Chapter Twenty-Two
Y ou’re amazing!” the robo-ball says as Aggie chases it down the sixth-floor hallway on a cold, wet Saturday afternoon in early March, after a cold, wet walk we cut short so we could play inside instead.
“Wow,” Khalil says as he watches with me. “We could almost call that a jog.”
“ Almost? ” I scoff with mock indignation. “That is definitely a jog.”
He nods his agreement while Aggie catches up to the ball, grabs it, drops it, and follows it again as it zigzags in our direction.
Okay, jog is a stretch, but not a big one.
Aggie’s pace is more than a walk or a trot.
A month of hydrotherapy has been really good for her.
She can walk four full minutes on the water treadmill before resting now.
She’s lost eight more pounds. Her once scabby, bald tail is covered in hair.
The hair’s still growing in, so her tail doesn’t yet look like a normal retriever tail, but it does look like a dog tail, no longer a constant sign of her neglect.
“My prof is really excited about how well the ball’s working,” Khalil says. “We’re putting together a grant application to expand on what we’ve learned with it. See if we can’t modify it for kids with mobility issues, combining game play with adaptive movement.”
“You’re amazing!” the ball says as it rolls toward us.
“The ball beat me to it,” I say. “You are amazing.”
Khalil waves off my praise, like always, but I swear he’s standing taller, which is saying something because he’s pretty tall to begin with. Tall, kind, and genius-level brilliant.
It never ceases to astonish me that I live near such cool people, and I’m so glad we all finally talked to each other last fall. Well, almost all of us, but maybe one day Phone Girl will come around. Even if she is a vampire, she’ll have to feed at some point.
“Can we show off your work to Aggie’s fan club?” I ask Khalil.
He flushes but he smiles as he reddens. “Um, I guess, okay?”
I smile back, eager for the world to witness his genius. “Yay! Thank you!”
I grab my phone and film Aggie chasing the ball.
Then Khalil talks through the key features, geeking out about actuators, feedback loops, and proximity sensors while standing in our hallway in black and gray high-tech winter cycling clothes that hug his body like a superhero costume.
I don’t fuss with the video editing, obsess about the caption or hashtags, or ensure the music is trending.
With three more sponsored TikToks on the account now, all of which Everett insisted on producing to his carefully branded and highly curated professional standards, I’m ready to post something amateur.
Just a dog, a ball, and a humanitarian robotics nerd.
Ten minutes later, as we continue playing ball with Aggie while joking about how the Cornell Alumni Society is already asking us for donations, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
HANNAH: Saw your new TikTok. Was that your next-door neighbor?
CAMERON: Yeah. Khalil. Previously known as Cycle Guy. Why?
HANNAH: Seriously, Cam?!?! You have at least LOOKED at those legs, right?
I swallow a laugh and force myself to keep my eyes on my screen while Khalil plays with Aggie. I should’ve seen this coming. I know Hannah’s type. Tall, dark, and handsome. Muscular. Chiseled features. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s a high-achieving endurance athlete, just like her.
CAMERON: He cycles over two hundred miles a week. For fun. Of course he’s fit
HANNAH: Fit, and with an actual brain! Didn’t you say he cooks, too?
CAMERON: Are you telling me you’re thinking of visiting?
HANNAH: I’m not THAT thirsty. But your TikTok might hit a record number of views
CAMERON: Speaking of numbers... should I give him yours?
HANNAH: God, no. I’d only fall for him, tell him I’m in love with him, and get dumped
CAMERON: That was ONE time
HANNAH: Sometimes one is all it takes...
Oh, Hannah , I think, and wish I had a way to make her forget that guy ever existed, though I guess I wouldn’t appreciate Everett as much if I hadn’t kissed a few frogs first. Still, Hannah deserves so much better, and I won’t stop hoping she’ll find it.
After a few more texts, we sign off with the usual heart emojis and I pocket my phone.
“Everything okay?” Khalil asks, now seated on the floor with Aggie basically in his lap.
I consider telling him my best friend thinks he’s hot, and that they’d probably be perfect together if they ever met, but since they’re unlikely to cross paths, I’m not about to meddle.
“Just my friend in the UK,” I say. “The one I’ve told you about who’s getting her law degree and doing Ironman races. She’s impressed with the ball you made.”
“Yeah? Cool.” Khalil flushes again, fighting a shy smile he buries against Aggie’s neck.
Okay, maybe I can revisit the meddling idea. But only if the opportunity arises.
Tucking that thought aside, we pick back up where we left off, chatting about everything and nothing while sending Aggie back and forth down the hall so she gets her exercise since it’s too cold and slushy outside to enjoy the park.
I don’t know why I always expect March to feel like spring when it always feels like winter’s stubborn refusal to end.
There’s always one more snowfall. One more freezing rain.
One more day to bundle up while wishing I could hibernate.
Khalil’s expressing a similar sentiment when the elevator dings and Regina and Tegan stumble into the hall, locked in a tight embrace, hands roving, clothes bunched, mid-make-out.
“Look out!” I shout before they stumble over the ball or Aggie barrels into them.
They pull apart, laughing as they turn and see us.
“Sorry, sorry!” Regina waves her hands like she’s erasing the space between us.
“We didn’t expect anyone to be here,” Tegan says.
“And if you did expect someone?” Khalil challenges.
Regina and Tegan exchange a look, then burst into more laughter.
“I don’t know what it is about that elevator,” Regina says.
She and Tegan both look at me, which means it’s my turn to blush. Thankfully, Tegan quickly redirects everyone’s attention by holding up a large bag from Patisserie Amour.
“Warm croissant, anyone?” she asks. “We got greedy and bought more than we need.”
Aggie’s first to wander over, because of course she is, but Khalil and I clamber up and join her, lured as easily as she is by the smell of fresh-from-the-oven, flaky, buttery pastry.
I reach into the bag Tegan holds open for us. “I’ve been dying to try one of these.”
“And you haven’t had one yet because...” she asks.
“Johann’s been so generous,” I say. “And I know how he feels about his rival.”
Regina and Tegan exchange another look before Regina turns to me.
“Oh no,” she says. “No, no, no, no, no. You did not fall for that.”
I glance at Khalil, but he shrugs, looking as in the dark as I feel.
“Fall for what?” I ask Regina.
“Johann and Madeleine?” she says. “They’re totally banging.”
“They’re what?!” I sputter through a shocked laugh.
Khalil shrugs again while Tegan nods in an oh yeah kind of way.
“I thought they hated each other,” I say.
“Maybe they did, once,” Regina says. “Or maybe their parents hated each other so Johann and Madeleine pretended for their parents’ sakes. Either way, it has to be a publicity stunt by now because the minute the lights go out, someone’s getting their cake frosted.”
I almost choke on my croissant. “How do you know?”
“I told you,” she says. “I have a sixth sense about these things.”
“Also, we’ve seen them,” Tegan adds. “But after Reggie told me what she suspected.”
I gape, speechless. All these weeks. All the hissed aspersions. Was Johann really faking it while sneaking next door after hours? And why do I kind of love the idea that he was?
We all devolve into speculation, though conversation shifts as we eat our croissants, parking ourselves on the floor so we can also play with Aggie.
Khalil offers to let us all try the stuffed eggplant he cooked last night, making us drool as we recall the aroma.
Tegan shows us her latest TikTok with googly eyes glued above a jagged crack in some brickwork and the caption Rosy Mason.
Whether you’re looking to get stoned or get laid, I won’t take you for granite.
Regina tells us about a new sportswear line she’s launching this spring, speaking with the unshakable confidence I’ve come to know her for, the confidence that will likely get her to New York Fashion Week by age thirty, and have her dressing major celebrities shortly thereafter.
“Wait a sec.” She glances around as Aggie flops down beside me, tired from playing and resting her head in my lap, where I can pet her spectacular ears. “Aren’t we missing someone?”
All eyes turn on me, and a month of complicated feelings threatens to bubble up.
“He’s working,” I say, and plan to leave it there, but everyone’s looking at me like they know there’s more to say, and I guess I don’t have to keep this stuff to myself anymore, or save it all for Hannah.
“He’s up for a promotion he really wants, which is why he’s working on a Saturday.
I miss him but I get it because my schedule doesn’t leave much room for him, either.
I just... I wish he could turn off more when he is free.
We haven’t had much fun lately. He’s determined to keep helping with my TikToks, which is pretty much all we have time for, and I keep telling him they don’t need to be fancy and that I’m not sure I want to keep doing them at all, but he keeps pushing and I want him to feel appreciated, even when he’s being—” I cut myself off.
I can’t believe I’m complaining about Everett. Not when he’s been so good to me.
“A perfectionist?” Regina fills in for me.
“Single-minded?” Tegan suggests.
“Relentless?” Khalil offers.
For a moment, all I can do is blink. Then it sinks in. “You guys noticed?”
Regina laughs. Tegan smirks. Khalil shrugs. All three responses clearly say yes .
“Our walls are thin,” Tegan says. “We know when he’s pulling an all-nighter.”
“And we’ve seen your TikToks,” Regina says. “Yours and Everett’s.”
Khalil doesn’t add anything but the look he gives me says he’s seen and heard plenty, and I’m sure he has. We all run into each other often enough to know when someone’s having a bad day, having a great day, or too exhausted and preoccupied to talk about their day at all.
“Everett has high standards,” I say as a fresh wave of guilt crashes through me. “He puts all that work into my account for me . And I need the income. Why can’t I just be grateful?”
“Gratitude is complicated when what people give you isn’t what you actually want,” Tegan says, addressing her point to Aggie and not to me. “Like cold, meaty dog food instead of the warm, tasty croissants your mean old mom won’t let me feed you. Right, Aggie Waggie?”
Aggie slides me the perfect resentful side-eye, and I can’t help but laugh.
“And being grateful doesn’t mean you have to keep going,” Regina adds. “Or that you can’t pop up an occasional TikTok without Francis Ford Redmond directing production.”
I know , I think. But also... “It’s hard to turn down that kind of help, not when he’s so insistent about providing it.
He also knows his way around social media so much better than I do.
And his TikToks are so good. They get ten times the number of views and likes mine do.
They bumped my follower count up enough to double my sponsorship income. It’s an incredible gift.”
Regina, Tegan, and Khalil all regard me skeptically while Aggie lets out a timely groan. Their looks speak volumes, and maybe what they’re not saying is exactly what I need to hear.
“I’ll talk to him once he gets through this work crunch,” I say. “Maybe it’s time to be firm about quitting sponsorships. Take the pressure off both of us.”
“He might not get it right away, but he’ll come around,” Regina says. “He clearly wants the best for you and you clearly want the best for him. I’m sure you guys can work it out.”
“Yeah. I know. Thanks,” I say, and while I may never share Regina’s certainty about life, love, or the sexual tension between bickering bakers, I love that I’m hanging out with friends on a Saturday afternoon, with the taste of buttery croissant still on my lips and a warm dog by my side.
This is happiness, too , I think. Tempered by complicated feelings for someone who’s not present, and arriving in a form I couldn’t have predicted. But definitely happiness.