Page 32 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
“This is her, right?” says the short one. “This is the TikTok dog?”
“Um, yes?” I manage. After six videos and a little over three weeks, our initial TikTok now has more than three million views, and the follower count is still growing. I appreciate all the support and encouragement, but still. It’s... a lot. “Her name’s Aggie. Short for Agatha.”
“Ag-gie,” the tall one singsongs, bending down to ruffle the fur on Aggie’s neck, a form of attention that always delights her, and this time is no exception. She raises her head to provide better access as her hairless tail wags and her eyes drift shut in ecstasy. “Who’s a good girl? Who’sthe bestgirl? Who’s the scruffy-wuffy, goodest, bestest, Aggie-waggiest girl?”
I watch with amusement as Aggie revels in the attention while the other woman looks at her phone again and the elevator inches its way downward at its usual sluggish pace.
“Thirteen pounds, huh?” asks the woman with the phone, presumably referring to the caption on our latest TikTok. We’re doing most of our weigh-ins at Ruff ’n’ Rescue to limit vet bills, and Sariahand Sam have been amazing at advising on physical therapy and mobility in general, so I don’t get too excited by Aggie’s progress and overtax her body before it’s ready.
“Thirteen pounds in six weeks,” I confirm.
“Wow. That’s intense.” She shakes her head, incredulous. “I’m Regina, by the way.” She gestures at her partner, who’s now getting a full tongue bath, and apparently enjoying it as much as Aggie is. “This is Tegan. You just moved in a couple months ago, right?”
I suppress most but not all of an embarrassed grimace, though whether I’m embarrassed for her, for me, or for all three of us, I’m not sure.
“Actually, I moved in last July. Like, a year and four months ago.”
Regina and Tegan swap a look that’s not unlike the one I tried to hide.
“We suck,” Tegan says through a laugh. “How did we think you were new?”
“Well, I mean, you’re usually... busy,” I say, and immediately wish I’d let Regina answer.
Fortunately, they find my awkwardness amusing and not offensive.
“It’s the elevator,” Regina says, also laughing now. “We got so tired of how slow it was, we needed a way to pass the time. Obviously, we came up with one.”
“Obviously,” Tegan echoes, straightening up to wrap a long arm around Regina.
“Aggie has an elevator activity, too,” I tell them. “Sadly, it’s farting.”
“Oh my god!” Regina sweeps a hand up to shield her nose. “You’re kidding, right?”
We all turn toward Aggie, who’s looking especially proud of herself, probably for being the undisputable center of attention right now, and not for her small-space farting prowess, but I never know with this one. I still think she understands way more than the average dog.
Sure enough, she lets one fly, though she has the grace to wait until we’re almost at the ground floor and we can laugh about it without asphyxiating. By this point, we’ve expanded our introductions, so I’ve learned Regina’s a fashion designer who recently launched her own brand of locally manufactured streetwear she describes as “color forward” and “typographically whimsical,” showing me samples of bright, two-tone baseball tees printed with quotes and word poems in mismatched fonts and placements, sometimes just on a sleeve or near the hem, sometimes spanning the entire shirt. Tegan works at a nearby bank. She doesn’t say much about what she does at the bank. I get the impression she’s used to Regina fielding a lot more questions about her work in fashion, and she’s happy to let her partner enjoy the spotlight.
“You should make Aggie a tee,” she suggests as we exit the elevator into the lobby.
Regina grabs her arm, spinning in my direction. “Oh my god, yes! Can I?”
“Sure. Of course. If you want to,” I say. “But what would it say?World-class farter?”
“Something far more badass,” Regina says. “Let me think about it. Can I come take her measurements sometime this week so I can see if one of our current sizes would fit?”
“Absolutely,” I say, already picturing Aggie in a custom tee she’d totally rock.
We all swap numbers and part ways, waving on the sidewalk as I wheel Aggie toward the nearest patch of grass, and the couple heads off toward a party they mentioned in the elevator. I watch them walk away, arms around each other, with Regina’s head resting against Tegan’s shoulder. Before I help Aggie out of her wagon, I find my phone.
CAMERON:You’re probably sleeping, but I wanted you to know I’m thinking about you
As I turn off my screen, I make myself a promise that I’ll look at my schedule when I get home from classes tomorrow, and I’ll find a time to see Everett when I’m not also doing laundry or cramming in homework or exercising my dog or—
EVERETT:I’m thinking about you, too ??
EVERETT:Date night Friday?
I’ve never texted so fast in my life.
