’d love to get her outside for a few minutes, but I needa second pair of hands. I’d be happy to return the favor if you”—I falter, unsure where to go from here, given how little I know about him—“if you need your tires pumped or something.”
Cycle Guy stares at me, unmoving, and I relive the last two minutes, desperately wishing I could rewind and record over them with a cooler, smoother introduction. Just as I’m about to apologize for disrupting this poor man’s perfectly happy, intrusive-neighbor-free day, he steps forward and takes my offered hand, giving it a firm—if sweaty—shake.
“Nice to meet you, Cameron,” he says. “I’m Khalil Khoury, 603, which you also probably know. Third-year engineering with a focus on robotics. Born in Iowa. Let’s see, what else...” He scratches at his sweat-damp hair. “Favorite color, turquoise, maybe? Decent cyclist. Spectacular omnivore. Oh, and also, I only have a few minutes to help you out before I need to get cleaned up and run to class, but I might have something you can use.”
“Really?” I ask through a flutter of joy and relief. “That would be amazing. Thank you.”
He shakes his head through a lightly amused laugh.
“Sorry,” he says. “It’s just... it’s been, like, a year, right?”
I inch up a shrug. “I’m not very good with people.”
His laughter softens into a smile. “We’re not a particularly social bunch.”
As if on cue, Phone Girl emerges from the stairwell. She’s a slight redhead currently dressed in a short, pleated skirt and navy blazer that give off a sexy-schoolgirl vibe, with her bright ginger hair in space buns and two long dangling strands framing her face. I’ve never seen her in the same outfit twice and often wonder where she keeps her expansive wardrobe, given the size of the closets in thisbuilding. Her eyes are locked on her screen as she pivots cleanly toward her apartment door, keys in hand, somehow intuiting where the keyhole is, though she looks up as she unlocks her door, as if her inner Roomba sensor realizes she’s not alone.
“What?” she asks us. “Is there a gas leak or something?”
Khalil shakes his head. “We’re just chatting.”
