Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
She doesn’t look sure but takes a deep breath and resets herself with a bright smile. “Okay. Are you ready to get started, or should I come back?”
“No. We’re ready,” Drake says. “We were just getting a plan together.”
“That’s right,” I say, staring at Drake. “We were.”
His grin wobbles ever so slightly—enough for me to know he’s worried about how I might respond.
And he should worry. Because I have a plan.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Gianna
“My ears work fine, Pearl,” I say, putting her on speakerphone and setting her on the table next to my scissors and a purple permanent marker.
“Sweetheart, I don’t think that they do. You keep saying the same thing over and over. If your ears work, then you’re not listening.”
I shouldn’t have answered her call. It’s not like I didn’t know it was going to be her. I saved her number in my phone the first time we talked—back when I was optimistic about buying her coat tree. Before I knew she was an extortionist.
A variety of aluminum soda cans are spread out on a towel in front of me to finish drying. I sifted through a box of my finds in the garage before pulling out five of my favorites. There’s a bright blue, green, red, orange, and a brown one that used to hold root beer. The brown one is the one I was after when I got sliced by glass in the dumpster.
Guess I didn’t get tetanus after all.
“My ears work, and I’m listening,” I say, trying to determine which can to start with. “You just keep saying the same thing over and over again. But you’re at one thousand dollars, and I’m at fifty bucks. We’re not going to come to an agreement.”
“Maybe you need to see it in person.”
I roll my eyes and choose the blue one. “I’m a busy woman, Pearl. I don’t have time to spend on frivolous things.” I reach for the scissors and grimace. I am spending my evening cutting butterflies from Coke cans, but what Pearl doesn’t know won’t hurt her. “Besides, I trust your photography skills. You should believe in yourself more.”
“Should I take new pictures for you? Because although I, too, don’t have time to spend on frivolous things, I will make an exception for you.”
“Oh, Pearl. You’re so sweet.”
“So do you want them?”
“No.”
She groans as if she’s exasperated with me, but we both know that’s not true. If that was possible, she would’ve hit the limit last week. But here we are.
I put on my winter gloves to protect my hands during this procedure. They’re not exactly the leather bad boys the people on the how-to videos used, but it’s all I have. Sometimes, you have to make what you have work.
Besides, I’m never buying those ugly things.
I pierce the metal with the tip of a knife, then use the scissors to remove the top and bottom of the can. Then I cut a line straight down the side, and it springs open but holds its shape.
“Fine,” Pearl says, sighing. “Do you want to know the truth?”
“The truth? Have you been lying to me? I thought we were friends, Pearl,” I joke.
“I want to sell this damn thing because I don’t want my kids to have it when I die. Okay? That’s the truth.”
Well, this took a turn. I wrangle the can flat and then place a cast-iron skillet on top of it.
The sun hovers over the tree line, filling the kitchen with the last rays of warmth for the day. The week has flown by. There have been so many meetings to discuss how to handle the increase in popularity of Gianna Knows Things. I’ve received dozens of requests to visit other podcasts, I was asked to speak at a conference for women in business, and I heard something today about being asked to do a reality show where they treat you like military recruits. Juni showed me a clip over lunch today. I’m pretty sure that I can handle it—I have iced water in my veins—but the screaming in my face would do me in.
I’d punch a motherfucker for that.
“I want the tree to go to someone who will love it,” she says, sniffling. “That dumb old thing means a lot to me, and I figure if someone paid good money for it, they’d take care of it.”
“Can I ask why you don’t want your kids to have it?” It’s none of my business, but she roped me into this mess. Sharing the tea is the least she can do to make up for the time she’s cost me with her haggling. “Shouldn’t the things you love most become an heirloom or at least a family keepsake?”
“One would think. But my kids don’t want my old junk, even if my old junk mattered to me. They’ll just throw it away when they clean out my house once I’m dead and gone, and it just hurts my heart to know that. I’d rather it be loved.”