Page 81 of Good Guy Gabe

JOSS

So can you it’s just a shelf

GABE

i can’t come over today.

I flop down in the front seat, debating how willing I am to push it. I don’tneedsex. I’ll be fine. I was fine for years. I’ve got this. I’m not going to be pathetic.

JOSS

Just come over tomorrow then

GABE

Can’t

GABE

jeff says come get him when you get home and he’ll put it together for you.

My sinuses prickle. This is dumb. I’m not going to be a whiny baby about this. But I don’t want Jeff to put it together.

JOSS

You can do it next time you’re over it’s not a big deal

GABE

idk when i’m going to be over next. just have jeff do it, ok?

My head fills with all these explanations for why Gabe isn’t going to come over, from silly inconsequential stuff, like a training camp or a quick trip, to him leaving Wilmington entirely.

Or staying right where he is but refusing to come to me.

Or like he’s over me and moving on.

My stomach churns in a way that’s absolutely not morning sickness, and the only thing I can do is tell myself this is good. Great. I don’t need him anymore. I’m over him.

Really, I am.

“I wonder if it would be easier if we set this up on the longarm,” I posit as casually as I can as Iris, Rose, and I wrangle the quilt back over the thickest cut of batting I sell. I’m about ready to suggest I do this entirely by myself because Iris and Rose are acting like they’ve never sandwiched a dang quilt before and this is taking about fifty times longer than it should. This is our fourth attempt at lining the backing up with the batting, each time dousing it in basting spray again. I’m starting to get concerned that it’s going to gum up a needle. Basting spray isn’t supposed to do that, but it’s also not supposed to be layered half a dozen times.

“No, no, I want to be able to work on this at home,” Rose insists. She smooths the tiniest bit of corner but doesn’t hold the fabric as she does it, so she ends up making a wrinkle. “Oopsie.”

I keep my feet planted so I don’t stomp over to her side in a huff. It’s not her fault I’ve been in a foul mood the last few days since Gabe’s started dodging me. I swear everything he’s done lately is calculated to mess me up as much as possible. “You have a longarm at home.”

She stares blankly at me like she’s completely forgotten the seven grand she wrangled out of her husband for the extravagant self-gifting two Christmases ago. Finally, with a blink, she says, “It’s broken.”

“Since when? Why didn’t you tell me? You have a five-year warranty on it!” Now I’m irritated with myself for recommending the machine to her. Two of the longarms in the barn are the same model, and I’ve never had an issue with them. I sell them to everyone I can because I trust them so much. If they’re breaking after two years, I need to know.

“Oh no, no, no,” Iris blurts out over top of whatever Rose is about to say. “She dropped it.”

“Youdroppeda longarm?” I repeat as Rose gives Iris a bug-eyed look. “I don’t—how did—? I don’t understand.”

“I . . . was . . . cleaning.” Rose glowers at Iris. “I tried . . . picking it up, and . . . oopsie?”

That’s clearly a lie. Not that Rose isn’t an obsessive cleaner to the point where I’ve had to lecture her about what should and shouldn’t be used on sewing machines and how she doesn’t need Carl to take them apart for her after every single project so she can remove every speck of lint out of them — I go into the chassisof my longarm once a season at most, and this is literally what I do for a living — but she’s a terrible liar.

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