Chapter 28
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Gianna
Painting in the dark is my favorite. There’s something romantic and moody about the dark sky, muted light, and a canvas waiting to be touched. On clear nights with bright stars, I like to create outdoors. It’s the only thing I enjoy doing outdoors, come to think of it.
My shoulders carry the tension of the day. Francine expected a word from the top floor about who will take the true crime spot on Thursdays. Drake must have heard the same thing because he seemed a bit on edge during lunch.
We haven’t discussed the elephant in the room.
At first, I figured that this thing between us would’ve fizzled out by the time the decision was made, and it wouldn’t matter.
But the fizzling has turned to sizzling, and now I’m afraid the news will be a bucket of cold water on the fire.
We’ll have to leave this little bubble we’ve created and face reality.
And I’d like to prevent that from happening for as long as possible.
At the very least, I was promised six weeks with Drake. I want to get that full experience.
My phone buzzes on the step stool beside me, and I glance at the screen. Francine? On a Thursday evening?
I place my egg carton of paint on the coffee table and wipe my hands with a towel. Then I pick up my phone and read her text.
Francine: Just got out of a meeting. Do you have a few minutes to talk?
Me: Sure.
Before I can worry or wonder what she might be calling about, the phone rings.
“That was quick,” I say, answering and immediately putting her on speakerphone. “Hey, Francine.”
“Hi, Gianna. How are you?”
“Good. You?”
“Harried. I have a few things to run by you, starting with an email that I sent this morning. There is a list of podcasts that want to feature you in the coming six weeks or so, along with a few national magazines looking for interviews. I need to know how you feel about these as soon as possible. Personally, I think a lot of them are a good call. There are a few that probably aren’t a good use of your time, but it’s ultimately up to you.
Let me know if you want my opinion on any of them. ”
National magazines? What the hell? “Is this about me, or the show, or Drake?”
“It’s a mixed bag. There are notes in the email.”
My stomach knots. “Okay. Great. Thanks.”
“Mercy Malone is back on the books. She’ll be in the States over the holidays and will stop by the week before Christmas. I don’t know that date off the top of my head, but I’ll add it to the calendar when I get back to my office.”
“That’s great news,” I say, smiling. “Very exciting. I saw online that she bought a Murat painting in Amsterdam last week. I hope she’s getting into her art era because that would be so much fun.”
She laughs. “That would make an interesting segment for sure. Next … I don’t know where to start with this.” The levity in her tone disappears. “Tomorrow marks one month of this dating thing with you and Drake.”
I’m well aware of that.
It’s been on my mind a lot for the past few days. I’ve tried to gauge whether he’s thinking about it, too, but I really have no idea. He goes through each day like the one before.
The uncertainty of what happens once the six-week period finishes scares me. And the fact that I’m scared terrifies me. I’m not like this. I cut the tie and move on because no one checks all the boxes anyway.
But Drake? He kind of does.
“Not only has this thing stirred up so much interest in your show, but it’s also done big things for Drake’s,” Francine continues.
“He’s seen exponential growth, especially with females, which isn’t hard to figure out.
All Canoodle’s shows have benefited from this, and the execs want to capitalize on it. ”
“Of course, they do.”
Francine clears her throat. “I’m just going to put this out there. Drake will likely be moved to Thursdays.”
“Oh.” I move backward until the edge of the couch hits the back of my legs, then I sit. “Okay.”
I stare at the stack of scrapbooks in the corner and give myself a moment to decide how I feel. Sad? Angry? Disappointed? Instead, I’m … numb. It’s probably a delayed reaction, and I’ll be heartbroken in an hour. That would be very Pisces of me.
“Are you okay?” Francine asks.
“Well, I mean, it really sucks,” I say, grasping for something inside me to cling to. “I’ve always known that this was a possibility and that Drake had a great shot at it—and he’s deserving, of course. I’m happy for him.”
I smile, although it’s not quite full and bright. I am happy for Drake. He will kill it, and he works so hard and is so great at what he does. If it can’t be me, I wouldn’t want it to be anyone other than him. And celebrating him will be so much fun.
But I just wish it could’ve been me.
“I know it sucks, and I battled for you long and hard up there today. I want you to know that,” she says.
That only makes me feel worse. “Thank you. I know you did, and I appreciate you. You can’t always strongarm your way into everything you want—although you are pretty good at it.”
We share a chuckle, and I wish I could’ve been good enough to win this for us. Francine deserves it. I hope she doesn’t think she’s wasted her energy on me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my bottom lip quivering, which pisses me off. “I know this is disappointing to you, too, and—”
“Stop it right there. This is business. You win some, and you lose some. I’m proud of what we’ve put together.
This isn’t the end for us. It just isn’t the door that we’re supposed to go through, if that makes sense.
” She sighs softly. “By the way, please don’t share this with Drake.
It’s not, by any means, a done deal. They’re taking their slow-ass time making a final decision, and I don’t want to get his hopes up if it goes another way. ”
“Understood.”
“Now that the bad news is out of the way,” she says, a door shutting in the background of the phone. “I have some potentially great news.”
“Okay …”
“Canoodle is very impressed with you, and the success of your show—especially in the last few weeks—is creating a halo effect. The perception of the whole Canoodle brand is shifting, and the late teens to late twenties age group is flocking to you.”
I grin. “I do love it when people flock to me.”
“They want to talk with you about rethinking Gianna Knows Things and really making it a platform brand within the Canoodle family.”
What? “Speak to me in English, Francine.”
“Right. Sorry.” She laughs. “They basically want to create a network of spinoffs surrounding GKT, which is what they’re calling your brand. Think dating style shows, blind dates, shows focused on second chances, and fake dating—which is a direct tie to you.”
I get to my feet and pace the living room, trying to grasp what she’s saying.
It sounds like a great option, but my hackles are raised.
The people I trust least in the world are corporate executives, and to hear that those very people have ideas about my brand—that they’re already rebranding in their heads—has me worried.
“What happens to Gianna Knows Things?” I ask.
“More attention. A better studio. Tons of branded merch. They want you out there as the face of the platform because people know you and love you. So your job would be promoting the new line of shows. As far as content, they want more of your personal life—that sells. Maybe include your followers on your dating quests when this one with Drake ends.”
I stop moving as my chest trembles. “When this one with Drake ends.”
I don’t want to do either of those things—end things with Drake or talk about dating other people—and I definitely don’t want to do them with the world watching. My show is about entertaining people and giving them advice that they might not get from their friends. It’s not supposed to be about me.
When I dreamed of a big-time show, I wanted my name to be attached to a talking point. I didn’t want to be the talking point. I don’t want people judging me and talking about my love life like it’s a freak show. This past month has made that abundantly clear.
And I absolutely don’t want to be a corporate sell-out. I don’t want my voice used to spout whatever bullshit line that a bunch of men in suits somewhere on the top floor want me to say.
That’ll happen over my dead body. Haven’t they listened to my podcast? They’d know that if they had.
Each breath is a struggle, fighting against an invisible band stretched across my chest. There are so many interconnected moving parts that it’s hard to find one to focus on. So many pieces of my life, parts that I love, might be coming to a complete stop.
That makes me want to puke.
“How do you feel about this?” Francine asks.
The excitement in her tone is undeniable, and I feel like an asshole that I’m not equally jacked about the developments.
“It’s a lot to take in,” I say, sounding as happy as I can. “Thank you for going to battle for me.”
“Any time, any place. You know how much I think of you, Gianna. But I do need to get going because I have a stack of things to take care of before I go home. I’ll recap all of this in an email, but give me a few hours to get it all together. As you said, it’s a lot to take in.”
“No rush. Thank you again.”
“Of course. Talk soon.”
“Goodbye.”
Tears well up in my eyes as I try to focus on the positives in this because there are many. This could be bigger than the Thursday slot. This might be a massive opportunity.
My parents would’ve loved that for me.
But as I look around at my house, my paint, and my buttons, I can’t ignore the pain in my chest. How much will I have to give up to be a success? And if I don’t, what will that cost Francine?
I open my text app without thinking, and my thumbs fly over the keys. There is only one place that I want to be—one place where I know I’ll feel like everything will be okay.
Me: Bored?
Drake texts me back immediately.
Drake: Just got home from playing basketball with Jory.
Me: What I’m hearing is that you’re about to be wet and naked.
Drake: What I heard is you saying wet and naked, and now I need you to come over.
Me: It took you long enough to say that.
Drake: I didn’t know I had to. I thought it was implied that I want you here whenever you want to be here … and when you don’t, too.
I re-read his words and feel the stress of Canoodle decisions float away. It’s Drake’s superpower, among other things.
Me: I’m on my way.
Drake: Have you eaten?
Me: No.
Drake: Any requests besides yourself?
I laugh.
Me: Pizza?
Drake: It’ll be here when you get here.
Me: You’re the best.
Drake: Only for you.
I dump my purse on the couch, fish out my keys and wallet, and head to the door.