Page 5 of Good Guy Gabe

“No, it doesn’t work like that.”

“Well, there’s three of us: you, me, and Tilly. So—”

“Erm, Joss?” Cora says, her eyes trained just below the camera, meaning she’s looking at me.

But I’m not done. She’s talking like this is a well-known thing that she and Tilly do often, but I’veneverheard of it before, which means they have a fun thing they do that I’ve been excluded from. Or, I guess fun, but how awful does this sound? Bang, Marry, or Kill? What kind of options are those? Can you not be friends with someone? Or just not have a relationship at all? What if they’re already married, or if they don’t want to marry you? “So one of us has to be banged, and one married—”

“Right, but behind you. There’s a giant—”

“—and one killed, so what am I?” I finish before what she’s saying hits my brain.

“Marry, definitely,” a deep, gravelly voice says from behind me.

I spin around and let out a yelp at the sight of the red-haired, hazel-eyed giant.

Chapter 3

Gabe

WHILE THEQUILTEDFLOWERlooks roughly the same as the street view photo — a couple of quilts have changed, but that melon-looking one still hangs outside — the interior is nothing like the hobby shops and discount department store craft aisles my sisters used to drag me through in their quests for teenage individuality.

The floor is occupied by two large tables with gridded mats that ladies are cutting panels of fabric on. Both tables are flanked by shelves stacked with coordinated bundles of fabric tied together with ribbons, packs of thin strips rolled together, and mismatched fabrics tightly folded into triangles and kept in vintage cigar boxes. Toward the back of the room, there’s a doorframe but no door and a window frame with no window, giving the distinct impression of the reception desk at a doctor’s office. There’s a vintage cash register alongside a tablet payment system, and although the shop is open and doing business, no one’s actually running the register.

Between the doorway and the window is a tall display of threads, the same colors seeming to repeat over and over again in more brands than anyone would think thread needs. The rest of the walls are covered by floor-to-ceiling shelves the exact height of the cardboard holders the fabric is wrapped around, not an inch of space wasted. It ranges from solid fabrics to wild patterns: swirly skulls, stars and moons, those leafy things thatare all over the douchey shirts Blaise wears when we’re boating, random household items.

I’m looking more closely at a teacup next to a pocket watch, checking the others in the set to see if my suspicions are correct and they’ve all got Alice in Wonderland images, when a voice as soft and high-pitched as the drunk mouse in the teapot says, “Um, excuse me? Can I help you?”

I turn to see a woman old enough to be my grams with short white hair and a pair of sharp-looking filigreed scissors hanging from her necklace. “Hey, I’m Gabe Shaunessy!” I say with a big smile. I bet it looks really weird that I took one step into the shop and froze. I look past the woman and notice there are two others with shopping bags in their hands looking ready to leave.

I’m blocking the exit. I didn’t mean to, but it’s what I do. This lady is probably Joss since she’s the one willing to say something to me.

“I was sent here by Emily Hess,” I continue as I let the ladies through. “She sent me up here to check on a donation you’re making to the Jugs — err, Juggernauts — fundraiser?” When the lady continues to stare blankly, I say, “You’re Jocelyn, right?”

“Jocelyn? I don’t know—oh, ha! Joss. No. That’s sweet of you. She’s out in the barn. Just cut through to the back and follow the path.”

I’m not sure what’s so sweet about thinking she’s Joss, but I follow the lady’s directions, discovering that behind that first wall is at least twice as much fabric in little rooms off the main hall. There’s a room of hand-dyed fabrics that look kind of like tie-dye, but the fanciest and least hippie tie-dye ever. What Merrick wears when we’re boating. There are sewing machines with price tags I have to look twice at. One of them is giant withthis crazy rig attached to it that’s $10,000used. Hanging from the walls is thousands of supplies that I can’t identify.

I follow a path lined with wilting snapdragons and pansies to the barn. Inside is a large, open room filled with six pods of worktables, mostly cleared off. There are also four of those crazy expensive machines in here. The weird frames? Two of the machines have quilts wound onto them. One of the machines is even running on its own, sewing through the center of the quilt, and I can see the frame slowly moving to make a pattern.

Wild.

At one work station, two octogenarians are working at together to . . . I don’t know what they’re doing, to be honest, but they have a bedsheet-sized layer of stuffing, and they’re attempting to wrangle a big, unfinished piece of fabric over it.

A quilt? Is that fluff the inside of the quilt? Either way, they’re struggling, so I hustle over to them, startling them both when they notice me, but the squat, pink-haired grandma lets go of her side, giving me the opportunity to take hold of it.

The willowy, lavender-haired grandma says, “Oh are you helping us? What a sweet young man!”

“And a big ‘un!” says Pinky. Hopefully the other one is Joss. I’ve found that ladies who think I’m sweet give me cookies while the ones who go right for my size are more likely to give me more larger treats, like pies and cakes.

And that makes me feel fat.

I get it enough from my teammates, since I’m one of the biggest guys and do have a gut, but I need that gut.

I need my cookies.

I spend at least twenty minutes helping them with the quilt. Purple slides me a pile of pins while Pinky tells me this is for a granddaughter who’s marrying another gal next month, and isn’t that just the coolest thing. I don’t understand why they call what we’re doing basting when it’s not a turkey and there’s no turkey juice, but that’s okay. When they trim away some of the fluff, Pinky takes a handful of it and tosses it outside with the explanation that it’s for ‘Jerry,’ which sounds an awful lot like spilled alcohol on the ground for one’s homies. Finally, Purple says, “Where are my manners? I’m Rose.”

“And I’m Iris,” says Pinky.

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