Page 42 of Good Guy Gabe

“She’s an influencer,” I say, and at the rolls of their eyes, I add, “Quilting. She does quilting tutorials. She’s very successful.Don’t look at me like that.” I point to Ma. “You don’t look at me like that, either.”

While my sisters remain skeptical, Ma’s eyes have gone watery, her lip trembling, her hands balled up at her chin. “Just like your great-gran.”

“Great-gran was a bank teller,” Phoebe says.

Leah adds, “It was a hobby for her,” as her fingers fly over the keyboard of her laptop.

Ma ignores them. “I can’t wait to show her great-gran’s old quilts. Do you think she’ll want them?”

“You saved them?” we all yell, even Dad. Those things are fucking cursed, swear to god.

Phoebe gets the swat on that one. She blocks it deftly. “She got a name? Can we prove her existence? ‘Cause it’s starting to sound like you’re making her up to keep Ma from setting you up with one of her friends’ daughters while you’re in town.”

“Drat, I gotta call Patty and tell her lunch tomorrow isn’t happening now.” Ma scurries off into the living room to find her phone.

I should thank Phoebe for shutting that nonsense down, but I refuse. Thanking my sister is akin to showing weakness. Instead, I cop a further attitude. “What kind of question is that? Of course she’s real and has a name andeverybodyhas known we’ve been dating for over a month now, but it’s good to see my own family doesn’t pay attention to my life.”

Yes, I’m thankful they’re not following gossip rags. Again, can’t show weakness.

To that end, Phoebe says, “Nobody gives a shit about your life. Everyone’s probably worried that quilt lady is going to end up with your stupid gassy ass. Why do you smell like that?”

Basically, she just told me she loves me. It’s sweet.

“I smell great.” I accidentally dribble more chili, so I have to wipe that out of my beard, too. “I’m totally famous now, and everyone loves me. You’re jealous because your—”

“Gabriel Michael Josiah Shaunessy, don’t you dare say it!” Ma shrieks from the living room.

“I was just going to say her ass is where her face should be, you banshee!” I shout right back.

“Oh, I thought you were going to say something about her div—never mind.”

And now I’m mad Ma thought I’d go there. That jackass cheated on Phoebe with a girl a decade younger than him and then claimed it was because Phoebe wasn’t as hot as she used to be. Like 31 is absolutely ancient. Only I’m allowed to make jokes like that, and only because there are only two years between us. And the fact that Phoebe’s ex slept with a chick Leah graduated high school with is gross, but Phoebe’s definitely taken it to mean she’s ugly now.

She’s ugly. She’s my sister. She’s ugly. And my buddies are not allowed to disagree with that statement to my face, but behind my back? They always have and still do.

“Want me to drive over to his place and punch him in the balls?” I offer so she knows I love her.

“No, it’s fine.” She flops down in the seat next to me and snatches my bowl of chili away. Ten gallons of it on the stove, butshe takes mine, and I let her. “Ma’s been setting me up with her friends’ sons, and it’s not been—”

“Did she kill her husband?” Leah suddenly gasps.

My attention snaps to her, confused.

“I should’ve killed him,” Phoebe mutters around a mouthful of chili and then wipes her chin off.

“Jocelyn Edgars, right? Owner of the Quilted Flower? Oh, sheispretty.”

“Joss Page,” I spit out instantly even though I already know she used to go by Jocelyn Edgars. Leah may not have gone to college, but she’s the smartest one out of all of us. I shouldn’t be shocked that she figured it out while Phoebe and I bickered. “And no, she didn’t kill her husband.”

“Well, what is all this? Did they murder someone together or—?”

“Fuuuuuuuuck.” I scrub my face.Murder?It’s like a floodgate has opened. I know too much to keep stuffing it away, like that damn nursery door.

I feel the chili rising back up in my throat at the thought of that door. Has Jossalreadyhad a baby? Where’s that baby now?

“Oooh, no,” Leah mumbles to herself, the initial look of disgust fading into something far more distressed. “Do you . . . do you know about this? About her husband?”

I shake my head miserably. “I knew there was something bad, but that she wasn’t involved, and I decided I didn’t want to know. She’s a good woman. I know she doesn’t deserve everything that’s gotten thrown at her.”

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