Page 5 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
“Let’s just say I’m not a fan,” I tell Everett. “Anyway. What do you do?”
“I’m in marketing,” he says. “Mostly social media content and management.”
“Oh my god.” I throw my face into my hands, utterly mortified. “I didn’t mean—”
“No. It’s fine.” He holds up a hand to halt my protest, a hint of amusement dimpling his cheeks and creasing the skin beside his eyes. “It’s a complicated landscape. I get that. But there’s a positive side to it. And I don’t just mean for selling stuff.”
I peek out between my fingers, curious where he’s going withthis. I spent plenty of time on social media in high school and college, but I have no regrets about leaving.
“You mean all the memes?” I ask, only half kidding.
He sneaks me another glance as he nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“I mean accounts with real impact like the digital activists informing people about climate change, disability rights, decolonization practices, and health care inaccessibility,” he says. “Or fun accounts like the Italian greyhound who’s a fashion influencer.”
I finally lower my hands, recalling some of the dog accounts I used to follow, though they were all just for fun, made by people who loved their pets, nothing approaching influencer status.
“A fashion influencer, huh?” I ask. “Whose fashion is she influencing?”
Everett’s cheeks dimple again. “You’d be surprised.”
I’m sure I would be, I think. Also, he really does have a nice smile. It’s warm, friendly, and a little reticent to fully bloom, a characteristic I respect in a smile.
Everett soon pulls onto the highway heading north. As we settle into a slightly less uncomfortable silence and as I watch the landscape pass through my window, a low rumble of anxiety begins to roil in my belly, not the kind of anxiety I felt when I knocked on Everett’s door or tried to figure out what to say about his assertively musty but gloriously convenient car. It’s the kind of anxiety I feel when I know I’m about to face something genuinely, profoundly hard.
The dog we’re about to meet will remind me of Lady Marmalade. She’ll call up waves of grief I’m still learning to manage. She has also been abused and neglected, which is always hard to see.She’ll need a lot of help and I’ll need to be realistic about whether or not I can provide that help. I’ll know, while looking into her eyes, that after all she’s been through, I’m her last chance, not just for a good life, but for any life at all.
What if I can’t do it? What if I have to let her die?
A warm hand wraps mine where I’ve balled it into a tight fist on my thigh.
“I really want to tell you that won’t happen,” Everett says, making me realize I spoke those last thoughts aloud. “But I don’t know much about animal health and welfare. I’ve never had a pet. And I don’t really know you, either, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say I’m pretty sure you’ll only let her die if you’re confident it’s the right thing to do.”
I bite down hard on my lip, holding back a swell of emotion. Not from the warm hand around mine, or the gentle way Everett expressed his faith in me, or even just feeling a little less alone on this unexpected journey. It’s his use of the phrasethe right thing to do, rather thanthe only thing to do. Because they’re not the same, and I’m really glad I won’t have to explain that.
“Thanks,” I say. “I hope so. I really,reallyhope so.”
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, we’re walking through the glass door of Hounds and Hearts. I’ve deep-breathed myself into a state of relative calm, helped by Everett’s rather charming efforts at maintaining a steady stream of distracting small talk in the car, guiding us through random conversational turns about recent TV favorites, growing up as either an only child (me) or the middle of three (him), a Korean restaurant we discover we both like, the origin of his first name from his birthplace near Seattle, and childhoodteam sports in which both of us did a lot of bench-warming. After we parked, I thanked him for the ride and asked if he wanted to wait somewhere else while I met the dog and decided whether or not she was coming home with us—a nearby bookstore, maybe, or the cozy-looking diner across the street. He said he preferred to come with me, as long as I’d be okay with that. Surprisingly, I am.
A rosy-cheeked thirtysomething woman in a hoodie that saysMy dog is smarter than your honor roll studentgreets us from a reception desk cluttered with novelty mugs, well-used office supplies, stacks of files with papers jutting from their open edges, jars of dog treats, and a few small houseplants that look like they’ll be lucky if they make it to October.
The woman introduces herself as Nora, the shelter administrator, janitor, cheerleader, and backup dog walker. Then she asks if I’m Cameron, her eyes brimming with hope.
“I am,” I say. “And this is Everett. He’d like to meet the dog, too.”
Everett nods politely while Nora’s face lights up.
“I’m so glad you brought your partner,” she says. “This is one of the toughest cases we’ve had come through here. I’m not sure anyone should take this on alone.”
“He’s not my partner,” I say reflexively.
“Sorry.” Nora winces. “Hasty assumption. Your friend, then.”
I’m about to clarify that he’s not my friend, either, when I realize Nora doesn’t need a debrief on my hour-long relationship with a guy I thought might give me a ride. Also, calling Everettmy rideor evena guy who lives in my buildingfeels reductive now that I at least know he has two sisters named Dakota and Charlotte, and he likes his bibimbap with extra chilis.
“If there’s anything I can do,” Everett says, “I’m happy to help.”
I smile at him in gratitude. I may not be comfortable calling him a friend, but given how fast he grabbed his keys when I showed up, frantic, at his door, and how patient and kind he’s been today, I’m pretty sure he’s a genuinely good guy.
