Page 55 of Good Guy Gabe

I feel really bad that they lost this one. I never played sports, but I can imagine this was a big deal, going back to where he grew up — roughly — and losing. Still, I peel back so I can look him in the eye and say, “Oh, sweetheart. It’s called hotdish. Get it right.”

“Well, now, you are just the prettiest girlfriend Gabriel has ever had,” Mrs. Shaunessy says, looking me up and down. “Isn’t she absolutely beautiful, Hank? Way prettier than that hussy Megan.”

“Ma,” Gabe groans, his expression horrified as I mouthMegan?and Mr. Shaunessy grunts in agreement.

“Ma has Joss’s picture as her lockscreen,” Leah tattles as she breezes by her mom in her barista’s uniform, splattered in coffee, having already returned from her shift despite it being after ten. Meanwhile, Gabe and I are just now getting up for the day.

Okay, we woke up hours ago, the time zone wreaking havoc on us, but Gabe talked me into utilizing our quiet time skills from the Jug house in his childhood bedroom, and that was enough to put me back to sleep.

No one’s judging us openly about it, and Gabe has already assured me his parents are used to enough shenanigans already that a lazy morning isn’t going to get a reaction out of them. Leah grabs a big scoop of the breakfast casserole but adds a packet of toaster pastries, which she eats frozen. Since no one reacts to that either, I’m guessing Gabe is right about the level of shenanigans.

Gabe snatches his mom’s phone off the counter and scowls when he sees the photo there. “I’m not even in it.”

I take a peek and am pleasantly surprised to see it’s one of my professional headshots done last year, not anything from my pageant years. I wasn’t sure what they were going to expect of me since they knew my past.

Mrs. Shaunessy shrugs. “She looks prettier without you.”

I’m immediately in love with Gabe’s whole family.

His dad seems to be attempting the role of cliche TV surfer dad but straining at the seams to leap into the eternal fray. Half the time, he’s mumbling about the game being on — even when he’s watching reruns of X-Files — but the other half the time, he’s giving me advice on how to pull my hair back without a hair tie or settling arguments with obscure facts that negate the whole discussion. His mom clearly has ADHD but is in her fifties and rolling with it.

I’d love to see Phoebe get into an argument with Merrick, just to see who would win, and Gabe begs me to retract that because that’s Merrick’s foreplay, but I have a sneaking suspicion that Phoebe wouldn’t be seduced nearly as easily as other people.

Like Cora.

Leah, meanwhile, is reckless and brazen and grossly underestimated. I get why she’s underestimated, she’s the baby of the family and she’s a comparatively late bloomer, but she’s also a different generation than Gabe, Phoebe, and me, and she’s quietly biding her time. I’m not surprised to learn she was the one who figured out my past with nothing but my first name and my profession.

On Friday after breakfast, Hank takes Gabe ice fishing while Liza, Phoebe, and I work on food and decorations for the holiday party. Liza and Phoebe insist on make-up and frilly aprons. They put on one of the radio stations on the lower end of the dial and plot out which pies the men will prefer. I don’t get a chance to make an opinion of it and talk myself into deciding it’s quaint and not misogynist before Leah pitches a fit about that exact issue and takes off. It’s at that moment that Liza and Phoebe exchange a satisfied nod and crack open a bottle of whiskey.

“I thought she’d never leave,” Phoebe groans and takes a swig directly from the bottle and passes it to Liza.

Liza makes herself a whiskey ginger. “You want some, Joss? Or a margarita? I’ve got some wine stashed?”

I turn her down as politely as I can. “Not a big drinker these days, but I’d love one of those ginger beers.” It’s all nice and fizzy in my belly, which has mostly gotten over morning sickness but still has its moments. “I feel like I’m missing something, though.”

“Hank and Leah love to cook,” Liza says.

“Horribly,” Phoebe further explains. “They love to cook horribly, and the worst part is theylikewhat they cook.”

“He made her like that,” Liza humphs. “Babied her. Turned her off from flavor. He saw how busy I was with you heathens and took advantage of it.”

Phoebe nods in agreement, no offense taken. “And Gabe hates ice fishing, but he knows Dad won’t miss an opportunity to take him, even though Dad also secretly hates ice fishing.”

My eyes go damp, my knees go wobbly.

“No, don’t do that. They’re my biological relatives. They’ve both absolutely wrecked the bathroom and then let me walk in without warning me. Do not go all googly-eyed over them. They’re gross.”

I bite down on my bottom lip and nod, but the way she rolls her eyes tells me I wasn’t convincing enough.

I’m bummed I don’t get to spend much time with Abigail, the middle sister, but she doesn’t arrive until the party’s already going, and there’s a houseful of friends and family buzzingaround me. She shows up with two toddlers, an infant, and what I quickly figure out is a man-child of a husband. She’s tall and beautiful as her sisters, but she’s exhausted. The infant’s no more than six months old and colicky, so she has no choice but to hold them the entire time while Dwayne, her husband, acts like he’s doing the lion’s work watching the toddlers.

He cracks open a beer and plops down next to Hank to watch hockey. The toddlers terrorize the guests, who seem used to it but uninterested or ill-equipped to handle their energy for more than a couple minutes.

Liza drags me around to all of Gabe’s aunts, uncles, and cousins while he gets dragged into the same football conversation over and over again. “Have you met Gabriel’s fiancée?” Liza says to every single one of them even though she knows darn well they haven’t and we’re not engaged. “Isn’t she beautiful? She’s a quilter, just like Granny Grace!”

I’m not about to correct her on the fact that I’m not Gabe’s fiancée. Partly because it’s rude, but mostly because I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea — well, right idea, technically — about me when we make our announcement.

Gabe keeps making meaningful eye contact with me, as though asking if it’s time yet, but Abigail excuses herself early on to take care of the baby and doesn’t come back. The extended family, I’m not so worried about, but she’s his sister. I don’t think he realizes she’s not here, and I know he wanted to tell everyone together. That was why he pushed for me to come with him when I’d rather wait on announcements for the second trimester.

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