CHAPTER SEVEN GABRIELLE
CHAPTER SEVEN
G AbrIELLE
C ome on in, Gabby,” Della calls from the other side of the screen door.
Laughter and soft music greet me as I step inside the small bungalow.
Della’s home is absolutely adorable and more feminine than I would’ve predicted. The white walls and ceilings are extra bright compared with the warm wooden floors. Instead of one giant chandelier overhead, there are five smaller lights. None of them match, yet somehow, they do.
The living area on the right is comfortably decorated with accents of pink and turquoise. A large art piece resembling paint thrown onto a canvas and smeared hangs above a slim fireplace. Ahead is the kitchen, where Della, Cricket, and a dark-headed woman I’ve never seen before are gathered around an island.
“Hey,” Della says, waving me in.
“There you are. I thought I would have to come and get you,” Cricket says, grinning.
“I argued with myself for ten minutes over whether I should bring something. Otherwise, I would’ve been on time.”
“Like I told you, the hostess takes care of everything,” Cricket says, her emerald-green blouse complementing her red hair perfectly.
Della smiles, looking up from a chopping board. “Besides, we don’t get fancy. Especially me. I keep it as simple as possible.”
“Gabby, this is our friend Scottie,” Cricket says, motioning to the dark-headed woman sitting beside her. “Scottie, this is my cousin Gabby.”
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Gabby,” Scottie says, grinning.
“It’s nice to meet you too.”
“Scottie lives catty-corner to me,” Cricket says. “Her house has flower beds that look like a magazine cover.”
“That’s your house?” I ask, lifting a brow. “Oh, my gosh. It’s beautiful.”
She waves a hand through the air. “Thank you. But it’s pathetic, really. I gave up on men and decided that I was going to channel all my passion into gardening.” She laughs. “Let’s just say I didn’t imagine I’d have this much time to perfect the art.”
“Scottie is on a self-inflicted hiatus from men,” Della says, squeezing a lime into a glass.
“Not true.” Scottie points at her friend. “I did take a hiatus from men. But I called it off a year ago and haven’t found a suitable candidate to ease me back in.”
“I don’t want to be eased back in,” I say, coming around the island to stand beside Della. “It’s been so long since I had a man that I don’t want there to be anything easy about it. Just give it to me, baby.”
Della bumps me with her hip, making me laugh. Then she hands out palomas with a salt rim and fresh lime wedge.
“If you don’t like tequila, I can make you something else,” she says. “I ordered enchiladas and rice from Gran Ranchero and thought palomas would go perfectly with it.”
“Della refuses to cook for us,” Cricket says, taking her drink.
“Wait, Alden has a Gran Ranchero?” I ask. “When did that happen?”
“Because I want you all alive and well, not knelt over your toilets fighting for your life,” Della says to Cricket. Then she turns to me. “No, Alden still just has Betty Lou’s. I was in Logan today and picked it up.”
“That makes sense. I was wondering how I missed a new restaurant in town.” I laugh. “Tequila is great. Thank you.”
The three friends argue over a pot roast Della recently made—or tried to make, depending on who’s talking. I sit on a barstool and sip my drink.
I didn’t realize how badly I needed this evening until now. How much I missed having girlfriends.
The tequila is potent as it hits my stomach. Instantly, liquid fire flows through my veins. I close my eyes and enjoy the sensation of giving up a bit of control and stress.
I enjoy being a woman with a life outside of her kids.
“Are you guys ready to eat?” Della asks, pulling two silver containers from the oven. “Damn, this smells good.”
“I’m starving,” Scottie says.
Cricket wipes lime juice off the counter and then lines the limes, salt, and tequila up in a tidy little row. Scottie plucks paper plates and plastic forks from a cabinet. Della uncovers the trays and finds serving utensils.
They work together like a well-oiled machine. There are no directions given, no questions asked. They move alongside one another with an ease and trust that prickles something in my soul.
What would it be like to be a part of a group like this? To have friends with whom you can simply exist without making excuses or worrying whether they’ll show up—friends who just get into your cabinets and help clean up after you?
Scottie looks at me and smiles. I hope there will continue to be space for me here.
“I’m just sitting here,” I say. “What can I do to help?”
“Come make your plate,” Della says, offering me one.
“Don’t worry. By next month, Cricket will be ordering you around.” Scottie laughs. “Enjoy it while you can.”
Cricket huffs. “That’s not true. I don’t order people around.”
Della looks at my cousin over her shoulder. “You literally texted me this morning and told me to make sure my laundry wasn’t in the living room tonight.”
“Excuse me for not wanting to dine next to your G-string again,” Cricket says, placing an enchilada on her plate.
“You can’t come by unannounced and complain about the state of my life,” Della says. “If I had known you were coming, I would’ve put my stuff away.”
“She has a point, Cricket,” Scottie says.
Cricket groans. “You all are incorrigible.”
Della looks at me and winks. “Come on. Let’s eat in the living room. It’s more comfortable in there.”
We take our food and drinks and follow her through the house.
“Tell us about you,” Scottie says as we sit on the white furniture. It’s clear Della doesn’t have kids. “What do you do for fun?”
I set my plate on the coffee table. I start to speak—to answer her question. But nothing comes out. How do I not know how to answer that?
“No one has asked me that in a very long time,” I say.
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” Scottie says.
“Oh, you didn’t. It’s just wild that I haven’t thought about what I want to do for fun. I want to have more fun, sure, but I don’t even know what that means.” I frown. “How sad is that?”
Cricket scoops up a forkful of rice. A smirk plays on her lips. “Isn’t that a website you frequent, Della? Adult Fun Finder?”
“Close. But not quite.” Della smiles smugly. “But you should try the websites I frequent, Cricket. Those ironed curtains will pale in comparison.”
I laugh at them. “Speaking of ironing curtains—which is Cricket’s idea of fun, not mine—I do enjoy a good do-it-yourself project.”
Cricket groans.
“Stop it.” I point my stare at her. “I’m good at them. You only see them through video chat. You’ve never actually seen one of my completed masterpieces in person.”
“Because every time Peter and I would come to Boston, you’d insist on meeting us in the city.”
“Because the city is fun. I loved having an excuse to do all the things with you instead of you sitting around my house fixing everything.”
“Oh, I would not ...” She stops, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. “ Okay. Maybe I would’ve done that.”
I take a bite of my enchilada.
“Do you work, Gabby?” Della asks.
“She has the wildest job ever,” Cricket says, eyes glittering. “Go on. Tell them.”
“I used to work at a bank,” I say, resting my fork on my plate. “But when my ex-husband, Christopher, died, I was his beneficiary.”
Della flinches. “Your ex-husband made you his beneficiary?”
“He knew I’d make sure the kids were taken care of,” I say with a simple shrug. “And he built a very successful veterinary business while we were married. He said that I deserved to reap the benefits if something would ever happen to him, because I sacrificed alongside him for years.”
“And you divorced this guy?” Della asks. “He sounds like a dream.”
My heart softens. “He was a really good man. He just wasn’t the man for me anymore.” I shrug again. “Anyway, his estate has allowed me not to work this past year. I’ll go back to work as soon as the kids are settled. But it’s been a huge privilege to be able to sit with them in their grief.”
Cricket smiles, perching on the edge of her chair as if she can’t wait a moment longer for me to get to the point. “Gabby gets paid to name babies.”
“What?” Scottie asks, laughing.
“You do not,” Della says, surprised.
“I didn’t mean for it to be a thing—and I don’t get paid enough for it to be a real job,” I say. “I just offered names on a social media post. The next time I opened the app, my comments had gone viral. People were messaging me, asking me for suggestions. Now I have a page for it and charge a small fee.” I look at Cricket. “It’s more of a hobby than a job.”
“So that’s what you do for fun,” Scottie says. “You’re a baby-naming DIYer.”
“Do you want more kids?” Della asks.
“No.”
My quick response gets a laugh from the women around me.
“I can’t have babies anymore,” I say. “I had a partial hysterectomy a few years ago. But even if I could, it would be a no. What about you? Do you have kids? Want them?”
Della nearly turns green. “If I have kids, that would be a sign that I’m not in control of my decisions and y’all need to get me help.”
“And yet she has tons of sex and doesn’t want kids,” Scottie says, falling back into the cushions. “I want kids and haven’t had sex in what feels like forever.”
“You’re too picky,” Della tells her. “Lower your standards a little.”
“Della!” Cricket protests.
Della rolls her eyes. “Calm down. Sometimes the best sex is with the guys that aren’t husband material.” She leans toward Cricket. “ And that’s fine. Not all sex has to be with a goal of procreation.”
“I agree,” Cricket says, sitting taller. “But I still think you can have fun sex without lowering your standards.”
I’ve known Della for only a few hours, but I already know one of her quirks. The corner of her lips twitches when she’s about to say something she knows will set Cricket off.
“Fun sex is called fucking , Cricket,” Della says, watching her friend closely so as not to miss a moment of her reaction. “When was the last time Peter fucked you?”
“We have fun sex a few times a week,” Cricket says, meeting Della’s stare head-on.
Della doesn’t respond with anything more than a hum.
Cricket makes a face at her and then turns back to me. “Remember what I said last night about ensuring your definition of good time matches hers?”
I look at Della and grin. “I think we’re on the same page.”
“Oh, good lord,” Cricket says, getting to her feet. “I’m getting a bottle of water. Does anyone else want one?”
“I need another paloma.” Della stands. “You haven’t touched yours, Scottie.”
She picks up her glass. “Sorry. The entertainment has been entertaining.”
Della peers into mine. “Want another?”
I should say no. My tolerance for tequila is low. But I’m really enjoying myself ...
“I’ll take one more,” I say, handing her my glass.
She follows Cricket into the kitchen.
I take my phone out of my pocket and check for missed calls or messages from Dylan, even though I would’ve felt it vibrate against my leg. Since our hug, he’s been a little less abrasive. I expected more of a pushback when I asked him to watch Carter this evening. Surprisingly, he agreed with little more than an eye roll.
A part of me wonders if he doesn’t secretly enjoy spending time with his brother. I never asked him to watch Carter in Boston. They spent little time alone together. But in the few days we’ve been in Alden, they’ve been together a ton.
Maybe it’s because there aren’t a ton of alternatives. Or maybe the slower, small-town life is as good for him as I hoped it would be.
There are no messages, so I type out a quick text to check in.
Me: Are you and Carter doing okay?
I expect it to take a long time for him to reply. Instead, he surprises me and sends a selfie of himself with his brother in the living room. A drama about a boy doctor is on the television in the distance.
My heart warms.
Me: I love you guys.
There’s no reply.
I sigh, putting the phone back in my pocket. “Sorry. I just wanted to check on the boys.”
Scottie smiles. “No worries.” She shifts in her chair. “You know, when I was eight, I lost my father to cancer.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. Clearly, that was a long time ago.”
I give her a small smile.
“But what I want to say is that my mother cried and had her moment. Then she picked herself right back up and lived her life. I don’t know how she did it, looking back. But I remember thinking that if she could smile again, so could I. We didn’t realize it then, but she helped us heal by healing herself. She went out with her friends and took us to the movies, and we took vacations. And eventually, she started dating again. Mom wound up married to the best human in the world.”
“That’s great, Scottie.”
“So while I don’t know what you’re going through and hope you don’t think I’m putting my nose where it doesn’t belong, I just wanted to share that with you. I have experience on the child side of that coin. Thought it may help.”
Her words touch me—not just because of what she said. It’s that she said it. That she cared enough to share something so private with a woman she doesn’t really know.
“Thank you,” I say. “It means a lot that you told me that.”
“Of course.”
Voices grow louder as Della and Cricket return.
“Just try it,” Della says, taunting her. “He’ll blow more than his mind.”
“You are filthy.” Cricket hands me my glass and then takes her seat. “You don’t have to do ... all of that to keep a man happy.”
Scottie and I exchange a grin.
“So, Gabby ...” The way Della says my name tightens my stomach. “What did you think of Mr. Stetson?”
“Who?”
“Your neighbor. Jay Stetson. ”
Oh, crap.
The look on her face makes it abundantly clear that she either heard about what happened or ...
I gulp.
Jay wouldn’t have told her ... would he? I haven’t said a word to anyone about falling off the damn porch. But if he didn’t tell her, that leaves the other option.
Della licks her lips. “I saw.”
“You saw what?” Cricket asks, looking between us.
I take a long—too long—drink of my paloma. The tequila burns down my throat, splashing into the pool of liquid that’s been churning for a while. Heat shoots through my veins as my mind settles on Jay.
“Oh, it’s no big deal,” I say, practically breathing fire from the drink. “One of the rails on my back deck broke, and I fell off it into the bushes.”
Della does that thing with the corner of her mouth.
“I was in a towel,” I say quickly before she can out me. “And Jay had to come over and help me out of it.”
“Out of the towel or out of the bushes?” Scottie asks.
Della bursts out laughing.
I give Scottie a look.
“Hey, I’m just saying ...” Scottie whistles through her teeth. “I’d shed my towel for that man. Have you seen him shirtless? Hot damn.”
“He was nice but a little distant.” My brows pull together. “I wouldn’t say he was unfriendly. Just ...”
“He’s just Jay.” Della shrugs. “I can be over here in a string bikini, bent over my lawn mower, and the man doesn’t look at me twice.”
What? With those curves? How is that even possible?
Cricket sighs. “He’s always polite. And he sometimes stops and talks to Peter if he’s working on the front lawn. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with a woman.”
They chat about Jay before the conversation moves to what color Scottie should paint her kitchen. As they discuss paint colors and tile patterns, my mind drifts elsewhere.
“I can be over here in a string bikini, bent over my lawn mower, and the man doesn’t look at me twice.”
Della is stunning and sexy—all the things I’m not. I’m disheveled most of the time, rocking my mom bod and a messy bun. If Jay isn’t looking at her when she’s barely dressed and practically begging for his attention, the odds that I’ll get it are slim.
But do I even want it?
My body tingles as I think about him watching us through the window. The surprise I felt, finding him fixing the deck without being asked. The ease with which he handled Dylan’s attitude.
All that felt good in so many ways.
Supported. Cared for. Seen. It strikes a chord deep inside me, reminding me what it’s like not to be alone.
I’m so tired of being alone.
I watch Della tell a story, her manicured fingers flying through the air.
By the sound of it, my interactions with Jay were a momentary thing—not a foundation of friendship or anything else. That’s fine. I don’t have the bandwidth to build something real with someone else right now anyway.
But those arms. That chest. The smirk that toys on his lips ...
I take a long drink of my paloma.
I need to get laid. Stat.