Chapter Eleven
I’m dragging my feet as I walk home from campus, wondering if this is the best I can do at the adulthood I was racing toward as a teenager and now want to return for a refund.
I’m tired of being broke. I’m tired of being tired.
Then I walk through my apartment door and find Aggie on her bed, surrounded by a growing collection of toys, able now to scoot herself into a seated position with relative ease, wagging her tail and looking like the sun broke through the clouds.
“Hi, sweetie.” I drop to my knees beside her and throw my arms around her neck.
She bunts the side of my head with her cold, wet nose, sniffing every inch of me with a rigorous curiosity I don’t examine too closely, given how I’ve spent my evening. Her tail wags, her entire body wriggles with joy, and within seconds, the best I can do doesn’t seem so bad.
I get her harnessed and into the wagon, which remains our easiest way of getting around.
She can take a few stiff, shaky steps on her own now, and she supports more of her own weight when I use the sling or harness, but the wagon’s still a huge help if we might be waiting for a while in the elevator or traveling beyond the little lawn out front, especially when I’m tired.
With my coat still on, we head out so Aggie can do her final pee for the night.
We’re in the elevator, watching the doors close, when someone calls out for us to hold them.
I reach out a hand to trigger the sensor and The Lovers soon join me, jogging to an abrupt halt as they wedge themselves into the limited space left by Aggie’s wagon.
We exchange brief, polite smiles, and while the doors close again, I lift my eyes toward the flickering fluorescent lights, praying to whatever’s beyond them that The Lovers don’t make out all the way to the ground floor.
It’s been a little over three weeks since the morning at the market, and I’ve barely seen Everett during that time.
Between his busy work schedule and my busy life schedule, we’re lucky to sneak in a couple hours together on a weeknight or a weekend morning.
The first time we tried to watch a movie together, I fell asleep on him. The second time, he fell asleep on me.
“No way,” says the tall lover, knotting a gray flannel scarf over a navy peacoat.
“Right? I told you!” says the short lover, cutting a sharp contrast with her partner in an embroidered, faux fur–trimmed, ankle-length coat that makes me think of dramatic heroines in old Russian novels, none of which I’ve read in their entirety.
She also has bright orange mittens poking from a pocket, and red earmuffs circling her neck like idling headphones, leaving her natural curls loose, while her partner wears a plain black beanie over her blond pixie cut.
The two of them are looking at a phone together, glancing up at the same time to see me regarding them. I flash them an apologetic smile, hoping I didn’t seem like I was showing undue curiosity in their midnight scrolling, and I’m startled when they both break into big, wide grins.
“This is her, right?” says the short one. “This is the TikTok dog?”
“Um, yes?” I manage. After six videos and a little over three weeks, our initial TikTok now has more than three million views, and the follower count is still growing. I appreciate all the support and encouragement, but still. It’s... a lot. “Her name’s Aggie. Short for Agatha.”
“Ag-gie,” the tall one singsongs, bending down to ruffle the fur on Aggie’s neck, a form of attention that always delights her, and this time is no exception.
She raises her head to provide better access as her hairless tail wags and her eyes drift shut in ecstasy.
“Who’s a good girl? Who’s the best girl?
Who’s the scruffy-wuffy, goodest, bestest, Aggie-waggiest girl? ”
I watch with amusement as Aggie revels in the attention while the other woman looks at her phone again and the elevator inches its way downward at its usual sluggish pace.
“Thirteen pounds, huh?” asks the woman with the phone, presumably referring to the caption on our latest TikTok.
We’re doing most of our weigh-ins at Ruff ’n’ Rescue to limit vet bills, and Sariah and Sam have been amazing at advising on physical therapy and mobility in general, so I don’t get too excited by Aggie’s progress and overtax her body before it’s ready.
“Thirteen pounds in six weeks,” I confirm.
“Wow. That’s intense.” She shakes her head, incredulous. “I’m Regina, by the way.” She gestures at her partner, who’s now getting a full tongue bath, and apparently enjoying it as much as Aggie is. “This is Tegan. You just moved in a couple months ago, right?”
I suppress most but not all of an embarrassed grimace, though whether I’m embarrassed for her, for me, or for all three of us, I’m not sure.
“Actually, I moved in last July. Like, a year and four months ago.”
Regina and Tegan swap a look that’s not unlike the one I tried to hide.
“We suck,” Tegan says through a laugh. “How did we think you were new?”
“Well, I mean, you’re usually... busy,” I say, and immediately wish I’d let Regina answer.
Fortunately, they find my awkwardness amusing and not offensive.
“It’s the elevator,” Regina says, also laughing now. “We got so tired of how slow it was, we needed a way to pass the time. Obviously, we came up with one.”
“Obviously,” Tegan echoes, straightening up to wrap a long arm around Regina.
“Aggie has an elevator activity, too,” I tell them. “Sadly, it’s farting.”
“Oh my god!” Regina sweeps a hand up to shield her nose. “You’re kidding, right?”
We all turn toward Aggie, who’s looking especially proud of herself, probably for being the undisputable center of attention right now, and not for her small-space farting prowess, but I never know with this one. I still think she understands way more than the average dog.
Sure enough, she lets one fly, though she has the grace to wait until we’re almost at the ground floor and we can laugh about it without asphyxiating.
By this point, we’ve expanded our introductions, so I’ve learned Regina’s a fashion designer who recently launched her own brand of locally manufactured streetwear she describes as “color forward” and “typographically whimsical,” showing me samples of bright, two-tone baseball tees printed with quotes and word poems in mismatched fonts and placements, sometimes just on a sleeve or near the hem, sometimes spanning the entire shirt.
Tegan works at a nearby bank. She doesn’t say much about what she does at the bank.
I get the impression she’s used to Regina fielding a lot more questions about her work in fashion, and she’s happy to let her partner enjoy the spotlight.
“You should make Aggie a tee,” she suggests as we exit the elevator into the lobby.
Regina grabs her arm, spinning in my direction. “Oh my god, yes! Can I?”
“Sure. Of course. If you want to,” I say. “But what would it say? World-class farter? ”
“Something far more badass,” Regina says. “Let me think about it. Can I come take her measurements sometime this week so I can see if one of our current sizes would fit?”
“Absolutely,” I say, already picturing Aggie in a custom tee she’d totally rock.
We all swap numbers and part ways, waving on the sidewalk as I wheel Aggie toward the nearest patch of grass, and the couple heads off toward a party they mentioned in the elevator.
I watch them walk away, arms around each other, with Regina’s head resting against Tegan’s shoulder.
Before I help Aggie out of her wagon, I find my phone.
CAMERON: You’re probably sleeping, but I wanted you to know I’m thinking about you
As I turn off my screen, I make myself a promise that I’ll look at my schedule when I get home from classes tomorrow, and I’ll find a time to see Everett when I’m not also doing laundry or cramming in homework or exercising my dog or—
EVERETT: I’m thinking about you, too
EVERETT: Date night Friday?
I’ve never texted so fast in my life.
CAMERON: Yes please!!!
EVERETT: Good. See you then. Now get some sleep you maniac!
I’m grinning as I pocket my phone. Apparently, the best I can do isn’t bad at all.