Chapter Three
S ix hours later, Everett pulls into our underground parking garage.
We don’t have a dog with us, though our situation does have an actual bright side.
The dog is in intensive care back in Syracuse, receiving the attention she needs.
The vet confirmed she has pneumonia, and there was no way I could care for her at home.
Everything happened so fast. After my announcement, and a brief, heartbreaking conversation about potential expenses neither Andy nor I could afford, he made some calls and got ahold of someone at Ruff ’n’ Rescue, a local rescue organization in Ithaca.
They didn’t hesitate, telling us to get the dog to emergency and we’d sort out the cost later.
I didn’t hesitate, either. Andy, Everett, and I got the dog into the back of Everett’s station wagon and across town immediately.
The emergency animal care staff took over from there.
I check my phone for the millionth time.
“She’s in good hands,” Everett assures me, also for the millionth time. “They were optimistic. And they will call if there’s anything to report. Dr. Kong was very clear about that.”
I pocket my phone and blow a frustrated breath toward the vinyl-covered ceiling.
“I’m trying really hard to not hate the people who did this to her,” I say. “But I hate the people who did this to her. If I knew who they were, I might hire a hit man. Or if hit men only exist in movies, I’d at least slash some tires.”
Everett pulls into a parking spot, shuts off the car, and turns to face me.
“Not that you need it,” he says, “but you have my full permission for murderous rage.”
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.
His Neil Diamond’s Greatest Hits CD just stopped playing “September Morn” after cycling through several other songs I liked more than I thought I 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 just be for 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, and dammit! I’ve spoken my thoughts aloud again. I have got to 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 of Mad 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 our presence.
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, but now, 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.
“No. Yeah. I know,” I stammer, suddenly flustered by the word date , even when prefaced by the word not . “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 the G light 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.”
F IFTEEN 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, shifting the laundry basket into the closet, and putting the acne gel I leave on the rim of the sink into the medicine cabinet.