“I don’t think I can do it,” I say, reviewing the proposal in my hands. “It’s just … unauthentic.”
Francine slips off her tortoiseshell glasses and withholds a sigh. Instead, she licks her lips to calm herself, I think. “That’s totally understandable, and I commend your integrity. But maybe we could reframe this proposal and see it in a different light.”
“Frame away.”
She lifts her copy of the document and rereads it.
Rain pelts the windows of my small but cozy office at Canoodle Media. A battery-operated candle flickers on the bookshelf to my right, casting a pretty glow against some of my favorite books. Biographies of my heroes and coffee-table-style art books are neatly lined up. Romances, though, far outnumber the others. A plug-in fragrance booster sends ribbons of floral through the room, scenting the air as if we’re in a rose garden. It’s the most creative I could get while still staying within corporate guidelines.
Francine shifts her weight, still scanning the paper. I slide back in my chair and fidget with the edge of my newly chipped fingernail.
The week has flown by. Monday was spent engaging with my audience—responding to social media comments and questions, reviewing the endless emails sent to the podcast for content creation, and analyzing platform-specific statistics. Tuesday was filled with strategy sessions and brainstorming workshops. I’ve spent the day recording ad spots and approving new deals. I’ve barely had time to think.
I blow a bright pink bubble, and it bursts just as Francine lifts her chin. She nods as if she has just come to an agreement with the proposal in her hands.
“Okay,” she says. “What if we shape the narrative a bit?”
Shapethatnarrative?I lift a brow and return her smile, although mine’s a touch more facetious. “If you can shape it enough so that it says, I don’t know, the exact opposite thing that it does now, then fine.”
“The final decision is yours,” she says. “But with your download numbers over the past couple of weeks, I think we can get them to agree to a flat-rate deal. For the price range that will command, it’s worth seriously considering.”
She places the paper on the corner of my desk. Her amusement with me is waning—and I get it. This sponsorship would be a feather in our cap and pour more money in one swoop than we’ve ever managed to score so far withGianna Knows Things. That makes our whole team look good.
But it would make me feel really, really shitty. I’d essentially be a sellout, and every one of my listeners would know it. Even if they didn’t, I’d know it, and I’m the one who has to live with it.
“Look, I know this deal would bring in a lot of money,” I say, dropping my hands to my sides. “And I’m well aware that there’s a contingent of people this podcast is responsible for financially—don’t think that doesn’t weigh on me. But this entire pitch centers around the idea that if you send your significant other flowers, it’s a magic wand. It erases any and all fuckery. And you know as well as I do that’s the antithesis of the entire podcast.”
She nods, the struggle of my argument and the dollar signs swimming in her head apparent.
“I step into the recording booth every week and tell people not to take shit,” I say. “I’m telling them to listen to their gut. To hold people accountable for their misdeeds, and to demand more from relationships than being a doormat.” I glance down at the name on the top of the sheet. “I’m not against working with Powers Flowers in theory, but they’re going to have to pitch something that aligns with my brand.”
“Very well.” She gathers her things and slips them into her satchel. “After all, you know best.”
I snort before it turns into a giggle. “Well played, Francine. Well played.”
“I can be clever now and then.” She winks. “I’ll have the audiogram edits that we worked on today ready for your approval tomorrow, and if the Halcyon team gets back to us, we can record their spot, too.”
“Sounds great.”
“What else are you working on today? Or are you about out of here for the afternoon?”
I yawn, the week’s tempo starting to catch up with me. “I think I’m going to go live on Social in a bit and tease Friday’s show with Mercy. Nothing fancy. I’m just going to use my phone and make it a spontaneousI’m bursting at the seamskind of thing.”
“Smart. I love that. The guesses rolling in have been hysterical—everything from Laird Faris of Faris Wheel to that super sexy racecar driver everyone is talking about.”
“Cash Ryatt? A girl can dream.” I laugh. “Why do they think it’s a guy, anyway? That’s an interesting take.”
“Because you said you had a ‘mega crush’ on the person.” She shrugs, grinning. “It’ll just make it even splashier when it’s Mercy.”
I whip my desktop tripod out of my desk and set it up. “You know me. I love to be splashy.”
“You, my dear, are the splashiest.”
She gives me a little wave and leaves while pulling her phone to her ear.
Thunder rumbles through the air, followed by a streak of bright orange lightning that illuminates the sky. I jump, knocking my scuffed calf against my chair.Ouch.
The thought of searching for fresh lip gloss from my godforsaken bag is off-putting. So I find a tube of lip balm in my desk from who knows when and smudge it across my pucker. I reach for the phone, but it buzzes before I can grab it.
