Chapter 20
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.”
The thing has been kept in a barn for years. It’s covered in mildew. Pieces are broken off it. If it’s so loved, why is it in such sad shape?
I start to work on the orange can. “Won’t you just be helping them clear out your shit and turn it into cash for them?”
“No.” She cackles and it’s clear that once upon a time, Pearl was a smoker. “Me and Jeretta, she’s an old hag that I met playing Bunco a few years back, we’re taking one of those SKI holidays.”
She’s going skiing? “Pearl, I didn’t have you pegged to be such an outdoorswoman.” Especially at your age. Don’t you risk breaking a hip?
“Not skiing. A SKI holiday. Spending kids’ inheritance holiday.”
“Oh,” I say, laughing so hard I snort.
“They’re ungrateful—and mean. These kids are downright hateful. They steal from me. They tried to sell my house out from under me. Got me to sign some papers while I was in the hospital and didn’t know what I was doing.”
I frown. “I’m sorry they’re nasty.”
“Me, too. But I’ll get the last laugh because there’ll be nothing left, which is why Jeretta and I want to go on a cruise.
We want to do one of those adults-only trips so we don’t have to listen to crying babies.
And who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some nice old fellers with working peckers, if you know what I mean. ”
“Oh, my gosh,” I say, laughing. “But, yeah, I know what you mean. Sometimes a girl needs a good working pecker.”
Boy, do I know all about that.
I slip the orange can beneath the skillet and then begin on the green one.
Drake and I had lunch together every day this week.
A couple of the days, we ran to Stupey’s because it’s so close, and the others we had food delivered to the office and ate in the break room.
We learned from Scott in IT that there’s an office pool going around about how long we’ll stay together.
The closest person to the right date wins two hundred bucks.
Our experiment has brought a new levity to the office, and it’s been fun joking around with everyone, but it’s been even more fun hanging out with Drake. I feel like I’ve gained a new friend, and my life is better for it.
When I date a guy, it’s usually good for a while.
It always feels performative, though, like I’m playing a role until the show stops.
The funny thing about that is, with Drake, I am playing a role.
I’m pretending to be his girlfriend. Yet this is the only role I’ve ever played that feels …
natural. And I’m thoroughly enjoying myself. How ironic.
“You know what, Pearl?” I ask, squashing the split green can with a dutch oven. Then I grab the red one.
“What?”
I grin, removing the top of the can. “I can’t help but love a lot about this conversation.
First, the pettiness of not wanting your kids to have your stuff is something I can get behind.
Second, the fact that you love a coat tree this much is commendable.
And third, I fully support Operation Working Pecker. I’m on a similar hunt myself.”
“What are you talking about? You sound young. Pretty. Sharp as a tack. A little sarcastic at times, but you’re good for a laugh. You can’t tell me you can’t find a man out there. I just don’t believe it.”
“Funny story, Pearl. I have a man. Kind of.” I furrow my brow as I cut down the side of the can. “And I’m not bragging or anything, but I’m not a troll to look at. Some would consider me a catch.”
“Damn right that you’re a catch, and don’t you let a man tell you any different.”
It’s obvious she doesn’t know me. I laugh. “Trust me. That’s not a problem.”
“Good for you. So what is the problem?”
“The problem is that this guy I’m dating refuses to have sex with me. I know he wants me. He admits it. I’d know he’s lying if he didn’t. But he won’t do it.”
“Huh.” She pauses. “Is he religious?”
“I actually don’t know.”
She scoffs. “Well, even if he was, most of them still get down with it these days. What’s his problem?”
I can’t believe I’m talking about my sex life with the coat tree extortionist. Then it hits me, and I gasp.
I’m getting Gianna’d by Pearl.
What has happened to me?
My process has gotten faster, and I make quick work of the last can. Then I remove my gloves and carefully check on the first two. They could be flatter, but this is just a test round to see if my idea works. So I grab the marker and begin drawing a large butterfly on each one.
“We’ve only been dating for a week,” I say, leaning all the way into this conversation. I’m in too deep to back out now. “But we were friends before. There’s always been some flirtation between us, so I never dreamed he’d hold out on me.”
“You know, back in the day before I was married, men were different from the way they are now. You wouldn’t dream of offering to pay for a soda or a tank of gas.
That would be a slap in their face. They held doors open, and there was none of this honking at the curb for you to come out.
Oh, hell no. If a man wanted to see a girl, he’d better walk his ass to the front door.
And back then, sure, some of them would get nasty in the back seat in the drive-in movie or whatnot—those were my kinda guys if I’m being honest. But it wasn’t uncommon to have a guy wait a few dates before he tried to enjoy female favors, if you know what I mean. ”
Hmm … “What are you saying, Pearl?”
“I’m saying that maybe he’s like my Alfred, may he rest in peace. When he met me, he knew he had to stick out from the crowd, you know? He had to get my attention—rise above the back seat fun boys. Earn it. Deserve it. And maybe that’s what that man of yours is doing.”
Is it? I press my palms against the table and lean against them, wondering if Pearl could be right.
“If he’s not rushing into things with you, that’s him wanting to connect with you—make ya feel safe. He’s showing you that he’s not competing with anyone because he knows he’s the star of your roster. Isn’t that what you kids say now? Your roster?”
I giggle. “Something like that.”
“He’s breaking your patterns, sweetheart. That man is giving you a chance to see him for who he is … so you can choose him.”
Whoa.
I push away from the table, my gaze fixed on the phone.
What she’s saying makes sense. Drake is going slow—far too slow despite the short time this has been brewing, but slow, nonetheless.
He’s giving me space. He’s giving me time.
And we’re connecting in ways that I’ve never connected with a man before.
We talk. He makes me laugh. We trade stories about our childhood, our friends, and our favorite television shows.
I showed him a video about an artist I just discovered at lunch yesterday, and he tried to explain the defensive formation in a football meme this afternoon.
I didn’t get it, but that’s not the point.
The point is, maybe Pearl’s right. Maybe he is trying to earn my attention. Wow.
“You just broke my brain,” I say, picking up the phone.
She laughs, the sound ending in a cough.
“Do you take SocialPay?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
“I’m going to send you fifteen hundred dollars for the coat tree, and I’ll be there as soon as I can to get it.”
Her gasp is immediate. “Are you serious?”
“Well, we both know it’s not worth three grand.”
“Hell, it ain’t worth fifteen hundred, either. It’s probably not worth one hundred and fifty dollars, if we’re taking the blanket off the baby.”
“So you were extorting me!” I laugh.
“Yeah, when I didn’t know you. But now that I do, I can’t cheat ya. Dammit, anyway.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sending you the money. I hope it gets you on a boat and a working dick.”
“Oh, Gianna. Thank you. You have no idea how much …” She sniffles, crying softly. “Just thank you.”
My eyes fill with tears as I listen to her disbelief.
She’s right—the coat tree isn’t worth a third of that price.
But sometimes it’s not about the money. It’s about what good the money can do.
And if it can give my girl Pearl a trip to remember with her old hag Jeretta, then I’d be an asshole to stand in their way.
I open my Social app, find her name, and send her the money. A green check mark loads on my screen.
“There you go,” I say. “The coat tree is mine.”
“Bless your little heart, Gianna.”
“I’ll message you about when I’m coming for it, okay?”
“Okay. Thank you again. Thank you so much.”
I smile from ear to ear. “You’re welcome. I’ll take good care of it.”
“I know you will,” she says before the line goes dead. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Pearl.”
The grin still on my lips, I pull up my text app and find Audrey’s name.
Me: So what about a cruise?
Audrey: For what?
Me: I just got off the phone with a friend, and she’s going on a cruise to spend her money so her kids don’t get it and to find a man—probably a sugar daddy by her extortionist abilities.
Although she sounds eighty. I’m not sure if it qualifies as a sugar daddy at that age. What would it be? Powdered sugar?
Audrey: Oh, Gianna.
“A laughing emoji is better than no emoji,” I say, typing again.
Me: So cruise?
Audrey: I’m good. But thank you.
Me: I have a boyfriend now so no sex parties. Want to take a girls’ trip somewhere? Me and you? Astrid if she can come? What about Kismet Beach in Florida? I think Banks Carmichael is married now, but we can still have a good time.
Audrey: Maybe.
Me: Yay! I’ll take that.
Audrey: Did you make your sourdough?
Me: No. Do you have any idea how many steps there are? It’s like feed it, stretch it, feed it, let it nap. I don’t do that for myself. I’m not about to do it for a blob of … whatever it is.
Audrey: I can’t judge you for that. At least, you’re honest. But I need to go. I have an appointment with a student from one of my classes in five minutes, and I need to find his essay so we can go over it.
Me: Love you. Be nice to the student! He probably has a hangover, so dim the lights and talk slow.
Audrey: Love you.
I’ve never been so happy to see a ridiculous emoji in my life.