Page 35 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
“I have towels,” I tell him. “A lotof towels. I’m also considering buying a hair dryer.”
He gives in to the moment, looping his arms around me as he plays with the hair at the nape of my neck where the soft but defiant curly bits never quite make it into my lazy topknots.
“Your hair is perfect,” he says.
“The hair dryer’s not for me. It’s for—” I stop short as something bumps my thigh. Something I’m ninety-nine percent certain isn’t part of Everett’s anatomy.
We loosen our embrace, glancing down to see Aggie trying to wedge herself between us, with her face radiating happiness and her wagging tail setting her whole body in motion.
“I... she... she did it!” I gasp out. “She got up on her own!” I fully release my embrace so I can drop to my knees and fling my arms around the other sixth-floor resident who fills my heart withjoy. “Aggie! You did it! You got up!” The rest of my words are incomprehensible, even to me, as I blubber exclamations into her neck, flooded with pride. I think I’m crying. I’m probably crying. She’s workedsohard. And been through so much. Never losing hope. When I think of all the times I’ve curled into a sad, lonely ball, buried under my blankets, defeated by a hundred tiny tragedies I desperately wanted to shake off but felt settle on my shoulders instead, I honestly don’t know how she does it, mustering this much strength and determination.
I mean, okay. Everett’s here. I get it. I sped over, too. He’s a spectacular motivating force, simply by existing in our orbit. But Aggie wouldn’t be over here if she hadn’t worked her furry butt off for the last several weeks. It’s not just inspiring. It’s a stadium-sellout triumph.
“Think she can do it again?” Everett asks.
I look Aggie in the eyes as I scratch her neck and nuzzle her nose with mine, laughing when her tongue sweeps the underside, warm, wet, and smelling vaguely meaty.
“Oh yeah,” I say. “This dog? She can doanything.”
In this moment, I truly believe she can.
Chapter Thirteen
Despite how eager both Aggie and I were to see Everett, after we celebrate her triumph by recording her standing up on her own again and posting the video for her fan club, he leaves so I can get cleaned up and put on a cute dress. Not that I own much I can describe ascute, given my scant, comfort-first, outdated wardrobe, but surely, I can do better than three-day-old Levi’s, a stretched-out plain white tee that should be relegated to sleepwear by now, and a cardigan with so many holes in the cuffs, I can only put it on by fisting my hands first.
When I stand before my open closet after showering, wearing the only two towels I own that aren’t printed with last season’s trending cartoon characters, I go blank. This is new territory for me: adult dating. What does someone wear on what suddenly feels like a capital-Ddate with a guy who seems to like her just fine when she makes no fuss over her appearance, a guy who might or might not be her boyfriend by now (a distinction to pin for later investigation), and who doesn’t need to be “wowed” but who she kind of, sort of, definitely wants to wow anyway?
Fortunately, it’s not too late to send a cry for help, even with a five-hour time difference.
CAMERON:S.O.S. Date night with E tonight. Attire suggestions?
HANNAH:Whatever’s fun to take off!
CAMERON:Thank you for cranking the anxiety dial to 11
HANNAH:I’m not the one who should be doing the cranking!
CAMERON:Consider me officially disturbed now. Is that a British euphemism?
HANNAH:It’s a Hannah euphemism. Coined today. You’re welcome!
CAMERON:Gratitude politely withheld. Seriously. Help!
HANNAH:I am being serious. Put on whatever makes you feel sexy
It’s obvious advice, but it completely baffles me, leaving me more stressed than ever.
Rather than text back, I call Hannah and she spends the next half hour talking me through my wardrobe and some anxieties I didn’t realize I was harboring about Everett. He’ssodifferent from You Didn’t Actually See This Going Somewhere Guy and We Should Probably Cut This Off Before My Girlfriend Finds Out Guy. He’s different from my high school boyfriends, too, and not only because he doesn’t brag about his stellar AP grades at every given opportunity or perpetually smell like onion rings. I can’t imagine him lying about his relationship status or dumping me as soon as someone hotter and more fun catches his eye, but I didn’t come through those experiences without scars, and apparently, one of those scars is defaulting to doubt.
I end up in a simple black miniskirt and a black tank top that has miraculously escaped being laundered into a soft charcoal gray hue like most of my black clothing. Together the pieces sort of look like a sexy black dress, andsort ofis the best I can do. Paired with sweater tights, the ballet flats that are the closest thing I own to heels, and a slate-blue cardigan that’s posh-adjacent enough to get by at Loden and Linden on the weekends, I’m no fashion influencer, but I’ll do.
“You look gorgeous, dah-ling,” Hannah says with an exaggerated British accent that makes me laugh. She’s as American as I am, though that might not be true now that she’s lived in the UK almost as long as she lived here.
The quick math on that makes me realize she left Oregon nearly ten years ago.Ten years, a thought that slams me with a lot of feelings at once. Gratitude that we’ve stayed close for so long, despite the distance between us. Curiosity about how my life might’ve unfolded with less loneliness and self-doubt if she hadn’t movedaway in eighth grade. Frustration at my struggles to form other friendships that are even half as fulfilling. Hope that this is finally changing.
Aggie smiles at me from her bed, where she’s chewing on her monkey toy, confident she’s wearing the perfect outfit for any occasion. What a beautiful, wonderful way to exist in the world, even when the world isn’t beautiful and wonderful in return.
“Any last words of wisdom?” I ask Hannah.
