Page 49 of Good Guy Gabe

Several thumbs-ups, enthusiastic yesses, and a cheers emoji. One viewer asks if I can demonstrate how to use one of my free motion templates, which is perfect. I haven’t done that in a while, and the way I’ve got this quilt laid out, I have plenty ofpanel space to switch to different methods. I can go wild on one corner, and it won’t be anything strange for the quilt.

“Yes, absolutely! I got this new one in stock. It’s a different brand I haven’t tried before, so we can all see if it’s worth the price tag—”

I stop speaking there as my stomach does something weird. Just a twinge, a hiccup, but it’s like a red flag. I take a deep breath to push through it, lifting a hand up so everyone knows I’m fine, just having a moment.

I exhale through rounded lips, and my brain goes a little fuzzy, light-headed, but it’s okay.

“Ha! Weird,” I laugh. “I swear I’m fine, just a blurp. Let me grab that ruler so you can all see it before I put it on the machine.”

I lean down to open the bottom drawer where the ruler is stashed. The fact that I’m leaning over is the only reason no one sees my face suddenly go green and my cheeks puff out, giving me a three-second warning for me to dump the contents of a Ziploc bag before I barf in it.

I take a couple of ragged breaths. I don’t even feel sick. Not the sort of sick that would result in my holding a bag of vomit. And once my throat does the thing so I can breathe properly again, I feel like I could eat an entire steak.

I wipe my face off, sit back up, and stare stupidly at the camera, not sure how to respond to the rapidly scrolling inquiries on my screen.

I don’t know if I’m okay.

But I feel okay, so I say, “Wow, lesson learned about having canned olives for breakfast!” and continue.

It’s all of twenty minutes before Cora comes bustling through my door, waving furiously at me to turn the longarm off and end the stream. I roll my eyes and shoo her off, having insisted no less than a dozen times that I’m fine, I had a stupid craving for olives, and they were probably bad. I felt fine thirty seconds later and even ate a protein bar to prove my point.

You did not need to come here, I mouth back at Cora, gesturing at the door she just walked through.

Come here, she mouths back, pointing at the floor next to her.

I respond by pointing with one hand at the camera that’s facing her while dangling the pointer finger of my other hand threateningly over the keyboard where I’m one button away from turning that camera on and outing Cora to the Quilted Flower fandom. She got famous through a televised sewing competition. My viewerswillrecognize her andwillmake it impossible for her to continue to participate in my streams. Gabe gets enough good-natured harassment for Cora to know she’ll suffer a far worse fate if everyone finds out CP2468 is world-famous fashion designer Cora Prasad.

She lifts a grocery bag up in front of her face. It would be a good way to block herself from the camera, but that’s not her intention. She reaches right into that bag and pulls out a far greater threat to my stream.

A selection of pregnancy tests.

My stomach goes wobbly at that, the remnants of the protein bar churning within.

I’m not pregnant, I mouth, but damn, that feels like a lie.

Cora holds up one finger and mouthsoversleeping. A second finger isolives. A third isbarfing. For the fourth, she points ather brain, which I don’t understand until she marches over to my workbench and moves the half-square triangles out of the way, revealing a kit for a felt applique nativity calendar.

What I absolutely said I was going to work on today because they got over-ordered but are easy enough for people to finish it for December if they order it today.

I totally forgot.

“Hey everyone, I’m starting to feel sick again, so I’m going to sign out for the day, but I promise I’m going to make it up to you tomorrow with an advent calendar project. Have a great day!”

“What am I going to do?” I moan as the second line appears on yet another test.

Cora squats down in front of me on the bathroom rug and takes hold of my knees. “You’re going to have a baby. You’re going to have the baby you’ve wanted and deserved for so long.”

She says it gently, more gently than she’s said anything to me in a long time because I usually have thicker skin than this and I don’t like being coddled. Life is hard. I have a soft life, but I got this through years of shoveling the worst sort of muck.

Cora thinks she gets it, and I love her for thinking that what I need right now is a gentle reality check with enough firmness in it to make me think I can do this despite the nightmare that happened last time.

I shake my head. “It’s not that. It’s — well, it should be that, but . . .” I scrunch my nose in hopes I can get my emotions under control now that I know why I’ve been a wreck lately. I was a leaky faucet last time I was pregnant. I’m actually proud of myself for keeping it together as well as I have. I take thatdeep breath, shift my weight on the edge of the bathtub, and straighten my spine. “Gabe had a vasectomy.”

“You slept with someone else?” In a flash, her wide eyes go slitted into a scowl. “Was it Merrick? Because I will cut his balls—”

“It wasn’t Merrick! It wasn’t anyone. I haven’t had sex with anyone else. Think about it, didIhave sex with anyone else?”

Cora stares at me for another half second and then snorts. “No, definitely not. So he’s the dad. That’s what paternity tests are for.”

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