Page 8 of Good Guy Gabe

But it’s pink and has that silly cat print on it. It’s definitely for a girl. The tag has faded to pure white so I can’t check to see what size it is, but I’m guessing it’s a ridiculous one. This wasn’t something just plucked off the rack at Walmart. Maybe it was a gift from someone. Could be a rare find of his. Even a custom order. Whatever it was, it has sentimental value.

Sentimental value deserves darning.

I smile up at him. “Nah, I like darning.” Totally a lie.

“Totally a lie,” Cora says, and before I can glare at her, she throws in, “I gotta go, you got a show to do, love ya, bye!” and disconnects.

“You have a show? Do you need me to leave?” Gabe asks.

“Nope, I got your hoodie.” I begin whipping through the stitches. “I’d say I could make the show about garment repair — definitely not a topic I discuss, but my viewers would probably enjoy it — but I can’t have you shirtless on camera. Nobody would learn anything.”

Not only do his cheeks flush, but so does his chest, a weirdly intimate thing for me to know about a complete stranger whoprobably has a line of girlfriends around the block. Everyone went nuts about the Juggernauts when they did well their first year. I overheard plenty of chatter and have already sold through four bolts of fabric with their logo.

“What’s your show about?” he asks, his voice going uncomfortable to match his color.

I laugh. “Quilting, of course! But today’s for my subscribers, so I can be a little more flexible. I was going to preview the Cathedral Window tutorial I have coming out next month.” At his confused look, I nod to the Hocus Pocus quilt. “That’s Cathedral Window.”

“Ohh,” he says, reaching for it but bringing his hand back to ask, “May I?” before grabbing it at my nod. His eyes shift between it and the one I just pulled off my machine. He looks at one of the earlier ones where it’s just white squares folded into triangles and stitched to colorful, unfolded squares the same size. “This is pretty. How do you turn that into this?”

“If you subscribe to me, you can find out at seven p.m. Eastern,” I say with a wink.

“Yes, ma’am. What’s your screen name?”

I smack his phone out of his hand probably harder than I should, immediately returning to the darning because my god, why am I this awkward? “That was a joke. You don’t have to subscribe to me. You can Google it. But, like, you don’t sew, so that would be weird. Just trust the process.” I finish the last stitch, tightening the threads to make sure the hole has closed up but isn’t puckering. “Here, you’re all set. Does Emily need me to call her? Does she need the quilt early?”

“No ma’am, I think she was just worried something was wrong.” He holds the sweatshirt close to his face, studying thetear. “That’s so good. I can hardly tell.” He slides it back on, wiggling his head through the collar and popping back out, the hood catching so he briefly looks cozy with his head covered in baby pink. He pushes it back and takes hold of the bottom of the sweatshirt, tugging it out so he can look at the patch again.

He glances up at me and then back down.One more glance at me, this time blurting out, “Doyouwantmetopickyouupforthefundraiser?”before he looks back down at the sweatshirt.

“What?”

“Do you want me to—”

“Oh!” I squawk out over him, realizing that I just told him my car’s in the shop. He was offering to pick the quilt up before the fundraiser. “Yeah, absolutely. That would be fantastic.”

“Awesome, it’s a date!” he says with way more energy than I think the moment needs. “Well then, I’ll look forward to seeing you next Saturday. Good luck with your video tonight.”

“Good luck with your, umm, game? Do you have a game this weekend?”

“Yeah, pre-season. We’re flying out to Cleveland tomorrow morning. I should probably go pack. It was really nice meeting you, Joss.”

“You too, Gabe.”

I’m still thinking about him when I launch my stream and, mixed in with the greetings from my regular subscribers, I see a new subscriber flag on the messageI really do want you to show me how to make a cathedral window.

The new subscriber’s screen name is GabeShaunessy, followed by the smiling face with hearts emoji, and then YourFavoriteJug.

“Okay, walk to the wall and back. I need a snappy spin this time. And a stomp. Angry catwalk. I want you pissed that I made you do this and ready to go home. Make the cameras fight to get the good shot. Make them know they are not worthy of you. You’re not a model. You’re asupermodel. A queen. Why the fuck are you on this runway? You have a goddamn reality show to film and an agent to fire. That’s it, bitch, that’s it. That’s—nope, I fucking hate this length.”

I sigh as I hoist myself back up on the platform.

Tilly starts pulling pins from the hem. She’s home for three days, and she got roped into working anyway.

Cora scowls at both of us. “This is important. I realize that you just need it to work on film for ten minutes of screen time,” she says to Tilly before looking at me and adding, “and you will happily die in a patchwork swing dress, but I need perfection on this runway. I need every single outfit to look great in full motion, full body, all angles, and I need this two-piece dress to look every bit as perfect on a size 8 as it does on a size 2, or I will get roasted for not understanding the everyday woman and still being stuck in my bespoke phase.”

“I don’t think you’re stuck in your bespoke phase,” Tilly says as empathetically as she can. As a professional costumer, her only phase is bespoke.

“My feet are just hurting,” I add to explain my own sigh.

---