“You gotta back off on Noah Greenberg.” Georgia rearranges a rack of leashes, trying different combinations of colors and materials. “Tell him you changed your mind.”
“I will not!” I argue. “I think he’s perfect for Kenna!”
And I have to admit to myself, I’m more than a little curious about his campaign module myself.
“Oh, man. Kenna is seriously gonna kill you,” Georgia snort laughs.
“Why? What’s the big deal? How could she have a problem with Noah? He’s so nice.”
“Oh, she doesn’t have a problem with Noah,” Georgia says.
“So what’s the issue?” I stand up and pad over to the leash rack, taking the leashes out of her hands. “Let me do it.”
“Really? Thanks.” She hands me the leashes and goes to sit in the chair I’ve vacated. Facing forward. Weirdo. “Ahh,” she sighs, propping her feet up on a box. “Pregnancy really is exhausting. They weren’t lying. I’m either dying to inhale a pizza or dying to take a nap. If only I could do both at once. But of course, then I’d have to get up because I’d have to pee. Again.”
I consider the rack and separate out the leather leashes from the paracord ones, grouping them by type.
“That sounds really horrible.” I try to be sympathetic, but honestly, this is another reason why I never want to have kids. She chose this for herself?
“It’s not all that bad. My fiancé has been awesome. And my brother keeps buying us super weird baby gifts.”
“Back to Kenna …” I set aside a few leashes from each group, and then I start braiding.
“What are you doing?” Georgia sits up and peers suspiciously at my handiwork.
“Sit back, mama,” I say. “I know what I’m doing. Organizing shit is my jam.”
“Shit jam doesn’t sound very appetizing,” Georgia says, wrinkling her nose.
“You know what I mean. Now, spill about what the issue is with Kenna reading Noah’s thing.”
Georgia sighs and leans back again.
“Okay, so she’s a little touchy about this, but there’s no getting around it now. The problem is that she’s dyslexic. Kennahatesdoing anything that requires a lot of reading.”
“Oh, shit.” I groan. “I had no idea.”
“How could you have known?”
“Why didn’t she tell me?” I shove the loosely braided leather leashes back on the rack, arranging the three loose ones in front. Then I get to work on the paracord ones.
“That looks pretty good,” Georgia says. “I wouldn’t have thought of braiding them.”
“This way, they won’t get tangled,” I explain. It’s a trick I use when I hang my wigs and extensions. “Just keep the braids loose so nothing gets kinked.”
“Got it,” Georgia says. “So, Kenna probably didn’t mention it because she’s so sensitive about it. It’s one of the reasons she never went to college. She’s so afraid of being judged and having people call her stupid. But honestly, she’s one of the smartest people I know. About people and other stuff, too. She’s an incredible photographer. She’s always just had this amazing eye.”
“A lot of dyslexic people are really visual,” I say. I happen to know a lot about it—not because I am dyslexic, but because my character Moxie was. “It’s what made Moxie McAllister such a great detective. Visual recall.” I bite my lip.
“Oh my God, I totally forgot about that,” Georgia says. “No offense, but I wasn’t really much of a fan.”
“None taken.” I grin and step back to admire my handiwork. “I didn’t watch it, either. Still can’t.”
The phone rings, and Georgia drags herself up to retrieve it from the counter.
“Hey, we were just talking about you,” she says. Then she pauses. “Yes, she’s here. Hang on. Let me lock the door and put you on speaker.”
Georgia places the phone on the counter and then goes to lock the door, placing a “Back in fifteen minutes” sign in the window.
