Page 43 of The Good Boy

“Darling, it’s not,” Nanna says. “And I truly believe that if you would only try you could—”

“I can’t try any harder,” I tell her, caught off guard by the catch in my voice. “I try every single day, and this is me at maximum capacity. I am trying, Nanna. Right now. This is it.”

“Genie...” Nan trails off. Rory comes over to the table and puts his arms around my shoulders, resting his cheek on the top of my head.

“Don’t be sad—it’s fine,” I tell her. “I’ve still got Rory to look after me, see?”

“I see,” Nanna says.

“Now I’m taking Rory home to get ready for the housewarming party tonight. There’s going to have to be prep.”

“Going home?” Nanna Maria exclaims. “But you only just got here!”

“No, you only just got here—and you are the one who granted me a wish without doing the proper health and safety checks on my mental acuity, so I think the least you can do is give me an afternoon off.”

“Go on, then,” Nanna says. “And try not to worry, Genie. Things usually have a habit of working out for the best if you only let them.”

Whatever, Nan.

Anyway, it’s official. Operation Man-Dog is a go.

Maybe that name still needs some work.

Chapter Sixteen

“Right, so what do we need to remember?” Miles asks. He’s wearing a white shirt with one button open at the neck, which for some reason is maddeningly alluring to look at. I’m wearing a dress! It’s a black dress and it reaches my ankles, so it’s basically a habit, but it does have a sort of swishy cowl neckline that isn’t not flattering when it comes to cleavage. I feel sort of attractive, which is weird, because I don’t care, but also, I do want Miles to notice a bit.

“Look interested, nod a lot, don’t say your inside thoughts out loud, and be prepared to stay for a minimum of one hour.”

“Excellent, Genie.” Miles looks over to the front door, where Rory has been waiting eagerly since we got home from work. “And what about you, Rory?”

“New friends? New snacks? I was born ready!” Rory assures me.

“Right,” I say, nodding, and Miles offers me a firm handshake, which I take with grim determination. “Let’s get this over with.”

Susan and Amanda greet us with warm smiles and a plate of sausage rolls. Inevitably Rory takes the entire plate from them with a big grin and a thank-you before charging into the room firing off a succession of cheery hellos and one “Your head is soshiny—how do you get it that shiny? Is it from stroking? Can I stroke it?”

Miles and I stand by the door.

“How does he do that without people wanting to punch him?” I ask Miles.

“He’s naturally charming,” Miles says. “Charming people find this sort of thing effortless.”

“Aren’t psychopaths charming?” I ask, squinting at Rory as he bows his head for Mo from number twelve to admire his lustrous locks.

“I think some of them are,” Miles said. “But I think you can be charming without being a serial killer. Anyway, Rory was a dog for most of his life, and he was used to nearly everyone being very pleased to see him. He doesn’t have—”

“Hang-ups,” I say.

“Or social anxiety,” Miles says.

“He doesn’t care what people think of him,” I add.

“Because he assumes that everyone thinks he’s great.”

“Because he is great,” I say. Miles and I look at each other.

“Maybe we should have got Rory to write a list for us,” I say.

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