Page 21 of A Night to Remember

“He got here about an hour ago,” she gushes. “He’s putting in the new bathroom fan!”

“He—what?” I struggle to get my bearings. “Gabe is putting in a bathroom fan?”

“Yes!” she practically squeals. “I happened to mention that you haven’t had time to do it, and we’re having all kinds of mildew issues in that bathroom, and he just volunteered!”

Gabe Wilson. Is upstairs. In my mildewy bathroom, which I didnothave time to clean yesterday, with my tampons and my cheap razor and my Walgreens-brand body wash and… well, now he hasofficiallyseen all the most embarrassing parts of my life. We should just let the man rifle through our underwear drawers and be done with it.

“All right, Joyce, the fan’s in, and I also painted some of that mold-killing primer on the ceiling and the upper part of the wall, so that should help, and… oh.”

Gabe catches sight of me as he comes into the living room. I can’t help burst out laughing, he looks so exhausted and disheveled. Professional Gabe is gone, replaced, apparently, by Handyman Gabe. His dark brown hair is tousled and flecked with Kilz primer. He’s taken off his button-down, and his white cotton t-shirt and bare arms are covered in dust. I can’t help but admire the way his tee stretches over his broad chest and shoulders, but try not to let my gaze linger.

“I didn’t know rich kids knew how to put in a bathroom fan,” I tease before I can stop myself.

“I watch a lot of YouTube videos. Is that food?”

“Yup.”

“Thank God.”

He walks to the kitchen and collapses into a chair. “You don’t have any Miller, do you?” Against my better judgment, I find this more relaxed Gabe charming. I fight the urge to rub his tired shoulders.

“Sorry, no. Would you like some ancient Bloody Mary mix? With no vodka?” It’s seeming increasingly unlikely that I’ll have to use it in self-defense. Murderers, I decide, probably wouldn’t go to the trouble of first putting in a bathroom fan.

“Kayla will get some beers for next time,” Mom interjects.

I mouth “next time?!” to her in horror behind Gabe’s back.

“Water’s just fine,” he replies, a note of surprise in his voice, as if her cheerful acceptance of him has caught him off guard.

I scoop papers off the kitchen table and set it, weirdly, for three. Mom doesn’t have much family on her side, and we never see anyone related to my dad, so it’s rare—and maybe even sort of nice—for us to have a guest for dinner.

“We can just eat out of the takeout containers,” Gabe objects, as I set out plates. “You don’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. It’s nicer this way,” I reply, serving the food. Is it weird that I’m taking the time to plate it attractively? Idothink Meg’s recipes should be treated with respect. Idowant to give myself something to focus on other than Gabe’s pecs. Idofeel a rising swell of affection for him that is making me want to please him.

Shit.

He pulls out my chair for me, just like last night, and once again I squeeze next to him and try to avoid looking at or touching him. But Mom’s open-mouthed shock makes me turn my head, and we both watch in morbid fascination as Gabescarfs down his burger in about three bites. How is it that he still eats like a teenager? Is he trying to grow even taller?

“I should have gotten you two,” I say, impressed.

“Nah, that’s okay. But I’ll eat the other half of that sandwich if you’re not going to.” I silently hand it over, exchanging a look with Mom. Is this what men are like? They fix things, and then they eat all your food? I realize that, having grown up without a dad and being chronically single, I actually have little experience with this half of the species.

“So, Gabe, your folks must be happy to have you home,” Mom says.

He shrugs and looks slightly uncomfortable. “I think they would’ve been a lot happier if things had gone according to plan.”

“What do you mean?” I ask carefully.

He looks back and forth between Mom and me. “Well, I just barely managed to finish law school,” he says slowly. “And I didn’t pass the bar. I mean, don’t worry, your case is pretty straightforward, and I wasn’t actuallybadat law school, I just had some… personal problems that made it hard to focus.”

“I get that,” Mom chuckles. “I always meant to pick up my painting again once Kayla was in school, but somehow it didn’t quite happen.”

I feel enormously guilty about this, also because so far I haven’t been able to capitalize on the education I was so lucky to receive.

“Your paintings are incredible, though,” Gabe says, now eating half my fries. “I love the one in the living room.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from! But Kayla’s the artist in the family now. Or writer, I should say.” She turns to me, beaming proudly. I resist the urge to tell her to shut up. There’s no reason why Gabe Wilson needs to know about my literary ambitions. God, what if he asks toreadsomething?

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