Chapter Sixteen
T hanksgiving at Everett’s is loud and chaotic in ways that both fill my heart and wear me out.
Everett manages the kitchen while fielding holiday greeting calls from his family members.
I set the table, answer the door, and find places to put the food, drinks, coats, and bags.
Diana holds court on the sofa, an endless well of funny stories about her dogs, the tea shop, and her unruly childhood as one of fourteen siblings on a Vermont dairy farm, rattling on without pause while Arthur smiles at her fondly and barely says a word.
Minh Ha sets up a DIY spring roll station and promises to talk us all through the process while Pilot runs circles around our ankles or tries to get Aggie to chase her, running off with Aggie’s toys only to return and drop them on her blanket before curling into Aggie’s side for a two-minute power nap and then leaping up to play again.
Everett’s work colleagues—a Mandy and Mindy I can’t keep straight and a beefy blond guy named Brandon who introduces himself as Everett’s fiercest competition, earning eye rolls from the others—discuss various marketing accounts they’re working on, from a local cheese company to an emerging singer-songwriter to a tech startup exploring AI, before Everett pops over to refill wineglasses and begs them to talk about anything but work.
Regina and Tegan arrive with champagne and charcuterie in hand, wearing Love like an adopted rescue dog baseball tees.
The shirts are printed in crisp black text against a pink body, with maroon sleeves and neckline ribbing, and a really cute line drawing of Aggie below the text.
Regina says they’re only samples and she can make changes, but I love them as is.
They bring one for Aggie, too, with Goode printed across the back like a real baseball uniform.
Everyone cheers when I put it on her and she makes a slow, stumbling circuit around the room, collecting praise and pets as she goes.
I can’t resist sharing something that brings so much joy, so with a little wrangling help from the others, I get a ten-second shot of her with Pilot and post it to our account with a brief caption that says Happy Thanksgiving, with love from the Goode Girls .
Shortly before we sit down to dinner, my mom texts me a screenshot of her Facebook post with a photo-perfect meal she prepared and a description about how she and her wonderful husband are spending the day being grateful for each other.
Rather than text back, I call right away to wish them a happy Thanksgiving.
My mom tells me my dad can’t join the call because he’s out playing bridge at his club and she’s not sure when he’ll be back.
She goes quiet for two seconds—just long enough for me to peek at her screenshot again—so I ask if she’s okay.
“Of course!” she says with her usual cheer. “I’ll get all the pie to myself.”
I stifle a sigh. She changes the subject by asking how I am. I debate telling her about Everett but decide against it, to avoid her getting unnecessarily invested. We don’t stay on the call for long.
Being surrounded by noise, energy, and activity is an adjustment, but not being alone for the holiday feels amazing.
The ten of us sit in an assortment of borrowed chairs, crowded around three small tables pushed together end to end, where I let others carry the conversation while I listen, laugh, make heart-eyed smiles at Everett, and eat like I need to tide myself over until Christmas, which is entirely possible given the desperate state of my finances.
Regina tells us how she and Tegan met—showing up for app dates with other people but hitting it off while they were waiting and leaving together instead—while Tegan reenacts the scene with foil-wrapped chocolate turkeys that serve as a low-effort centerpiece.
Minh Ha describes some of the funniest student emails she’s received, begging for extensions for hangovers or excused absences for “not being a morning person.”
Everett and his coworkers compare stories about the worst things they’ve found in the communal fridge, from expired cottage cheese to barely recognizable moldy egg salad.
Diana tells us her terriers were all renamed after Irish writers—Seamus, Beckett, Oscar, Joyce—post-adoption, a tradition her parents started and she continued after leaving their farm.
This launches a conversation about what everyone likes to read, and we discover I’m the only one who hasn’t read Jane Eyre , leading to a chorus of demands that I fix this immediately.
We talk. We toast. We laugh. We drink. We eat. It’s so ordinary. It’s so magical.
As forks get set aside and mostly empty plates get nudged toward the center of the table, Aggie stumbles over to sit between Everett and me, and we both pet her head while sneaking in little caresses of each other’s fingertips.
I’m sated, happy, and a little fuzzy-headed from three glasses of wine I’m not used to, so I’m unprepared when conversation at the table turns to Aggie’s recovery, and Mandy—or maybe it’s Mindy—asks about hydrotherapy.
Everett notices me stiffen and scoots his chair closer to set a hand on my back, giving me a look that says I don’t have to talk about this and he’ll change the subject if I need him to.
I’m grateful for the support, but it’s a reasonable question, asked with good intentions, and one I’ll clearly have to keep fielding, so I might as well get used to answering it.
“I looked into it,” I say. “But it’s very expensive.”
“Easy,” Brandon says. “That account’s going gangbusters. A little polish and you can double it by Christmas. You hit a hundred K and the offers will start rolling in, if they haven’t already. And Redmond can talk you through branding and sponsorship in his sleep.”
I force a smile but my hands roll into fists in my lap. Brandon was already my least favorite person at this dinner, full of quick opinions stated like indisputable facts. Now, I kind of want to punch his smug face. From the looks Mandy and Mindy are exchanging, they do, too.
“I’m not interested in polishing my dog,” I tell him.
“I meant the account,” he says. “Not the dog.”
“I know what you meant. That’s just... not what I want the account to be about.”
He scoffs, only a little, but it’s enough. “You’re the one who needs the money.”
“I’ll earn it another way.” I attempt to look firm, but firmness is hardly my specialty.
Sure enough, he opens his mouth to reply, but Everett cuts in first.
“Cameron’s doing an amazing job with Aggie,” he tells everyone. “Aggie’s well loved and well cared for, and Cameron is carefully considering anything that might help her recovery.”
“Whoa,” Brandon says through a chuckle that makes my teeth grate. “No offense, but—”
“Oh my god!” Regina pushes back her chair and leaps to her feet, sneaking me a screw this guy look. “I totally forgot I brought something for Pilot, too.”
“If it’s a tiny T-shirt, I’d also love one in my size,” Minh Ha says.
“It’s better,” Tegan says while Regina digs through a big red purse she left on the bookshelves. “Though I’m sure Reggie would be happy to print you both tees.”
“I want one, too!” Mindy or Mandy says, and pretty soon everyone’s talking about the shirts—everyone but Brandon—and I don’t honestly know if they’re all colluding to shut him down, or if they genuinely love the shirts, or both, but I’m grateful to not fight this battle alone.
Regina’s gift turns out to be a tiny turkey costume made from fabric scraps crafted into an upright circle of tail feathers, and with a bright orange beak and dangling red wattle on a little headband.
It’s simultaneously the cutest and most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen, and when Pilot gets Aggie chasing her a few steps while her tail feathers bounce, I laugh so hard my gut hurts.
Dogs are truly, indisputably the solution to everything.
The topic of branding and sponsorship doesn’t come up again, but a couple hours later, after everyone else has dispersed, and only Tegan and Regina remain to help us clean up and set the room to rights, Regina catches me checking the Goode Girls account on my phone, smiling at the TikTok of Aggie in her special shirt, with a tiny Pilot dancing around her.
These ten seconds make my heart swell, as does the growing stream of enthusiasm from her fans.
This is what I want the account to be about. My dog. Living a good life. Happy. Loved.
“No offense,” Regina says in a mock-bro voice, and we all laugh, even Everett, who’s elbows deep in washing dishes while Tegan dries. “But I have a suggestion for you to consider.”
I set aside my phone and collect the last few glasses people left around the room.
“I’m listening,” I say, genuinely curious what she thinks.
“That guy was a dick,” she says. “He needs to stand at the far end of a driving range during a group beginner’s lesson.
” She pauses long enough for us all to swap looks of amused agreement.
“I get why you might not be up for corporate sponsorship deals or soliciting personal donations, but after everyone here asked about the shirts, I took a peek at today’s comments and saw how many of your followers are also asking about them.
” She gives her shirt hem a quick tug, smoothing it out so the text is fully legible.
“My company’s already set up to print these.
If you’re interested, we can add them to my site as soon as next week.
All you’d need to do is post on TikTok telling people where to go if they want a shirt.
We’d do the rest, and I’d be happy to split any net profits fifty-fifty with you so you can put the money toward Aggie’s recovery.
I’d donate all of it but we’re a small, new company, and honestly? We could use the business.”
Everett turns off the tap.
Tegan lowers her towel.
Regina stands by the bookshelves, patiently waiting, her brows raised in question.
Aggie, exhausted by the day’s activity, is sound asleep on her blanket with her head on her shaggy cow puppet and her increasingly distressed monkey tucked under a paw.
Despite my reservations about turning her into a sales tool, Regina’s offer is a generous one, made in the spirit of friendship and not profit.
If people love the shirts, of course she should sell them, and if people buy them to help with Aggie’s care, at least they get something cool in return.
Everyone wins in this situation—Aggie, her followers, me, Regina, her company. It’s perfect.
“Actually,” I say, “that would be amazing.”
A broad smile breaks across her face while Tegan lets out an excited whoop and Everett walks over to wrap me in his arms, hugging me tight as his eyes sparkle and his cheeks dimple.
“I like this plan,” he says. “And I know you and Aggie are in good hands.”
“The best hands!” Tegan calls from the kitchen.
“TMI!” Everett and I say together.
We’re all a little punch-drunk. And a little drunk-drunk.
“Like you two can talk,” Regina teases.
I spin within Everett’s embrace to face her. “About that. You guys made a bet?”
Regina shrugs. “Saw it coming a mile away. I have a sixth sense about these things.”
“She does,” Tegan says. “I never should’ve placed my money on Khalil.”
“What? No!” I sputter out a surprised laugh. “You thought... I mean... really?”
She tosses the towel over her shoulder and counts off on her fingers. “He’s smart, he’s nice, he cooks, and he’s built like an underwear model. If you’re into that kind of thing.”
I spin around to face Everett, who’s watching me with a distinct note of curiosity in his eyes. I could leave him hanging, but one of my favorite things about him is that he doesn’t play any games with me, so I see no reason to play games with him.
“I’m into this kind of thing,” I say, and then I loop my arms around his neck and kiss him.
I kiss him for trust. For care. For standing up for me.
For letting me make my own decisions about my dog, social media, and money, even when he really wants to intervene, and even when we both suspect his ideas are better than mine.
For cooking vegetables instead of turkey.
For opening his home to discarded plants and discarded people.
For the first Thanksgiving I’ve wanted to remember.
And for everything I’ll want to remember in days to come.