Chapter Ten
I ’m still in bed Sunday morning at around nine, lazily leaning over the side to pet Aggie while talking myself into getting up, when I hear a carefully controlled light rap on my door.
Aggie lets out a trio of cheerful barks. I’d like to think they’re because she knows who’s at the door, but I suspect she’d greet anyone who knocked with a similar welcome.
“Worst watchdog ever,” I tease with a scratch between her ears.
She smiles as if I paid her a compliment, mouth ajar, tongue out, eyes bright. It’s a look that always ignites a spark of joy in my chest. Yes, she’s a responsibility, like my dad said, but she also feels like an inevitability. Like I was meant to be hers just as she was meant to be mine.
“Aggie,” Everett’s lowered voice comes through the door. “Tell your mom to open up.”
She barks again, her tail wagging harder as she hauls herself into a seated position, which still takes her some effort, but is already much easier for her than it used to be.
Not wanting to wake our neighbors, I find my phone on the nightstand.
CAMERON: I’m still in bed
EVERETT: Yes, and?
CAMERON: And I’m not ready for you to see me first thing in the morning
EVERETT: I can’t tell if I should be flattered or offended
CAMERON: How about well warned?
EVERETT: The possibilities I’m imagining here...
CAMERON: At least let me brush my teeth and comb my hair
EVERETT: Spoiler alert: I’ve seen your teeth unbrushed and your hair uncombed
CAMERON: That was before I was trying to impress you
EVERETT: In case I didn’t make myself clear: zero impressing is required here
CAMERON: By impressing I mean letting me woo you with base levels of daily hygiene
EVERETT: Aww. So romantic! Is that Shakespeare or Keats?
“Go away!” I call across the room. “We’ll be over in ten!”
Everett’s muffled laugh makes its way through my door.
“Don’t eat breakfast,” he says. “I have plans. You know. Once I’m wooed.”
I send a wary look in the general direction of my door.
We didn’t talk about getting together today, and while I’m elated he’s taking the initiative and making plans, I’m nervous about what he might’ve cooked up.
Is this a date? Is he trying to impress me ?
Does he remember that I have to work at noon?
And that I need to get Aggie outside for some exercise before that?
What do I bring? Or wear? Will this cost me money I don’t have?
And the big one: Is it a good thing or a bad thing that he lives just down the hall?
Thankfully, I don’t have time to spiral myself into a state of high anxiety about what might or might not be my first official date in three years.
I rub the last of the sleep from my eyes with the heels of my hands.
Then I haul myself out of bed and check the time.
Since I stupidly gave myself only ten minutes, I throw on a simple rayon dress I bought in college when I had the time and money to care about things like clothes, and which has weathered the always-changing fashion landscape pretty well.
I pair it with cozy cable-knit sweater tights, a long, thick cardigan I picked up at a thrift store last fall, and a densely embroidered scarf Minh Ha would probably like, given the collection of patterned scarves I’ve seen her wear.
With no time to fuss, I yank a comb through the tangled mess that is my long hair—which I’ve heard described as honey blond by a few generous souls, though it falls more accurately in the dishwater range—and weave it into a simple braid that hangs down my back almost to my waist.
When I’m as presentable as possible, I harness Aggie and load her into her wagon, tucking a ball and an extra blanket into the corner, and a bag of treats into my pocket, before swallowing a flutter of nerves and wheeling her down the hall to Everett’s apartment.
After a brief knock, he answers the door in navy corduroys and a rich mulberry roll-collared sweater with a single leather toggle at the base of his neck.
I don’t know what it is about this man and his sweaters, but each one makes me want to fall against him in a long, lingering hug.
Maybe because they all look so soft. More likely because he’s the one wearing them.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly breathless.
“Hi,” he returns, sinking his teeth into his lower lip as his cheeks dimple.
We do that thing we also did in my apartment the other night, mid-baking-confessional, where we get shifty and rosy-cheeked as we look at each other like our minds need a moment to catch up with our hearts, or like all we want to do is look, and be, and share these seconds.
Everett blinks himself out of our locked gaze first, stepping forward to enfold me in the embrace I was coveting a moment ago, and planting a sweet little kiss on my cheek before he releases me to give an eagerly awaiting Aggie a greeting of her own, bending low to scratch her neck with both hands and scolding her for letting me sleep in on a beautiful October day.
“Want to come in for a sec?” he asks. “I just need to grab a jacket, but I told you a while ago I’d show you my place so you knew I wasn’t a hoarder. I feel like it’s high time I make good on that offer. Consider it my way of wooing you with base levels of human dignity.”
I roll my eyes but I’m smiling too hard for my annoyance to be convincing. I like it when he teases me. It never feels mean. It feels like a way of building comfort with each other.
Pulling Aggie’s wagon over the threshold, I step into a shockingly bright living room with sunlight streaming through a pair of big, arched windows.
I always forget the units at the front of the building look out over the main street, unlike the other units, with our views blocked by adjacent buildings, leaving only dimly lit alleys through any given window.
The kitchen area is significantly larger than mine, complete with a breakfast bar and two stools, full-sized appliances, and a table that seats four.
The living room has a wall of tightly but tidily occupied bookshelves and a neatly arranged cluster of furniture that includes a sofa, two armchairs, and a coffee table.
The furniture is from different eras and styles, but in good shape and tied together with coordinating curtains, throw pillows, and rugs in olive and teal textiles that give off a mid-century modern vibe.
Houseplants perch in corners, on the bookshelves, and on windowsills, maybe a dozen in total, adding color and life without overwhelming the space.
I’m not sure what I expected, beyond a lot of plants and a certain level of vintage eclecticism that mirrors Everett’s wardrobe, but I’m struck as I look around by how artistic the space is.
It’s not assembled by chance, with whatever he found in an alley or thrift store.
Every piece feels deliberately chosen and arranged carefully in relationship to the other elements of the room.
The space has a mood to it, a design, a personality that goes well beyond functionality, a hint of the outdoors brought indoors, not just with the plants but with the colors and textures.
Now that I see it, it’s so obvious. Everett is an artist. He hasn’t used that term to describe himself, not directly, anyway.
He’s said he’s in marketing, or makes social media content, or develops branding strategies and improves search engine optimization.
What he’s grossly undersold is how creative that work must be.
I feel like I’ve just peeled back a layer of an onion, not to find another layer, but to discover a blossoming flower inside. Also, he has a bedroom, a real one with a door through which I can see the foot of a bed, though I decide to save exploring that part of his habitat for another time.
“Well?” he asks as he shrugs on a canvas jacket. “What do you think?”
“I think I can’t believe we live in the same building,” I tell him honestly. “That’s a real sofa. And a real bedroom. And those are real windows. And real books and framed photos on your shelves. You probably have real food in your fridge, too.”
As I spin toward his kitchen, still taking it all in, he steps up behind me, wraps me in his arms, and sets his chin on my shoulder so his cheek rests against mine, smooth and warm. I lean into him, following the instinct before I can second-guess it, and he tightens his hold in response.
“I do enjoy a well-balanced meal I don’t pour from a box,” he says. “And I make a decent living, though I have to find a way to pull back on work or it’ll drown me.” He gives me a quick squeeze before releasing me. “But today isn’t about work. You have about two hours, right?”
I check the time on a brushed-steel clock over his kitchen window. Just past nine-twenty.
“About that,” I confirm. “And I planned to spend it with Aggie.”
“I assumed.” He gives her another scratch on the neck while she looks up at him with her eyes bright and her tail wagging. “Good thing I have a plan that includes all three of us.”
T EN MINUTES LATER , after Aggie’s done “her business,” we turn the corner onto the Ithaca Commons, the pedestrian mall that runs through the old downtown with its three- and four-story nineteenth-century facades transformed by an urban renewal project in the 1970s and again in the 2010s.
It was once home to a lot of banks and department stores, but now it houses galleries, trendy retail outlets and coffee shops, a library I haven’t been into yet, and a 1915 vaudeville theater that’s been converted into an indie cinema.
It’s also the home to five of the eleven obelisks in the Sagan Planet Walk, a three-quarter-mile scale model of the solar system that spans several streets across town, and one of Ithaca’s quirkiest quirks.
It’s a tribute to Cornell professor of astronomy, Carl Sagan, anchored in the Commons by the sun obelisk in its black and gold glory, and with Mercury, Venus, Earth, and Mars nearby.