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Gabriella
Isend Dominic and Carter a message when I get back to the Grand River, but I don’t see them until the next evening.
I spend most of the morning crafting Instagram stories for a few different celebrities whose accounts I unofficially manage. In true Karpis fashion, I do all the work and get none of the credit, but I’m used to that and I no longer even get annoyed about it.
What it does is leave me a lot of time to think.
Yesterday, I’d poked my nose in Carter’s business. I hadn’t been a jerk about it, but I had absolutely accused him about having a blind spot about Ed Wagner.
But he’s not the only one with a massive blind spot. I live in a glass house; I have no business throwing stones. The truth is, as Wendy would say, I need to put on my big-girl panties and deal with the mess I got myself into.
Deep down, I know that there is only one feasible solution to my poker debt. Sammy hasn’t given me much time to pay him, just fourteen days. And here’s the thing: I can’t take Carter’s money.
Carter gave me ten thousand dollars and promised to cover my losses. But no matter what he says, it doesn’t feel right to keep my winnings. It really doesn’t.
Last night, when Plaid Guy and Ed were facing off, there had been a part of me that had wanted in. I’d wanted to win that pot, because if I’d won, all my problems would have been solved in one fell swoop.
But I’d stopped myself.
Less than a week ago, I’d been overtaken by hubris. I’d chased the fantasy and taken the short-cut, and I’d lost big. Last night, in Denton Mitchell’s poker room, I’d been more sensible. When it came down to it, I hadn’t doubled down on the crazy. I’d made the smart decision.
And now I need to make another one. My gambling debt is my problem. I got into this mess, and I need to get myself out.
Get yourself out?My conscience sneers. Please. You’re running to mommy and daddy for help.
Feeling about two inches tall, I call my father and ask to borrow some money. “Of course, Gabriella,” he says readily. “How much do you need?”
“Fifty thousand dollars,” I mumble, shamefaced. My savings will cover the rest. “I promise I’ll pay you back. With interest. I’ll send you a thousand dollars a month for the next—” My voice trails off as I calculate how long it’ll take to pay them back. I have no idea where I’m going to find a thousand extra dollars every month either. Maybe my friends can help me brainstorm some side hustles that aren’t Sammy’s poker room of doom.
“Gabriella. Don’t be ridiculous. You are my only child. If you think that you’ll have to pay—”
“I don’t want a gift,” I say flatly. “I want a loan.”
He sighs. “This again. Why do you feel the need to struggle, bonitinha? You never ask for anything. You’re far away from home, determined to be miserable in your job. So stubborn. I don’t understand. You are my child, and I love you. All I want is for you to be happy. What else is our money for, if not for that? What do you think is going to happen to all of it when we die?”
“I don’t think about it,” I retort. My dad is fifty-nine and my mom is fifty-seven, and they are going to live forever. My voice softens. “Please, papa. I am asking for help, but I don’t want a gift.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. “I’ll do it your way.”
I blink away the tears that well up. I really don’t appreciate my mom and dad enough. Piper’s parents are actively trying to sabotage her restaurant, and here is my dad, offering me everything I want, no strings attached. “Thank you for not asking why I need the money.”
He laughs at that, a rich chuckle that sends a jolt of acute homesickness through me. “Don’t thank me too soon, meu filhinha. Your mother is going to want to know, and she won’t rest until she knows everything.”
We talk some more. I promise to fly home in the fall, and then we say our farewells. I hang up, a sense of relief filling me. I hadn’t wanted to ask my parents for help, and I’d done it anyway, and now that the weight of that is off my shoulders, my insistent refusal to let people help me feels rather silly.
My father’s connections got me into Karpis, but I’ve done a good job here. If I hadn’t, my boss wouldn’t rely on me to deal with his high-profile clients. I wouldn’t be managing the Instagram page of celebrities; I’d be huddled in the office, assigned to busywork projects.
I’d done a good job at that internship in London too. Sure, I’d screwed up by coming in late that day, but I’d completed every task assigned to me on time, even if they were as trivial as making coffee, photocopying paperwork, and ensuring that there was cake for the post-lunch meetings.
For far too long, I’ve been allowing the opinions of others to dictate how I feel about myself. But I’d had a one-night stand with Carter and Dominic without giving a damn what people would think. I wouldn’t let anyone dictate what I can do in my personal life. It’s time I started applying the same logic to my work.
Yes, I don’t have any seed money for my business any longer. Yes, any money I might have been able to save are going to go into paying back my dad. I’m not back to the starting line—I’m several feet behind it. But it’s okay. I’ve survived Karpis so far. I can tough it out.
Apart from craftingInstagram stories and writing pithy tweets, I also spend seven hours working on a rebranding strategy for a soccer club in LA. In the evening, I attend Nicky’s concert. Once she’s done, I post a couple of post-concert pictures on her social media and leave her with Fernando. From the way she looked at him through the show, I don’t think I’ll have to worry about late night tweetstorms—she looks like she’s going to be otherwise occupied. Phew.
I’m wiped. If I were being sensible, I’d cancel my late-night plans with Dominic and Carter and get eight solid hours of sleep.
Then again, being sensible has never been one of my key strengths.
