Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Gianna
“And I thought I’ve seen some wild shit,” I say, flipping through Wildfire’s website as their music plays from my computer’s speakers.
Page after page is filled with pictures from concerts and meet-and-greets spanning the globe.
The energy captured in the snapshots, the smiles—and a lot of bare skin—is the visual definition of having the time of our lives.
I click on the document that I’ve been working on all evening.
“Women famously throw bras and panties at men on stage. What do guys throw at you?” I say as my fingers fly across the keys. “What’s the weirdest thing a fan has thrown on stage?”
That should instigate an interesting story time.
I’ve only completed two interviews on Gianna Knows Things and precisely zero before that.
And the two interviewees were a jewelry designer with an interesting take on relationships, and a girl who went viral on Social by getting dumped on Valentine’s Day.
She was so much better off without that fuckhead.
Both were fun. I enjoyed the conversations.
But neither of them was a famous drummer who wears Viking braids and has a chokehold on the music industry.
The pressure not to screw this up grows a little heavier each day.
“No,” I say as doubt begins to creep into my head. “I am enough for this moment.”
I take a long, deep breath and blow it out slowly. All the while, I silently repeat the mantra that has gotten me over every hurdle of adulthood.
The setting sun’s rays filter through the bay window overlooking the backyard, filling my living room with the prettiest glow.
It’s exactly as I imagined it when I first saw the house with a real estate agent a few months ago.
As soon as I turned the corner from the foyer and cast my sights on this space, I knew it was special. I felt it in my bones.
And I was right.
I wake up inspired. When I come home from the Canoodle offices, a sense of peace spreads over me like a warm rain. I paint with joy, create with heart—living the life that baby Gianna dreamed for herself … in my very own house.
The only thing I ever wanted was to be a homeowner.
It was an odd goal for an eight-year-old and definitely earned raised eyebrows a time or two.
In second grade, my teacher instructed us to write our Christmas List for Santa Claus.
I wrote boldly, in all caps instead of script, just in case Santa struggled with cursive, too, that I wanted a house of my own.
Instead, I got to have lunch with our school counselor to ensure things were okay at home with my family.
“Yup,” I said, squirting the sauce packet onto the pizza crust from my Lunchables.
“Our house is just boring. We can’t paint the walls or hang up my art or use glitter.
I want to have my own house and live there forever and make it beautiful.
” I sprinkled the cheese on top of my makeshift pizza. “And I’m definitely not using doilies.”
A warm pressure builds in my chest at the memory, and a sense of gratitude settles over me. “I did it. All by myself.”
And that is the best part of it all. I did it alone. The girl who didn’t see the harm in doing things her own way or why that was so humiliating to her parents made it on her own.
“Hey, sissy!” Lucia’s voice echoes through the foyer. “I’m here, and I come bearing gifts.”
I smile, lifting my gaze to meet hers as she rounds the corner. Her dimples settle in as she grins at me.
“Well, gift,” she says, laughing. “I come bearing a gift. But one is better than none.” She proudly holds up a jar. “This is Matilda.”
“That’s my gift?”
“Yes,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Ah, you shouldn’t have.”
She steps over a canvas and mounds of buttons, then thrusts the jar into my hands. “Be nice. You’ll hurt Matilda’s feelings, and then she won’t grow. You’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”
I turn the glass container in my palms and take in the … pancake batter?
“It’s sourdough starter,” she says, sliding out of her bright red heels.
“I made her. Well, I actually got her mother, Monica, from my neighbor a few months ago. But I’ve kept her alive.
And, in return for my impeccable mothering, Monica has produced many, many loaves of amazing sourdough bread.
And bagels! You can make bagels with Matilda, too. ”
“You gave me sourdough starter?” I ask, unable to keep the giggle out of my voice. “And to think that I was expecting a bottle of wine or the number of that hottie you work with.”
“Oh, this is much better than wine—and that hottie is engaged. Sadly.” She plops down beside me. “Have you ever smelled freshly baked bread? If someone could figure out how to bottle that scent, I’d wear it every damn day.”
I snort. “That’s one way to get eaten.”
She laughs, shaking her head at me. “Anyway, I emailed you instructions on how to care for Matilda. I have high hopes that she’ll be as delicious for you as Monica is for me. It’s a game-changer, really. Once you get good at it, you can add in olives and onions and cheese—all kinds of stuff.”
I peer into the jar at the glob of beige bubbles.
There’s not a chance in the world that I’m going to become a sourdough mom.
But this gift, as off-the-wall as it appears, is really the most me-coded thing she could’ve given me.
It’s an acknowledgment of my homeowning dreams without making it weird.
Lucia knows I hate it when things are sappy.
“Thank you for this,” I say, setting the jar on the coffee table. “I’ll do my best not to kill it.”
“Her, Gianna. Do not. Kill her.”
“Right. Her.” Lucia has issues. My attention whips back to the bubbling gunk as a thought rushes to the forefront of my brain. “Wait. Is it actually alive?”
“Yes, it’s alive.”
“Oh.”
“Read the email. I explained it all there.” She sighs and tucks her feet under her. “I’m starving. What are we doing about dinner?”
“Burgers from The Cesars? They deliver now.”
“Add bacon, no onion,” she says. “Can I SocialCash you some money?”
I grab my phone from under a pillow beside me and pull up the app. “No, I got it. They screwed up my order last time and gave me a gift card, so it’s basically free tonight.”
“Love that for us.” She chews on the edge of her nail, glancing around the room. My chaotic lifestyle has always made her a little itchy. That apparently hasn’t changed. “So what’s with the buttons?”
“Some of those were Grandma’s, and some were Mom’s. I forgot that I had them until I moved.”
“Why are they on the floor?”
I add fries to our order and submit it. “Because I wanted to do something with them besides filling a cookie jar.”
“So … you tossed them on the floor?”
“No, smart-ass. I was going to affix them to the canvas with a hot glue gun and try to recreate the fruit bowl painting that hung in Grandma’s kitchen.
But then I thought it would be super cool to cover the canvas with fabric and sew the buttons on instead of using glue, which would take forever.
So I figured I’d work on it while I watched Dancing with Famous People, but there’s no table in here.
” I shrug. “And that’s how they wound up on the floor. ”
My sister smiles lovingly at the mess. “I forgot about that painting. I always thought it was so beautiful.”
“Well, I did spend more time sitting at the table in time-out growing up than you did.”
Together, we cackle, because, yes, I really did spend a lot more time in time-out than my beautifully behaved sister.
The final beams of light drift from the room, and darkness covers the windows. Lucia’s shoulders relax, and she falls deeper into the couch cushions. I know the feeling. It’s impossible not to relax when you feel so insulated from the world.
“I love this house,” she says. Her voice is soft, the words floating through the air. “I’ve never experienced a place so quiet.”
“I love it, too.”
She turns her face to mine and smiles. “It’s so funny to think of you, of all people, thriving in this environment. But you really seem to be happy.”
“It’s my little retreat. I can go into the world and set off fireworks—wreaking havoc and anarchy wherever I go—and then I slink back here and shut the door and leave all of that out there.”
We exchange a look, an understanding that requires no words. Lucia has done the same thing in her own way.
As daughters born to two highly successful and respected professionals, my sister and I were expected to follow suit. Behave like little ladies. Dress appropriately. Take piano and violin lessons and, for the love of God, don’t embarrass the family.
I was never great at any of that.
“How are things in your world?” I ask. “Are you still seeing the fireman?”
Her eyes light up. “We’re going out Saturday night. Our schedules are at odds most of the time, so we don’t really see each other during the week. But we’ve gone out at least once a week for the past six weeks, so I think that’s a good sign.”
“That’s a great sign. How’s the sex? Still hot?”
“Oh, Gianna,” she says, shrinking like she’s melting down at the thought of her fireman.
“I’ve never been so thoroughly fucked. I didn’t even know you could fuck in so many different positions.
He’s had me on top, on bottom, bent over every surface in my house—twisted into a pretzel.
” She giggles. “He must sit around the fire station reading the Kama Sutra or something.”
“Does he have any friends?”
She lifts a brow. “What about Matthew?”
I wrinkle my nose and shrug noncommittally.
“Let me guess,” she says, “you’re over him.”
“Well, if I wasn’t before you went in-depth about the fireman, I would be now.” I laugh. “He’s … fine, I guess. I don’t know. The last time we fucked, I had to get myself off, if that says anything.”
“But I thought you liked him? Didn’t you have good conversation? I swear that you told me that the two of you stayed up talking all night.”
I roll my eyes. “What good is conversation if he can’t fuck?”
“Oh, Gianna …”
I shrug, uncertain what she wants from me. She knows me well enough to know that Matthew didn’t have great odds at longevity. I can’t think of a man who has made it more than two months.
Lucia and I are a lot alike, but we have a few significant differences—one of those being how we view relationships. Strangely, her take on them mirrors most of the women who call into my podcast. Our thoughts are so far apart that it’s comical we share the same DNA.
My sister believes with all her heart in romance.
Flowers, dates, and handwritten letters professing one’s undying love—the girl thinks that falling in love is something that happens to you.
I, on the other, very opposite hand, understand that romance is performative at best. At worst, it’s manipulation in the most heartbreaking way.
Love exists, for sure. But falling in love is irresponsible.
It’s reckless. It’s a situation in which you’re without control, relying on emotions that can mask red flags and hoping that an unreliable chemical explosion inside your body isn’t misguiding you.
Yeah. That’s all too much for me.
And if our parents’ relationship was a model for anything—I’d rather opt out now.
“So who is the big interview tomorrow?” Lucia asks. She stands at the sound of the doorbell, grabs Matilda, and heads to the foyer. “I’m going to put the starter in the fridge so you don’t forget.”
“I couldn’t forget because I didn’t know that to begin with.”
“Now you do.” She disappears around the corner. “Who did you get to come on the show?”
“Francine got Mercy Malone from Wildfire,” I say, a burst of excitement lifting my energy levels. “She’s going to be sitting across from me, chatting with me like we’re friends. How can this be real?”
The door opens, then closes. “Mercy Malone? Are you kidding me?”
“I know. Who would’ve thought that I would be interviewing a rock star?”
Lucia returns, Matilda-free, and inspects the contents of both bags, then hands me one.
“Me. I totally would’ve thought you could be interviewing a rock star.
And I bet Mom would’ve thought so, too.” She smiles as she sits down again.
“She always said that you couldn’t stop talking if your life depended on it because you’re just so magnetic.
” She rolls her eyes, but her grin is all affection.
“Would’ve been nice of her to acknowledge that earlier and stop grounding me for everything. I spent half my junior year of high school in my room, sneaking out for a couple of hours of freedom once you all went to bed.”
I unwrap my sandwich, but before I can take a bite, my phone buzzes beside me. I reach for the device to silence it, but pause when I see the name on the screen.
A smile touches my lips.
Drake: Stopped to grab dinner. The current count is me—2,574 comments, you—143, no side/random commentary—2,032. I think it’s safe to say that I win.
I tap out my response, unable to wipe the smile off my face.
Me: You did not count them. Don’t lie to me.
Drake: Don’t lie to you like you lied to me?
Me: What are you talking about?
Drake: I’ll leave you with these …
“Cheeky bastard.” I laugh.
“Who?” Lucia asks.
“A guy I work with.”
She hums. “You don’t mean Drake Bennett, do you?”
Me: I don’t want flowers, real or emoji.
Drake: Good night, Gianna.
Me: I really don’t!
Drake: Okay, dream crusher.
Me:
Drake:
“Yup,” Lucia says in a tone that I don’t want to indulge. “It was Drake.”
I set my phone down and grab my burger. “How do you know?”
She shrugs, grinning as she takes a bite of her food. I take a giant bite of mine, too. I’m starving … but I also don’t want to continue this conversation. I’m well aware that he’s … him, and I’m sure I appeared amused at his message.
But neither of those means anything.
If they did, I’d be as silly as every other woman in the world when it comes to that man. And I’m way too smart for that.
After all, Drake Bennett is nothing more than a coworker and a friend to me. And I always enjoy excellent banter with my friends.
Even the ridiculously hot ones.