Page 47 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
When Aggie’s had her fill of Everett—or close enough, given that this is a logistical impossibility—I tug on his sweater, an especially soft rust-colored one he’s been wearing more often since I told him I can’t keep my hands off him once I see him in it. Dragging him toward me, we fall sideways onto the mattress, twining our legs as I bury my hands in his hair and he pulls me close, letting out a contentedmmmas his palm finds its way to my lower back under my clothes. I can’t totally ignore the dog breath that’s coming from just over his shoulder, but I manage to fit in a good, long snog, as Hannah would call it.
“What did I do to deserve you?” I ask as I pull back far enough to meet Everett’s eyes.
“Easy,” he says. “You let me attempt to deserve you.”
I go all mushy at that, even if he’s only saying it to tease me. His smile suggests he’s teasing, fully dimpling his cheeks as his eyes dance. Or maybe he’s smiling because he’s happy. Either way, I’m soon smiling, too, though smiling swiftly turns into laughing as Aggie inches close enough to paw at my head and nudge her nose between our faces, replacing sweet and sexy kisses with an unexpected snort that sprays Everett and me with a mist of cold snot.
“Aggie! Blech,” I stutter out through a laugh. As usual, my unconvincing rebuke only encourages her, and she scoots even closer, bunting my nose with hers and snuffling away as though something really exciting might be up my nostrils. I roll away, but she knows we’re playing now and she’s fully invested in the game so she belly-crawlsafter me. I cover my face with my hands. She nudges them apart with her nose.
“Good girl,” Everett goads, giving her a playful scratch on the head. “You get her.”
“Wait! No. Not fair! If it’s two against one, shouldn’t she be on my side?”
“No way,” he says. “My face isn’t half so interesting to explore.”
“That’s patently untrue. And I say that from personal experience.”
“Agree to disagree. But I’ll leave you to it while I go clean my glasses.” He scoots backward off the mattress while Aggie and I continue playing. A few seconds later, he calls from the bathroom, “Do I want to know why your shower stall is full of trash bags?”
My laughter ebbs and I calm Aggie with a few gentle strokes of her head.
“Long story,” I say. “But if I can borrow twenty bucks...”
THREE HOURS, ONEdelicious take-out pizza, one walk to the corner and back with Aggie, and one on-Everett’s-insistence wash cycle later, the dryers at the laundromat are humming away while he sits beside me in a molded plastic chair that looks even less comfortable than mine as he talks me through the basics of social media sponsorship. Rates. Posting expectations. Timelines. How we might increase followers and engagement to improve said rates. I’m not excited about any of it, but I am excited about what it could mean, and when he suggests we start by opening the DMs I’ve been ignoring to see who’s reached out already, I’m stunned by all the messages.
The majority are generic pitches and start with something to theeffect ofWe love your account and want to work with you!But even the briefest investigation reveals that they’ve been cut and pasted by shell accounts, linking me to companies that would expect me to pay them and not the other way around. Other messages are deeply personal, reflecting the tone of a lot of the comments over the past several weeks while going into more detail about individual weight loss journeys or dog adoption stories, or inquiring more directly about Aggie’s hairless tail, or asking if she’s taking pain medication for her joints (yes), what her goal weight is (we don’t know yet), and if she likes certain games or toys (almost always a resounding yes).
Amid these is a handful of messages from dog-oriented companies, reaching out with sincere, personalized inquiries. With Everett’s help, I pick three. The first sells therapeutic beds that would be much better for Aggie than the soft, pillowy one I bought. The second sells outdoor gear like brightly colored raincoats and the winter traction booties that are already on my list to buy. The third does monthly boxes of dog toys that simply look like fun. Aggie would be so happy opening something like that, and her enthusiasm would reflect how far she’s come since her first days with me, when I could barely incite her interest in the ball or squeaky monkey.
Everett’s thumbs fly as he types a response for me, starting with the dog bed company, explaining that I’ve researched the company and am interested in discussing sponsored posts for their beds. A familiar knot of unease coils in my belly as words likereachandROIflash past my eyes. Everything’s quantified into follower numbers and visibility statistics that can be plugged into sales projections. He even proposes a fee range, deftly sliding into a transactional language I avoid whenever possible. It’s so much more officialthan chatting with Regina about her shirts while we cleaned up on Thanksgiving, and I can’t help the discomfort that creeps in.
My face must reflect something of my concerns—it always does, even when I’m not accidentally speaking my thoughts aloud—because Everett rests his phone on his thigh.
“You’re still not sure,” he says.
“I wish I was,” I tell him. “It’s one thing to sell thirty-dollar candles to people who come into Loden and Linden specifically to buy thirty-dollar candles, and who can easily afford them. But this is the space where I celebrate my dog, not where I sell stuff, and to people who aren’t on her account to buy stuff. It feels less joyful. Less...Aggie. And those things I never wanted to matter, like follower numbers and view counts, suddenly become important. I don’t want to care about that stuff. I’d much rather buy the bed, the booties, and the box of toys outright.”
Everett doesn’t say anything, watching me with all the patience in the world and knowing neither of us needs to articulate the obvious, i.e., that option B isn’t actually an option.
“No one will expect you to make a big sales pitch,” he says. “Just mention the product.”
I nod while chewing my chapped lower lip. We’ve been over this already and I know he’s right, but even that phrase grates. It’s no longerthe bedorthe toys. It’sthe product.
“Think about Aggie on that bed, or in the boots,” he says. “Think about having your evenings back to hang out with her or study or have some fun with your boyfriend.”
My eyes jump to his. We haven’t used that word yet. Not out loud.
“Sorry,” he says, reading my expression. “Was that okay to say?”
“Yeah,” I say, though it comes out a little breathless. “Of course. I like it. I just... I haven’t had a boyfriend since high school, and the definition was pretty shaky back then.”
“Everything was pretty shaky for me in high school,” Everett jokes as he takes my hand in his, knitting our fingers together while his thumb caresses my knuckles and we both watch the gentle movement. “This doesn’t feel shaky, though. If that’s okay to say, too.”
“It’s more than okay,” I assure him with a squeeze of his hand. “And I agree. It feels good. Right. Solid. Notboringsolid.Greatsolid. Orsexysolid. Or something like that.” I’m babbling, which appears to amuse Everett but which is making me deeply annoyed with myself, so I stop there and lean in to kiss him, letting our knitted hands fall so they rest on my thigh.
We kiss for a minute, stopping when a zoned-out woman in a caftan and Crocs rolls a squeaky cart past us at a rate so slow, entire empires are raised and toppled by the time she loads her sheets into a dryer at the far end of the aisle. A long-limbed guy with his black hoodie pulled up is slouched in a chair by the windows, speed-reading what looks like a horror novel while he chews on a black fingernail. Another guy, who may or may not be doing laundry, is napping on a row of chairs, using his puffy parka as a pillow. Otherwise, we’re the only ones here, the Friday-night glamour squad, passing time to the steady rhythm of spin cycles and thumping dryers.
Everett picks up his phone and opens the screen to his unsent message.
