“Yes, but?—”
“Then they obviously understand what they’re doing,” she says. “And if it gets more people through your door, that’s a good thing.”
I press my lips together. She’s absolutely right, which is deeply inconvenient. I’m being a brat. An introverted one with PTSD, but still a brat.
There’s another pause, and then she says, almost casually, “Why don’t you get Sawyer to do the plant tutorial you were talking about?”
She did not just say that. “What?”
“Make him do it,” she says, like this is the most obvious solution in the world. “He can hold the plant. Or point. Or smile. You can be the director, stand off-camera and tell him what to do.”
“That is—” I stop, because I don’t actually have a good argument. “That is…exactly what the PR team suggested.”
“See?” she says, pleased. “Delegation. Very mature.”
I groan, tipping my head back against the couch. “I know. I know. I’m doing this, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” she says cheerfully. “You can and you will. It’ll be fun. You can make a list of common plants, the most popular ones you sell at the shop, and have this guy do video care tips and tutorials for all of them.”
“Your ideas are wise.” I huff out a breath. “I’m still punching that horse in the mouth, though.”
“Yes, you are.” She laughs. “I know it all feels like it’s too much, but if you can find something to do that feels okay to you, then you can properly take advantage of this while it’s here.”
“Because it’s going to boost me,” I say.
“Because it’s going to boost you,” she confirms. “So ride it while you can. Now, I gotta run, my cooking class starts in an hour. Love you.”
“I love you, too.”
The call ends, and the quiet rushes back in.
I set my phone on the coffee table and sit here for a beat, staring at nothing. The hum of the refrigerator is suddenly very loud and intrusive, like nails on a chalkboard, but not as edgy. My mom’s right. I need to…no, Imusttake advantage of this opportunity while it’s here. I’d be a fool not to.
I grab my laptop, because this email I need to write to Carol won’t write itself. Only as I do, my phone rings and I see Vivian’s name flashing on the screen.
“You will never guess what I just won!”
I look at my watch. It’s almost eleven in the morning and Vivian sounds like she’s had at least two pots of coffee already. “No ‘hello, how are you?’”
She laughs in my ear. “Oh, whatever…hi, hi, how are you? Good. I won a cake!”
“A…cake?” I pause to think about how excited she is. Guess I never knew Vivan loved cake this much.
“Yes. A cake. A big one, too. That bakery that opened a block down from us had a contest and tossed my name in the hat last week. They stopped in today to tell me I won and to let them know when I need said cake.”
“So you called me?” I think about cake for a moment. I can’t be upset with it, I’m a fan really. Would I take pie over cake? Probably. But it’s not my prize.
“Are you daft, woman?” Vivian practically yells in my ear. “I want you to use it. To have my prize. For Theo’s party.”
“You…want to give away your cake?”
“Yes,” she says, like this is deeply obvious. “Because I don’t have a kid turning ten and you do.”
I shift on the couch, tucking my feet under me. “Viv, you don’t have to do that.”
“I absolutely do,” she says. “Because one, I love Theo. Two, I love free things. And three”—she pauses dramatically—“this cake isridiculous.”
“That’s not actually selling it.”
