Page 19 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
Her eyes dart around the room, glancing past my scattered textbooks, my overflowing laundry bin, my kitchen counter with the teetering stack of mail I unearthed from its drawer but still haven’t sorted, and my outdated laptop with a zillion tabs open on job listings I don’t quite fit but keep applying for anyway. When she’s taken in everything, her eyes return to me.
“Yeah, I know I said I was too busy for a guy,” I concede, duly chastened. “But then he got us that book, and the food, and he showed up for walks looking cute and snuggly in his fall-colored sweaters, he talked about brand position and key performance indicators in a way that got even me interested, and if something’s important, youmakethe time, so... a girl’s allowed to hope, isn’t she?”
Aggie blinks at me as her tail thumps quietly against her bed.
“See? You like him, too.”
I might be imagining it, but I swear her tail thumps a little faster. I also swear that while the average trained dog supposedly knows about a hundred and sixty-five words, this one understands everything I say. Especially if I’m talking about Everett.
Everett who’s busy tonight, leaving me to sort out dinner on my own. Like usual.
CAMERON:Sure. Another time. Enjoy your evening
EVERETT:Thanks. You too
I wait a moment in case another text is forthcoming. When nothing appears, I set my phone face down on my coffee table, where I hope to forget it exists.
In true Cameron Goode fashion, I settle for Raisin Bran directly out of the box, too lazy and too broke to go rustle up something more appealing if I’m eating on my own. As I snack on dry cereal, I continue trying to get Aggie interested in her ball. Sitting a few feet away, I toss it gently toward her nose. It bounces off several times, and sails past her several more times, due to my mediocre aim, even at such short range. I cheer her on through each throw, telling her how fetch was Marmie’s favorite game, and how she never played with sticks, rope toys, or stuffies, but she always went wild about a ball. I even pull Marmie’s photo off the fridge and hold it in front of Aggie’s nose as though the two dogs can channel some sort of cosmic energy between them. Then I realize I’m being ridiculous, set aside the photo, and return to tossing the ball.
“Come on, girl,” I encourage as I prep another throw. “Just once. Catch it once and I’ll let you pick out a movie for us. I know you have a fan crush on Ryan Reynolds, and I’m pretty sure we haven’t exhausted his Netflix offerings yet. I’ll suffer through another one if you catch this.”
Her expression doesn’t change but she knows the carrot I’m dangling. It’s not likeIwant to watch a kind, funny, hot Canadian be all kind, funny, and hot. That’s Aggie’s thing. Not mine.
When three more ball tosses fail to spark her interest, I up the stakes by turning on the TV and opening the search window on Netflix so it lists all available Ryan Reynolds titles.
“See that?” I wag the remote at the screen. “We can double-feature it. All foronecatch.”
Aggie looks at the screen, looks at me, and looks at the screen again.
“C’mon,” I encourage, readying my next toss. “Do it for Ryan.”
She watches me closely. I bounce the ball so it’s right on target to hit her mouth, and this time—after countless hours of practice and encouragement—she opens up and catches it.
I shriek with joy as I scoot across the floor to throw my arms around her neck, planting mushy kisses all over her head and showering her with praise while she wags her entire body from the top of the bin. I can’t tell who’s prouder. We’re both buzzing from the high. It’ssogoodto see her being a dog, engaging in play. Obviously, her weight and mobility are our top priorities, but her mind needs a reboot, too, neglected for years without sufficient interaction to occupy it. If she’ll catch a ball, it’s a good sign—areallygood sign—she’ll also engage in other forms of play as she continues to learn, heal, and feel more secure with her new life.
I toss about a dozen more times to make sure her first catch wasn’t a fluke. She doesn’t catch every ball, but she reaches for the closest ones, and catches about one out of every three. She definitely understands the game now, and her instincts are taking over.
“Who’s the best dog in the universe?” I coo as I give her another hug and she nuzzles into me. “That’s right! You are. You’re the best dog in the universe.”
I’m carrying on like this, blathering away, when I hear Everett’svoice in the hall. Still buzzing with excitement I’m eager to share, I leap up, jog to my door, and fling it open.
“Everett! You’re home!” I call out as I stumble over my threshold. “I need to—”
My voice catches in my throat. He’s not alone. Like,reallynot alone. His apartment door is ajar and he’s standing by the elevator, embracing a beautiful woman with alabaster skin and platinum-blond hair that falls straight down her back as though it’s never seen a tangle. She’s even wearing a romper. I can’t pull off a romper, not with my gangly limbs and nonexistent curves. But this woman looks amazing, with a pronounced hourglass figure, a sexy cropped leather jacket, badass cuff bracelets, and coral fingernails that match her lipstick, something I’ve never even attempted, let alone pulled off. She seems so put together, making me newly aware that I’m in cheap leggings, an old Mother Mother concert tee with a neckline I cut away when I couldn’t stop tugging at it as though it was tight even though it wasn’t, and a stretched-out cardigan I should’ve replaced at least a year ago. My not-quite-blond-not-quite-brown hair is in its usual hasty topknot, my fingernails are chewed to stubs, and my socks don’t match.
Somehow, I’m able to note all of this in the span of a single second, while also noting that the embrace I’ve blundered my way into witnessing isn’t giving offthanks for popping byenergy, and the woman is not one of Everett’s sisters, whose photos he showed me weeks ago.
In the next second, I register the surprise and painfully clear discomfort on Everett’s face as he and his date step away from each other, not like they’ve been caught at something, but like their embracehas been interrupted by a manic woman running into the hall. Because it has.
“Cameron, hi,” Everett manages, pulling at his ear and scratching at his neck.
“Sorry.” I wave my hands in that way I do, like I can Etch A Sketch a moment away.
“No, what?” he asks. “You were about to say you needed something?”
“Yeah, just, um”—I rack my brain for a neighborly request—“flour. For baking.”
His brows shoot up and his lips twitch with the threat of a laugh. “You’re baking?”
