Page 53 of Good Guy Gabe

Just like that, my heart’s pounding again. I’ll stay here every night I can. Start those renovations, finally replace her bed so we’re not sleeping on the floor on that tiny mattress anymore. When I’m not here, she’ll have sleepovers with Tilly. She could stay at my place, but no one will be there, and I’d rather she have someone with her.

I’m rounding the corner of the house to head over to the shed to get a thick pair of gloves and some pliers when I hear, “Gabe? Are you out here?”

“Don’t come out!” I yell, hustling to stop her, but by the time I reach her, she’s already stepped outside, right into that glass.

She yelps and hops back on one foot. She’s got slippers on, but I know they don’t have anything except a bunch of padding and some rubber anti-slip nubs on them. I’m on her in two seconds, carefully scooping her up even with the box of bulbs in my one hand, flipping her over my shoulder to navigate the narrow, awful stairwell.

“Was that glass?” she asks, her voice watery. The way she’s leaned over me with her knees bent, I can see the bottom of her slippers, dusty from picking up the usual detritus off the floor. Blood is already blooming around the large sliver of glass skewering it.

“Lightbulb. Someone’s smashed all your lightbulbs. Let’s get you bandaged up and call the cops. Get a report filed.”

Joss’s huff isn’t one of fear so much as irritation. Maybe even resignation. “We don’t need to do that.”

I set her down on that platform that’s where a dining room table should be. More work to be done if we’re going to have a baby here. “We absolutely do. You’ve got tens of thousands of dollars of merchandise.”

She sighs and leans forward, attempting to take hold of her slipper. “They didn’t take anything, right? The store wasn’t broken into or anything?”

I slap her hand away more firmly than I should, but she’s going to end up doing more damage and seriously hurting herself. It’s in her heel, so she’s probably not feeling too much right now, but she’s about to slice her foot open. “No, but that’s—”

“It’s a prank, then.”

I grip the sole of her slipper on either side of the glass and give it a sharp tug to split it wide open.

“Gabe!” she gasps in irritation.

Not apologizing for that, either. I’m angry she’s acting so calmly about this. “It’s not a prank. This is what home invaders do when they have actual marks. Whoever did this wants to hurt you.”

“They don’t!” She’s the one slapping now, knocking my arm back and pulling her foot in, lifting herself up on the other foot.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Oh my god, I’m just getting tweezers,” she huffs. “So you don’t cut yourself, too. And trust me, they’re not going to break in. They never break in.”

“What do you mean by that?” I keep my voice low, as passive as I can, knowing that I’m going to lose my temper in about half a second if I’m not careful. I let her hop down the hall to the bathroom, but I wrap an arm around her rib cage.

She gives in enough to lean into me until we can get her butt onto the closed toilet lid and I can dig out the first aid kit. “It means . . . this happens sometimes.”

I clench my fist and release it a few times, carefully take hold of that first aid kit. “What exactly happens sometimes?”

“Just stuff. Vandalism. They’ll knock down my mailbox or throw garbage in the lawn, mess with my plants.”

I select the tweezers from the kit, find a disinfecting wipe and some antibacterial ointment. I breathe. I clutch the edge of the counter and breathe again. I think about her replacement mums.

I sit down on the edge of the tub and take her foot, waiting to say anything until I’ve already got the glass pinched in thetweezers. I know I won’t do anything to hurt Joss, so I’ll be steady with this. “How often does this happen?”

Joss’s toes curl minutely, tensing up. She makes a humming sound she tries to pass off as casual. “Sometimes,” she says lamely.

Sometimes. Hell. “When did it happen last?” Her immediate silence has me adding, “And I noticed when you redid the mums, so please don’t say you don’t remember when.”

She’s still silent. I ease the shard out from her foot, pressing a wad of cotton against it to staunch the bleeding, but it only trickles. Not too big, not too deep. She won’t need stitches. She’ll just need to be careful going up and down the stairs.

Which means she’s moving in with me for the next week.

I glance back up then, and she’s chewing up her bottom lip. I’ll be absolutely shocked if she doesn’t break skin. “How often, Joss?” I ask more gently.

“Last week was the trash. There have been a couple incidents, but it started in September. It happened a lot the first couple years after Brian and then again when I opened the shop. And now . . .”

“Because of me.”

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