Try Me

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

Gianna

“My sweet friend Audrey likes to say that revenge isn’t necessary,” I say, adjusting my headphones. “Whoever hurt you has to live with their rotten self, and that’s punishment enough.”

Roxie, a name I’m positive she chose just before calling into my live-streamed podcast, sighs in abject disappointment.

I smirk. “I wholeheartedly disagree with Audrey.”

“You do?”

“Of course, I do.” I lean toward my bright pink microphone, wondering if Roxie has ever listened to my advice before today.

“Sometimes revenge is necessary. Imagine if you take the option of revenge off the table. What happens then? What discourages assholes from being assholes? It’s not like they’re going to suddenly turn empathetic. ”

“This is what I’ve been telling my friends, but they keep telling me that I have to move on. To let it go—to forget what my ex did to me.”

“Well, that probably is the healthier option. But if you aren’t there emotionally and need to check this chump, and the only way for you to take your power back is to toss those cheese slices wrapped in thin plastic on his windshield on a particularly hot day, then do it.

” I bite my bottom lip, grinning. “Or, depending on your definition of revenge, you could find out if his dad is hot and then do with that information what you will.”

Roxie’s laughter is quick, singing through the recording studio in satisfied, if not amused, notes.

I’m always curious about how seriously my callers take my opinions.

I’m even more interested in whether any of them follow through with my controversial suggestions, as the head of Canoodle Media calls them.

But, as my producer, Francine, always reminds me, I’m probably better off not knowing if they do or don’t—plausible deniability and all.

Francine holds up a finger and twirls it from the sound booth, indicating one more caller, and then we’ll wrap up the episode.

“Now is a good time to remind everyone that the opinions expressed on Gianna Knows Things are my own and not necessarily shared by Canoodle Media or its sponsors,” I say, reading the script off the screen in front of me.

“The information shared on this podcast is for entertainment purposes only and should, in no way, be considered professional advice. We recommend consulting a professional regarding your specific situation. Now that’s out of the way, we have time for one more caller.

” I scan the screen and find their name. “Hi, Hannah. What do you need to know?”

“I’d love to know why I apparently hate myself,” Hannah says with a tight laugh. “Can you answer that?”

We gotta find a way to put notes next to the caller’s name so I know what I’m getting into. “No, but I can refer you to a great therapist.”

“I’m just kidding. Thanks for taking my call, Gianna. I’m a huge fan.”

Francine rolls her eyes, making me laugh.

“Here’s what I really need to know,” Hannah says. “How do I know if the guy I’ve been seeing is serious or if I’m just a friend giving him benefits that he doesn’t deserve?”

Here we go …

I managed to answer nine questions—seven call-ins and two online submissions—in this episode without coming across one like this.

These are my least favorite situations for a litany of reasons.

These inquiries seem crystal clear to me, but my answers always seem to portray me as the bad guy.

One thing I’ve learned in this role is that not everyone who asks a question wants the truth. Or my version of it, anyway.

“Before I answer, I want you to be sure you really want the answer,” I say.

“Yeah, of course, I do.”

“Okay,” I say, gritting my teeth. Something in her voice—the hope in her tone—kills me. I’m about to break this poor girl’s heart. Hell, maybe I am the bad guy, after all. “Hannah, I’m sorry to have to tell you this. He’s not serious about you.”

Silence.

“If you have to wonder if he’s committed to you, then he isn’t,” I say with as much empathy as I can muster. “Guys put a lot of effort into the things they want. It’s that simple.”

“Do you really think so?” Her words are nearly a whisper. “He has been swamped at work and with family obligations. Maybe I’m being unfair to question his intentions.”

“How long has he been this swamped?”

“For a while.” She groans. “Actually, it’s been months since we’ve had any real time together. I keep thinking that life will calm down, but it doesn’t.”

I sigh, carefully adjusting the mic in front of me.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I think you agree with me.

I think you know down deep that he’s not into you anymore.

That’s why you called me, because you know I’ll tell you the truth.

I think you’re probably sitting around, waiting, in his absence, and the needs he doesn’t meet are becoming glaringly obvious. ”

Hannah either whispers that she agrees with me or sniffles. I can’t tell which, so I press on.

“No woman who feels loved and valued asks this question. Right?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “But … Gianna, I love him.”

Of course, you do.

I try so hard not to roll my eyes.

When Francine pitched the idea of segueing my viral advice column, Just Between Friends, into a podcast titled Gianna Knows Things for Canoodle Media, it wasn’t scalability that nearly killed the deal.

Our concept wasn’t too niche, nor were the production costs too high to almost keep me off the air.

The executives could handle my unfiltered takes, and they welcomed my unapologetic opinions with open arms. Pushing the envelope is good for ratings, and at the end of the day, solid ratings pay the bills.

But what nearly cost me the deal was my refusal to water down my stance on love, the dirtiest four-letter word in the English language.

The execs thought my take on the idea of coupledom in the modern era, namely that love is a choice rather than a magical chemical reaction, was too countercultural.

There was concern of social media backlash.

Would my refusal to believe in love at first sight alienate me from the very demographic I champion?

It was Francine who convinced Canoodle Media that people, namely women, are tired of having recycled garbage shoved down their throats, and that they crave an authentic voice offering a space that challenges societal norms.

I was in the top trending podcast on most major platforms across all media in two weeks.

“Hannah, I know it feels like you love him,” I say.

“But love isn’t an emotion. It’s a decision.

It’s a choice that you make. You need to set aside your feelings and decide if this relationship is healthy, if it meets your needs, and if it’s a situation that you want to be in …

as it stands in the real world. Not in your hopes and dreams.”

“Wow. Okay.” Hannah clears her throat. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“I wish you the best of luck.”

The outro music plays as Francine gives me a thumbs-up.

“And that’s it for this week’s episode of Gianna Knows Things,” I say. “Tune in next week for more hot takes and cold truths. Bye, everyone.”

A prerecorded reel of me thanking our sponsors plays as I peel off my headphones.

The expected rush of weightlessness that I feel at the end of each episode washes over me instantly.

It’s satisfaction and awe—a flutter of disbelief and delight that I get to talk to people for a living.

People pay me for this. Never in my wildest dreams did I think this was possible, and not a day goes by that I’m not utterly grateful.

I lug my bag off the chair beside me and haul it onto my lap. Before I can start the search for my keys, my phone lights up next to the computer.

Astrid: Are we still on for tonight?

Audrey: The last I heard, we were meeting at Stupey’s tonight at seven. Please tell me we’re still on. I miss you guys.

Astrid: We saw you on Monday.

Audrey: And now it’s Friday. I don’t have a life, okay?

I pick up the device, smiling as I look at my two best friends’ names on the screen.

Me: I keep telling you, Auddie. I can help you get a life. Just ask.

Audrey: I’m not brave enough for that kind of life. But thanks.

Me: One of these days …

Astrid: Speaking of days, tonight? Stupey’s at seven?

Me: I’ll be there.

Astrid: See you guys then.

Audrey: xoxo

I lock the screen, then begin the plunge into the abyss of my new navy tote.

Paintbrushes, a package of tissues, and my earbuds are on top.

My knuckles swipe against the side of a water bottle as I descend farther into the mess.

I find my wallet, the smartwatch I thought I lost, and more candy wrappers than a sweets shop has in stock.

“Why don’t they make fobs bigger so I can find them easier?” I groan.

“Hey, Gianna,” Francine says, popping into the room. Her hair, the color of ripe cherries—golden with a hint of blush—shines beneath the LED lights. “Am I interrupting something? You look so serious.”

I huff a breath. “Why do I buy bags this size when I know damn good and well that I’m going to be pissed off the first time I actually have to use it?”

“I don’t know, but that bag is super cute.”

“It is, isn’t it?” I hold it by the handles and dangle it in the air. “It came with a gaggle of charms that I promptly removed and gave to a friend because I can’t handle the jingling all the time. I felt like a cat wearing a bell.”

Francine laughs. “Well, we know that you don’t need a bell to announce your arrival.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, laughing, too.

“Chaos—the good kind, but chaos nonetheless—both precedes and follows you.”

Memories flood my brain of my arrival this morning. My bag and keys were in my left hand, and a latte was nestled carefully in the crook of my left elbow. My right palm held a little orange kitten that I found next to a trash bin in the office parking lot.

Then I stepped inside the building, and all hell broke loose.

The kitten went spastic and leaped from my hands like a circus performer.

Its claws, which felt more like talons, dug through the sleeves of my shirt and kissed my skin.

Super Kitty ripped around the lobby, knocking over plants and a jar of candy off Juni’s reception desk.

Finally, in a heroic effort by my now-favorite intern, the kitten was captured in a dramatic scene that included a piece of ham, a bit of blood, and more than a little urine on the shirt of the intern …

who will probably never speak to me again.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I say with a shrug.

“So let’s talk about today’s episode. How did you feel about it?”

She’s leading me somewhere. I can hear it in her tone.

“I feel great about it,” I say, sussing her out. “Unless there’s a reason that I shouldn’t …”

Her lips press together in a firm line before she shakes her head. “You killed it, Gianna. Our live metrics far exceeded our expectations and nearly broke Canoodle’s one-day record. With these numbers, I don’t see how you won’t get the Thursday evening slot.”

The Thursday evening slot? My jaw smashes against the floor. No freaking way. “Seriously?”

“Oh my gosh, yes.” Her affable smile, the one that helps seal any deal she’s after, shines on me as she enters the room. “There was a meeting this morning with Spaulding and the other Canoodle executives, and your name was brought up repeatedly.”

I rise to meet Francine eye to eye … and so I don’t fall out of my chair.

The Thursday evening slot is currently held by a true crime podcast that’s ending next month, and every podcaster at Canoodle is frothing at the mouth for the opportunity to fill it.

Not only is it prime listening time but it also attracts the most sponsorships and has the greatest potential for organic growth.

Scoring that slot is akin to swiping right on a guy who also matches with you—and isn’t a creep.

I’ve imagined owning that hour, but never truly considered that I would be in the running for it.

Sure, I’ve had dreams of making this into a forever type of gig, and I’ve had delusions of becoming a household name.

Never having to go back to serving customers at The Swill because I’m financially set, doing something I absolutely love?

Yes, please! But that hour will surely go to someone with more experience and a heftier brand … right?

“I don’t know what to say,” I say, brows raised and mouth still agape. “I mean, I know my numbers are great. But Gianna Knows Things has only been a thing for six months. We’re still growing.”

“You’re growing right into the Thursday slot if I have anything to do with it.”

“Do you really think I have a chance? You’re not just hyping me up to make me feel good?” Bubbles of excitement begin bursting inside me, and a giggle passes my lips. “If you are, I love that you’d do that for me, but help me balance my expectations, please.”

Her fingertip trails the edge of the table. “I’d say it’s between you and Drake Bennett, and that man is a power in his own right.”

I hum, hoping it hides the smirk tickling the corners of my lips. “I can handle Drake Bennett, Francine. That’s not a problem.”

“That sounds like a challenge I’d be more than happy to accept,” someone, distinctly not Francine, says from the doorway.

I lift my gaze over Francine’s shoulder as a ribbon of fire licks through my veins and feast my eyes on the man leaning casually against the doorframe.

Damn.