Page 52 of Good Boy

In contrast, I look positively bashful in my little blue sleeveless dress.

They don’t notice our arrival because they’re clucking over a giant bakery box that just arrived. “Omigod!” the pregnant sister shrieks. “These are the best things ever.”

I stand on my tiptoes for a peek in the box. Row upon row of beautiful cupcakes wait, each frosted with a cloud of white icing and a single chocolate sperm swimming across the top.

“Damn, those are scary!” Blake crows.

Heads swivel, and then the clucking hits a deafening pitch as his three sisters charge him.

“Blakey!”

“He’s here!”

“Have a beer!”

Instinctively, I engage in defensive maneuvers, ducking behind Blake’s bulk to avoid being trampled. With a cheerful roar, he lifts each of his sisters off their feet in turn. “Let the fertility festivities begin! Where did you say the beer was?”

“I’ll get you one,” a sister volunteers. It’s easy to see that Blake is well-loved by his family.

“Bring two,” he says. “I brought someone to meet you all, and she’s probably thirsty.”

He turns his head left and right, wondering where he’s misplaced me, so I duck under his arm to show myself.

His fingers graze the bare skin of my shoulder. “Girls, this is Jess. My girlfriend.”

The room goes so quiet so fast that at first I think I’m suffering some kind of audiological anomaly. But then I see the surprise crisscrossing all the women’s faces. One of Blake’s not-pregnant sisters has her hand on the refrigerator door, but she’s forgotten to open it. Instead, she’s staring at me, jaw dropped like a hungry grouper.

The silence is as deep as the Pacific, and I use the time to study all the shocked faces. Besides the sisters, there are two or three more women gaping at me. One in particular—she’s got springy curls that frame her pixie face—has slapped a hand over her mouth in dismay.

“Uh, girls? Hello?” Blake prompts. His palm strokes my shoulder absently. “Come over here and meet Jessie. Cheezus.”

“Sorry.” The sister at the fridge recovers first. She crosses the room on giraffe’s legs and grabs my hand, giving it a bruising shake. “I’m Britt, the youngest of us four. It’s so nice to meet you,” she says, pumping my hand. “Blake didn’t tell us he was seeing anyone.” She lifts big eyes—green like her brother’s—to Blake, and there’s a question in them.

“I’m doing that now,” he answers, sounding grumpy. “Let’s not make a mountain out of a molehole.”

“Molehill,” I correct.

“Nah, J-Babe. That can’t be right. Moles dig underground. They don’t build shit.”

Oh, for God’s sake. “But the dirt they kick up out of the lawn gets…” I see at least a dozen eyes on me, and they’re burning with curiosity. “Never mind,” I mumble, and Blake chuckles.

“Beer?” he asks. “There’s probably some girly white wine around too.”

“Beer would be awesome,” I say quickly. And keep ’em coming.

I meet both of his other sisters and then Blake’s dad. To say that Mr. Riley isn’t what I expected is an understatement. Blake is six inches taller than his father, and he outweighs him by at least a hundred pounds. Mr. Riley shakes my hand as politely as a school principal, and then he steals a sperm cupcake out of the box and slides quietly out of the room.

Just when I’m ready to declare the science of genetics a fraud, there’s a great pounding of feet and an enormous woman launches herself at us.

“BLAKIEEEEE!”

“Oof,” my faux boyfriend says, catching her. “Easy, Ma. Good to see you too.”

“It’s been NINE DAYS since you came home for dinner!” she hollers.

“But who’s counting?” He grins.

“I MADE BRISKET! You need protein if you’re gonna POUND MONTREAL INTO TINY BITS OF DUST.”

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