Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Which is ridiculous. We don’t check on each other despite me doing just that Friday night. We’re like one degree of Kevin Bacon, with my brother being the only thing connecting us. If it wasn’t for Dom, I wouldn’t give Griffin a second thought, and his only reaction to not seeing me anymore would probably be a hallelujah and a significant lowering of his blood pressure from the lack of annoying brattiness in his life.
After finishing my breakfast, I wash my bowl and leave it in the dish drainer to dry. I’ve got the whole day ahead of me with a wide-open schedule. Glancing at Talia’s closed door, I decide she’s likely still asleep and that I shouldn’t bother her and instead choose to do some work since I need to create as much as possible as quickly as possible to make some money before my credit card bill comes due.
Trying to be quiet—for Talia’s sake, not Mrs. Rosenthal’s—I pull out a ring I picked up at an estate sale a few weeks ago and spend the next three hours hunched over my desk. First, I take photos from every angle. These will be key for my social media, where people love to see the before-and-after shots of my makeovers.
Then I designate a clear plastic box for this piece, tagging it with a handwritten label and again considering adding a label maker to my workstation. That’ll have to wait, though, since I don’t have a spare cent to spend on something I can do with a pen and an erasable sticker. I free the tiny rubies that comprise the ring and start moving them around on the box’s gridded mat to play with placement. At the same time, I’m sketching on a notebook at my side.
It’s an imprecise process, but it’s mine. I like to let the original design speak to me, but also the stones themselves. Sometimes they’ll tell me exactly what they want to be. With others, I have to coax it out of them with ultrasonic baths and silly pep talks about how pretty they are and how they’re going to love their new homes.
Talking to gemstones? To gold and silver? Out loud like they’re going to answer me? Yes, I know how crazy that sounds. But that’s what artists do, and yes, I consider myself an artist. One whose medium happens to be jewelry.
Once I’m satisfied with my initial plan for the rubies, I move to my computer to create a digital 3D rendering. I look at it from every angle, imagining it on someone’s hand and double- and triple-checking my design choices. Is the setting correct? Is it unique enough? Is it the best way to showcase the stones? But also, is it sellable? Usually, I don’t worry about that. I do what feels right and trust that each completed piece will eventually find its perfect buyer. But with bills looming, I can’t wait for an eventual sale. I need to design, complete, and sell multiple pieces, preferably within the next three weeks. And that’s a tall order. No, a venti order.
Mmm, coffee sounds good.
I do a check of the stones, making sure each one is securely stored in the box, and take off my loupes, putting them into their case for safekeeping. Stepping away from my work desk, I stretch my arms over my head, then roll my head around to release the tension building in the back of my neck.
In the kitchen, I start the coffeepot and stare at the drip-drip-drip, willing it to go faster. After only a minute, I move the pot and replace it with a mug, letting it fill straight from the source. If I could, I’d tilt my head under the drops and let them fall directly into my mouth. Or even mainline it if that was a possibility.
I didn’t sleep well last night, hence the late wake-up. I kept dreaming about Griffin, alternating between nightmares where he was outright laughing and pointing at me for some unseen embarrassing move on my part and fantasies where he kissed me at my front door . . . and then came inside my apartment . . . and then, me. Those had kept me tossing and turning more than the bullying imagery because . . . it’s Griffin.
Who’s not my friend. He’s a forced acquaintance who begrudgingly puts up with me. And he’s not my type despite being a literal demigod of a man.
Demi? I think wryly. There’s nothing demi or semi or hemi about him. He’s a walking, talking beast like Layla said.
Who I have zero attraction or interest in!
I laugh at my own ridiculousness.
“What’re you laughing at?”
I jump a foot in the air at the unexpected voice, knocking my breakfast bowl from the dish rack, and it falls to the floor, loudly shattering on impact.