Page 72 of The Good Boy

“I don’t think there is a before-and-after Genie,” Rory says. “I think there is just Genie. Funny, silly, cross, sweary, loving, brave, loyal, colorful Genie. I’ve known you most of my life, Genie, and the before-man, he was dark and cold. But you, you have always been all the colors, even when my dog eyes couldn’t see them. There isn’t another long-gone version of you. There is just you.”

“Rory,” I say, almost overwhelmed with love. “You never showed this much insight when you were a dog.”

“I did,” Rory said. “I just couldn’t put it into words. I’ve got five years of telling you how much I love you to catch up on!”

“I love you too, Rory,” I say. “You were always the best boy, and now you are a very good man.”

“I knew it,” Rory mutters, with a mini fist pump. He tucks Diego under my duvet, so that his head is resting on my pillow. “So, are you ready to go?”

I look at myself in the mirror.

“One sec.” I think for a moment and, picking up Nan’s pink scarf, I tie it in my hair again.

“Perfect,” Rory says.

“Now I’m ready.” As I grab my bag I glance out the window and for a second, I could swear that it’s snowing, thick white fat flakes falling softly down. I blink and it’s gone, replaced with the summer evening that should be there.

“Huh,” I say, peering out the window to zero snow.

“What?” Rory asks.

“I feel like if from now on I am going to see signs and portents, it would be nice if there were some sort of handbook to tell me what it means. I just saw snow, which has something to do with the Christmas dance, so am I just going to randomly see snow to remind me of missed chances now?”

“I like eating snow,” Rory offers. “Especially yellow snow.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” I tell him. Snow? Maybe the magic isn’t reminding me of the past, maybe it is telling me to go and live at the North Pole.

“Anything you want to tell me not to do or say?” Rory asks me.

“Nothing,” I say. “You’ve got this whole peopleing business down to a tee.”

“So does that mean I am allowed to hit Matilda with a stick?”

“Okay, one thing.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Claudia flings open the door and greets us as if we’re long-lost family, hugging me to her bosom, and then kissing Rory on each cheek. He wipes his face on his sleeve at once, shuddering just like he used to when he was a dog and I gave him too many cuddles.

Miles is standing perfectly still in the middle of his living room like a socially awkward Hannibal Lecter in his prison cell waiting for Clarice. The room is an exact mirror image of mine, except that his was decorated by his gran in 1990 and so everything is in shades of lilac, which apparently was a thing in those days. From the color on the wall to the massive puffy marshmallow sofa and armchair, it’s like a symphony of purple pastels. Aside from a few books on the shelf and a laptop on the sideboard, there are no signs that this is Miles’s place at all. I bet Matilda had more say in the décor. But there’s something so touching about him living alongside all of his nan’s stuff. I have my rut, I made it my own. What Miles has are the things the people he loved left behind, chairs, Ikea art, and lampshades, all of which connect him back to the family he no longer has.

He has dressed up for the occasion, wearing a blue button-down shirt and what looks like a new pair of jeans, all shiny andstiff, still with the fold creases showing in the legs. He has shaved, which makes him look younger and somehow more vulnerable. I prefer his stubble, to be honest, but it’s not me that’s going to kiss him, is it?

“You look beautiful, Genie,” Miles says softly.

“What, this old thing?” I lower my eyes. “You look pretty nice too.”

“And I had a shower,” Rory proclaims. “I didn’t even get soap in my eyes this time.”

Matilda, who has been lying on the back of the armchair, jumps up at the sound of Rory, arches her back, and hisses as she digs her claws into the cushion, as she has clearly done several times before.

“Not totally sure this is safe,” Rory mutters, hovering behind me, his very own personal human shield. “Pretty sure Matilda would like to gut me like a squirrel.”

“A squirrel?” Claudia frowns. “Anyway, no need to worry. Matilda is quite terrifying, but Miles thinks she went for me because I’d been petting a dog. It’s dogs she really hates.”

Rory whimpers.

“The thing is, Rory is allergic,” I say.

---