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“And she hired you to make a dress just like this one?” I finish.
“Yeah! And you know how much she’s willing to pay?”
“Whatever four thousand pounds sterling is in dollars?”
“Yes! Seven thousand dollars. Plus material costs. Foronedress!”
“It’s a pretty nice dress.” I laugh and smooth down the front of mine.
“Did your meeting go as well for you as your time hanging out in the lobby went for me?”
“You better sit down.”
The common area in our microscopic two-bedroom apartment has a kitchenette, a kitchen table with two chairs, a relatively comfy armchair, a decidedly uncomfortable armchair, and Georgia’s giant-ass cutting table and ironing board, which are always set up.
Normally, we joke argue over who gets the better chair, but tonight, she sits in the one we should’ve trashed years ago and waves for me to sit in what we call The Throne.
“So … I’m glad you’re excited about that custom job and how much you’re going to be paid. Really happy.”
My sister’s face drops. “Oh no. It didn’t go well …”
“Depends how you define ‘well,’ I think.”
“Okay,” she drawls. “Define it for me.”
Since the moment Mr. Liu said the numberone million, I’ve been tossing over the best way to tell Georgia. Ripping off the Band-Aid quickly is best.
“If I follow the plan that Mr. Liu—he’s my business mentor—has for The Other Side of the Fence, it can be making us quite a bit more than just $50,000 a year.”
“Like, sixty? Seventy?”
I shake my head.
“A hundred thousand a year?” Georgia’s eyes widen.
“A million. A million dollars. A year.”
R-i-i-i-p!
I watch my sister’s body language to anticipate her reaction and prepare my response. Like mine was, hers is a combination of stunned silence and small self-soothing actions. She brushes her legs with her hands, touches her face, runs a fingertip across her lips.
I give her space to process. I want her to be the next person to speak.
“You said, ‘IfI follow the plan.’ Does that mean you haven’t decided yet?”
My eye twitches.
“You already said yes.”
“Damn those true crime shows,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
Georgia fake smiles. “OK, then.” She picks up a scrap of fabric from the floor and mindlessly frays an edge. “You’ll be able to afford your own place.”
“And furniture that’s not dragged in from the sidewalk.”
“My little sister, a millionaire business woman. You won’t need me anymore.” She seems to be talking to herself.
“Georgia, look at me. Of course I’ll still need you. Having money won’t change that.”
