Page 7 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
This makes me laugh a little, though probably more for the tension release than because it’s funny. Today has been long and hard, and the days ahead aren’t likely to be much easier. I have a stupidly full schedule for the week so I can hardly run back and forth to Syracuse every day, but I’ve already grown attached to this dog, started to picture her in my apartment, and in my life. If she doesn’t make it, it’s going to crush me. And I really will look into hit men.
I unfasten my seat belt and pivot to face Everett, pausing for the first time today to fully appreciate the man beside me. This morning, I couldn’t have imagined exchanging more than thirteen words with him, maybe a shy smile. Then he dropped whatever he had on his schedule, drove me to Syracuse, comforted me when I was freaking out, assisted in hauling a hundred-and-twenty-five-pound, immobile dog into the back of his car, brought me a cup of tea at emergency care, waited by my side until I got a diagnosis and talked with the vet, and drove me back to Ithaca, all without a single complaint or even a muffled sigh of annoyance.
Now he’s sitting beside me with russet dog hair all over his beautiful pumpkin-colored sweater and rich mossy corduroys. HisNeil Diamond’s Greatest HitsCD just stopped playing “September Morn” after cycling through several other songs I liked more than I thoughtI would. His hazel-now-that-I’m-looking-at-them eyes sparkle with the same kindness as his quiet smile, watching me behind his Benjamin Franklin glasses, giving me space to justbefor a moment.
It strikes me without warning that I might’ve formed more than one attachment today, though my brain doesn’t have sufficient space to give that thought the consideration it deserves. I can only hope the next time someone calls Everett my friend—assuming there is a next time—I won’t feel like I should contradict them.
“Thank you,” I say. “For everything. I’ll give you some gas money. And dry-clean your sweater. And vacuum your car. And if there’s anything else—”
“Cameron,” he interjects, his brows lifting with bemused surprise and disappearing under his shaggy brown curls. “I’m fully capable of operating a vacuum or laundering a sweater. The gas is on me. Just take care of yourself, okay? And keep me posted about the dog?”
I open my mouth to protest—because surely, I should protest. He doesn’t even know me. I didn’t just borrow a cup of flour or whatever neighbors usually do. I even made fun of his music and criticized his job, tangentially and accidentally, but still... why is he being so nice?
But he gives me a look that brooks no argument, and I don’t actually want to argue. I want to shower, change my clothes, and take a long, hard look at my schedule so I can free up time to head back to Syracuse this week. I’ll sort out something nice to do for Everett later.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything,” I say. “And thank you. Again.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for asking for my help. And for letting me come.”
We exchange a smile, a simple, tired, long-day-ending one. Then we get out of the car and trudge over to the elevator. He presses the button but the elevator’s slow to arrive, because of course it is. It might only be starting its descent from the ground level, but since it appears to run on a single volt of electricity and the power of wishful thinking, we wait.
I’m sorely tempted to tip my head onto Everett’s shoulder. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind. He might even put his arm around my waist and tuck me against his side.
“You’re right. I might,” he says, anddammit!I’ve spoken my thoughts aloud again. I havegotto stem this habit. It’s going to get me in serious trouble if I don’t watch it.
Thankfully, the elevator doors open, diverting our attention to the couple making out in the corner. It’s The Lovers, also known as the residents of 605: a tall, blond, fair-skinned woman currently in jeans and a cropped satin letterman jacket, and a short, dark-skinned woman with natural curls and a sexy red retro dress that makes me think ofMad Men. Despite the ding that accompanied the opening doors, the pair doesn’t stop kissing. I suspect some residents find this behavior off-putting, but the couple always seems to be enjoying themselves and since they’re not hurting anyone, I find it kind of refreshing. I certainly wouldn’t complain if I met someone who couldn’t keep their hands off me, as long as I wanted to mash faces with them, too.
I’m not sure what Everett’s thoughts are on the matter, or if I should be thinking about what his thoughts are on the matter, but he waits as patiently as I do until the doors start to close, at which point he steps forward and blocks their movement with an outstretched hand and a quiet “oops” that alerts The Lovers to ourpresence. They break their kiss and turn toward us, still half entangled and as unaffected as if we were a pair of traffic cones.
The tall one lifts her chin. “Oh. Hey,” she says flatly.
Everett musters a polite smile. “Hi. Um... are you getting off here?”
The Lovers exchange a look, breaking into muffled giggles that must make Everett realize what he just asked at the same time I do, because his cheeks go pink and he backs away.
“Sorry,” he says. “We can take the stairs.”
“No. We’re sorry.” The short one stifles her giggles and looks around as though she’s only just now noticing where she is. “Parking level? Yeah. This is us.” She drags the other woman into the garage and they jog past us, leaving the elevator empty for us to enter.
Everett and I step in and I hit the button for the sixth floor, initiating our painfully slow upward journey, accompanied by the usual flickering overheads and the low whirring sound I associate with intense mechanical effort. We both face the doors and go silent, though it seems weird to default to these habits now that we’re not strangers.
Everett must have the same thought, because we both speak at once.
“Do you have—”
“Are you—”
“Sorry. You first.”
“No. Go ahead.”
We both go quiet for a beat as the elevator continues inching up toward the ground floor.
“I was going to ask if you wanted dinner,” he says. “I kind of forgot about lunch, and I imagine it wasn’t top of your mind, either, butnow, I’m guessing you might be as hungry as I am. I thought I could maybe pick up takeout from The Lotus. You know. For both of us.”
“Oh.” I blink through my surprise. I was going to ask if he had a busy week ahead of him.
“Not, like, as a date,” he clarifies, probably because I’m blinking at him like an idiot.
