Page 8 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
“No. Yeah. I know,” I stammer, suddenly flustered by the worddate, even when prefaced by the wordnot. “I just... I need a shower. And want to kick back for the rest of the night.”
“Of course. Sure. If you already have something to eat at home...” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his corduroys and watches theGlight up over the doors as though it’s the most interesting thing ever. His face is still flushed and he looks like he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. He’s also drumming his thumbs on his thighs from where they hook over the edges of his pockets. I find his nervous tics endearing, maybe because I have so many of my own.
With that thought, my brain finally catches up with my mouth.
“Actually, I don’t have anything at home,” I say. “But will you at least let me treat?”
His thumbs go still and the corners of his lips twitch with the threat of a smile.
“I’ve got this,” he says. “You can get the next one.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I’ve showered and changed into cozy lounge pants, a plain white tee, and a bottle-green cable-knit cardigan that saves me from looking like I’m ready for bed. Everett’s picking up takeout while I scramble to tidy my apartment, tucking away the teetering stack of mail I let pile up on the counter, shiftingthe laundry basket into the closet, and putting the acne gel I leave on the rim of the sink into the medicine cabinet.
Everett knocks as I’m straightening the pillows and blankets on the futon, and I open the door to find him holding a bag that looks far too large and full to contain two orders of bibimbap.
He catches me looking at the bag. “I forgot to ask you about appetizers.”
I sputter out a laugh. “So you got them all?”
“I got options. Anything we don’t eat tonight will keep.” He looks nervous again, which means I find him endearing again, and I step back to invite him in, gesturing toward the coffee table, which I’m glad I cleared, given the size of our impending feast.
Together, Everett and I unpack the mains and half a dozen appetizers, settling in side by side on the futon, which is my only available seating. While we eat, we talk about how the dog might fit in here, where a cozy dog bed might go if the futon nudges closer to the wall, and where I might put food and water dishes, and also pee pads while we sort out a toilet routine, given my schedule and her mobility issues. It’s nice, fleshing out the image of her future with me, even if I know nothing’s definite.
I also tell Everett about growing up in Roseburg, a small town in southern Oregon, where my parents still live, and about summer vacations we spent at a cabin on the coast. He tells me more about his childhood, how his parents were—and still are—both academics, hunting for tenure-track jobs together but settling for short-term visiting positions as they’ve opened up in one field or the other. He and his sisters were shuttled from city to city, always for only one or two years at a time. His older sister, Charlotte, was born in Charlotte, North Carolina. Everett was born in Everett, Washington. Hisyounger sister, Dakota, was born in Vermillion, South Dakota, where his parents were kind enough to adjust their naming routine.
“Was it hard?” I ask between ravenous mouthfuls of rice and veggies. “All that moving?”
“Challenging, sure.” He pokes at a slippery chunk of avocado he’s been trying to pick up with his chopsticks for a full minute now. “My sisters and I got along pretty well, which helped, but we never had much money and moving costs were always a consideration, so we traveled light.” He finally manages the avocado slice and takes a moment to eat it. “It’s a first-world-problem kind of thing, obviously, but where I’m going with it is that I think it’s why I hold on to things now. Things other people might get rid of without a second thought.”
“Things like a forty-year-old Volvo?” I ask.
“Exactly. And like this sweater, which was Charlotte’s.” He gives the front a little tug. “And my glasses, which were my great-grandfather’s, re-lensed, of course. And the CD collection my old neighbor was throwing away when she retired and moved to California this summer.”
I choke on a mouthful of rice but quickly recover with the help of some water.
“The CDs were your neighbor’s?” I ask once my throat’s cleared.
Everett laughs a little as his cheeks go pink again.
“I should’ve told you,” he says. “But I would’ve felt like I was only doing it because I know the music’s not cool. And I don’t really care if it’s cool, if it’s something I like.”
I gape at him, openly impressed. Not that I make great efforts at being cool, but I definitely try to hide my non-coolness from people I don’t know.
“The Volvo isn’t set up for Bluetooth,” he continues. “It only has that terrible, no-signal radio and the CD player, and I didn’t have any CDs of my own. I was happy to have something to listen to. Also, I really liked my neighbor. The musicissomething to remember her by. Now I’m used to it, I like it, and I know all the words to ‘Sweet Caroline’ and ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads.’ So the CDsaremine.” He shrugs sheepishly while working hard on another piece of avocado, with his brow furrowed, his floppy curls, his old-timey glasses, his sister’s sweater, and a pound of dog hair on him, all of it together setting off a little red warning light in my mind.Be careful, it says.You might start to really like this guy. And you do not have time for a guy right now.
I glance at my door, picturing the hallway beyond, and the door to 606 at the far end.
“Is your place crammed full of stuff other people were discarding?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m not a hoarder. I swear. I’ll show you sometime.”
The red light goes off again but I quickly extinguish it. He’s only suggesting a look inside, maybe a visit or friendly hangout. My brain needs to knock it the hell off.
“And the plants?” I ask. “The ones you bring in late at night? What’s with those?”
He gives up on the avocado and reaches for a fried seaweed roll instead.
“I feel like I should have a good story here,” he says.
