by Sophia Henry
“I hate when you say that.”
“What?”
“You barely know me. Nineteen years is not barely.”
“Okay, fine. We’re BFFs who’ve never talked about anything other than produce and Legos before tonight.”
“I don’t talk about produce and Legos with just anyone.”
“I don’t doubt it. It’s not really date conversation, is it?”
“Is this a date?” Landon pressed a button and cold air blasted through the vents. “Damn. I’m probably not getting a second, am I?”
“Second? Are we going to talk about getting to first?”
“I said a second, as in a second date. Whoa, Gaby, I didn’t realize your mind was in the gutter. We barely know each other.”
Breathe breathe breathe.
“Chill, Gabster. I’m joking with you.” Landon patted my knee. “That should warm up in a second.”
I blamed his touch, rather than the lack of heat, for the shivers shooting up and down my arms.
“Let’s talk about your stereotype. Youngest and only girl in an Italian-American family. Princess. Shopaholic. Daddy’s little girl who can do no wrong.”
“Ha. Hahahahahahaha.” I couldn’t help the madwoman laugh or I’d cry. Though his stereotype may have been spot-on for many families, he didn’t understand my family dynamic at all.
“Guess I’m wrong.” Landon glanced at me before turning back to the road. “That’s a creepy laugh, girl.”
“Sorry. My parents probably want your stereotype to be true of me, but it isn’t. The princess gene skipped me.”
“So what’s the truth?”
“Youngest. Only girl. Hates shopping and tiaras. I can do anything the boys can do.”
“I see. You have middle-child syndrome, too. No one sees you as you are. Just what they think you should be.”
“I can run all of our stores with my eyes closed while on vacation in Fiji. But Joey is there right now, fucking up the register, unable to perform credit card transactions, forgetting to make the bank run to deposit cash.”
“I didn’t know you swore.”
“I can do anything the boys can do.”
“Touché.”
“Three-one-three sucks right now. No one comes in.”
“I resent that.”
“I mean no one other than a few produce stand customers. It’s such a different concept, most of our regulars aren’t going to visit. We need a marketing plan. A way to reach out to a new group of clients.”
“True. What have you guys come up with?”
“Nothing! Papa doesn’t think we need marketing. He says the Bertucci name should be marketing enough.”
“But your name isn’t on that store. There’s no way for someone to realize it’s your family.”
“Exactly! Now try to explain that to Papa.” I snorted. “Actually, can you explain it to Papa? You’re a guy. He’ll believe you. I’ll go get my nails done.”
Landon’s eyes darted to my hands. He smiled upon seeing my chipped manicure. “Sure. What’s your plan?”
I blinked at him. “You really want to hear it?”
“Yes. I know you run that store, Gaby. I’m excited to hear your plan to bring customers in.”
“My advertising plan is sort of a secret right now, so if you could keep it on the down low, that’d be awesome.”
Landon nodded, the nod of someone making fun of my request, but I didn’t mind.
Discussing my grassroots marketing plan for the store with Landon felt conspiratorial. It had been a crazy pipe dream since before we even opened. I knew we’d need some kind of marketing to bring customers in, but Papa hadn’t agreed with me. He said the reputation of Bertucci Produce spoke for itself. Our loyal customers would come and they’d tell their friends.
The only problem with his line of thinking was that we didn’t attach the Bertucci name to the store. Very few people, outside of a few regular customers whom we’d spoken with about the new concept, would connect 313 Artisans and Bertucci Produce. Sure, we’d had flyers made up to set next to our registers at the stores and at the stand, but who picks up flyers? People think it’s just junk advertising.
And opening a store like 313 Artisans had been Mom’s lifelong dream, not a natural offshoot of Bertucci Produce. The store specialized in products created by local artists; everything from paintings and photographs to pottery and T-shirts. Some of our bestsellers were iconic photographs of Detroit landmarks past and present, like the Fox Theatre and Tiger Stadium. It made the entire extended Bertucci family proud to keep everything in the store completely local.
“I’m trying to create the cheapest, but good quality, ad I can create because Papa won’t agree to any advertising funds, so I’d have to use my own money. My vision is to highlight the city since the store is all local goods, ya know? Maybe take a few pictures of landmarks. I’d love to get a local celebrity to endorse the store, but I certainly don’t have money for that. Don’t have money for a photographer either, so I need to figure out the camera I got for graduation.”
“Can you take classes?”
“I could, but I work weird hours and I can never find a class I can make consistently.”
“I have a friend who’s awesome with cameras. I’ll text him later and ask him if he can give you some pointers.”
“Thanks, Landon. I’d really appreciate that.”
Landon glanced up at me and flashed me a smile. “I want to help any way I can.”
The definition of Landon: eager to help everyone. Community leader. Kindhearted and generous despite his internal psychological struggle resulting from the charity household he grew up in.
“Eventually I’d like to run ads in a few local publications. We sell local artwork and gifts, so I thought we could put something in an eclectic newspaper like the Metro Times. It would hit a lot of our target market. But I also wanted to try a few other places because we need to market to everyone with Michigan pride, not just artistic types.”
“Like AHL hockey fans?” Landon asked.
“Definitely. I’d love to tap in to Pilots fans. You know your city loves its sports when you have the greatest team in professional hockey in the same city and still have thousands of fans every game to support a minor-league team.”
“I bet I could talk to the marketing department for the Pilots. I could get you an ad in our game program pretty cheap. Maybe free.”
“You would do that?” Without thinking, I grabbed his free hand, which had been resting on the gearshift. I let go quickly, chastising myself internally for acting like a silly, giddy girl.
Landon frowned when I let go and grabbed my hand again, bringing it toward him and resting our joined hands on his thigh. “Don’t let go, Gaby. I like holding your hand. I like getting to know you.”
“After all these years,” I joked.
“And we can talk about more than produce and Legos.”
“Yeah, produce, Legos, and bitching about our perfect lives. Hashtag: First-World Problems.”
“No shit.” Landon squeezed my hand as he chuckled. “Wanna go volunteer at the food bank or something? I need to cleanse myself of my selfishness.”
“I need to get home, but maybe on our second date?”
“So you’re saying there will be a second date?”
“If you’re asking.”
“Actually, I think you asked me.” Landon winked. “I like a strong woman who can do anything a man can do.”
Landon pulled to the curb in front of 313 Artisans ending a weird, but interesting ride. And we still hadn’t talked about the concert.
“We’ve avoided discussing all the kissing we’ve supposedly done. How is that?” I asked.
“You never asked.”
“I’m asking now.”
“I’m gonna get a ticket sitting here.” He pulled his phone from his front pocket. “What’s your number?”
His thumb jumped across the screen as I recited the digits.
“I’m calling your phone now. Call me later.”
I had Landon Taylor’s number.
My heart skipped and frolicked like a happy little fan girl. But I played it cool, responding with a smile and nod.
The more I stared at my phone, the more my nerve to call Landon dwindled. His number taunted me, glowing on the screen since I’d retrieved it from my recent calls list. He told me to call him. So why did pressing the little green Send icon seem so daunting?
I threw the phone on my bed. Sorting laundry seemed like a more constructive use of my time than worrying about calling a guy. I lowered myself to my knees and dumped my laundry basket.
Flipping two white socks to my left, I started the lights pile. He has my number.
Black T-shirt went into a darks pile on my right. Maybe he’ll call me.
Khaki pants tossed with socks. But he told me to call him.
White underwear with red hearts. Lights? But what if he’s waiting for my call?
White T-shirt to the lights heap. Now I couldn’t see the red hearts and I felt better about my decision. What if he doesn’t call me because I never called him?
A less mundane task might take my mind off the phone call.
Forget this.
Pushing aside my nerves, I dropped my favorite black tank top onto the darks pile, saving it from becoming a stretched and torn casualty of indecision.
“Hey, Landon. This is Gaby. Um, Gaby Bertucci.”
The sharp laughter on Landon’s end made me pull the phone away from my ear for a second. “I know who you are, Gaby.”
“Oh, well, um. Did you still want to help me come up with a marketing plan?”
We’d already kissed—twice according to his records. We’d spent the afternoon together spilling some major personal stories. Yet I could barely get words out over the phone. I thought in-person interactions were supposed to be scarier than when you could hide behind a phone or a computer.
“I’d love to help you. If you can answer one trivia question.”
“Okay.”
“How old were you when we first kissed?”
Great, a trick question. He knew I didn’t remember that. But how could I have forgotten kissing Landon? I still felt the ghost of his lips from the unexpected kiss at the concert.
“Nineteen.” It wouldn’t be the correct answer, but it was the best answer I had. The only kiss I remembered.
“Wrong.”
“Just tell me, Landon. You know I don’t remember and you keep dangling it over my head. How old was I?”
“Your kiss turned me into the majestic creature I am today, Gaby. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”
“Well hello, Mr. Modest.”
“One year my parents dressed Jay and me up for Halloween and paraded us around Eastern Market. I was a frog.”
Landon’s pause told me I should rack my brain for an obscure memory of seeing him dressed as a frog. We had to have been kids. When had he been a frog?
“You’re killing me, Gaby!”
“I can’t help it. I barely remember my own Halloween costumes, how am I supposed to remember a random kid on Halloween at the market?”
“Random kid. Thanks.”
“Just tell me.”
“Halloween nineteen ninety-nine. You were some kind of Disney princess. I was a frog. Our parents told us that you had to kiss me so I’d turn into a prince.”
“Oh my gosh.” I still had no memory of it. But back then, I probably thought kissing him would give me cooties.
“It worked. Just took a few years.”
“That is hilarious. So freaking hilarious.”
“It’s more hilarious that you don’t remember. I’m offended, actually.”
“Well, now that the kiss mystery is solved. Let’s plan some marketing.” I couldn’t believe Landon remembered kissing me on Halloween when he was seven years old. “Okay, so I thought we could—”
“Talking on the phone is stupid. It would be so much easier if you just came over to my place. We could put a plan together and make out, maybe create a mock ad.”
The phone slipped out of my hand, bounced off my shin and onto the floor. Shit! I grabbed it and brought it back to my ear. “Excuse me? What did you say?”
“Put a plan together and make up a mock ad. What did you think I said?”
Maybe he hadn’t said “make out.” Maybe I thought I heard him say “make out.”
“I, never mind.”
“What did you hope you heard me say?”
“Nothing. Stop.”
“You’re so easy to embarrass.”
“I’m not coming over and we will not make out tonight. Can you just help me, please?”
“We’re on the fast track, Gaby.”
“What does that mean?”
“I really like you. Just in case I didn’t make that clear at the concert.”
A response caught in my throat. No way Landon Taylor could be that into me. So soon. Or was it soon? Should I be counting the fact that we’ve known each other our entire lives?
“Your silence makes me wonder if you didn’t realize just how much,” Landon said.
“I was checking my room for cameras. There may be some kind of reality show filming that I don’t know about. True Tales from the Twilight Zone.”
That comment made Landon laugh. I waited until he’d regained his composure before speaking again.
“It’s kinda weird, right? This sudden interest? I feel like I’m the dog at a dogfight party,” I said.
“What the fuck is that?”
It would be absolutely embarrassing to tell him I’d read about it. Of course I had because I’m the epitome of dorky book girl. He knew it, I didn’t have to add fuel to the fire.
“Never mind.”
“Fill the dumb jock in.”
“You’re not dumb. And being a jock, I’m actually surprised you don’t know.”
“Just tell me.”
“It’s a party where a guy has to bring the ugliest girl he can find, but he can’t tell her. There’s a vote and whoever has the ugliest girl wins money or something. It’s terrible. It’s—”
I should have kept sorting my laundry. Phone calls are not my forte. Opening my mouth in general is not my forte.
“Well, I can’t say I don’t know guys who would do something like that, because I know a ton of idiots. But I’d just be wasting my money if I brought you, because you’d be the hottest girl there.”
“I don’t know about that, but I certainly wouldn’t be the ugliest.” I’d never had self-esteem issues with my looks. My brown hair doesn’t shine like that of models in shampoo ads, and my eyes are a dull brown, rather than rich and chocolaty, but I’m not bad looking. I’m cute. Petite. The everyman. Woman. Girl. Whatever.
“What gave you that dogfight-party idea?”
“Why the heck would you start talking to me out of the blue?”
“I guess I never really had a reason to. Not until I stood there as your dad had a heart attack. It gave me a reason to talk to you. And reason to stay. A really horrible reason. But a reason.”
“A better reason than seeing each other every week for nineteen years and never having more than a casual conversation?”
“Yeah, I think helping save your dad’s life is a better reason.”
“I don’t get it. You’re a hockey player. People cheer for you in the stands. They go crazy when your name is announced.”
“It’s not real, Gaby. They cheer for the hockey player, the fictional character they’ve given a status to in their heads. They want the superhero. And I’ll give them the show while I’m wearing my uniform or at a Pilots event. But off the ice I’m just Landon. And I’m twenty-one. And I’ve spent my whole life around guys. I’m not good at talking to chicks.”
That gave me something to think about. It’s easy to think all hockey players are caught up in the superstar lifestyle. But the everyday Detroiter probably couldn’t pick a Pilots player out of a crowd.
“Never really thought of it that way. I guess I’ve had you on that superhero pedestal since you got drafted into the OHL.”
“You’ve got a pedestal of your own, Gaby. My friends and I have called you the hot Italian princess for years.”
Instead of letting his comment sink in, I brushed it off with humor. Because it was pretty funny. “That makes me sound like a spicy sausage.”
“Hot Italian sausage.” Landon laughed. “Now I’m hungry.”
“Oh my gosh, please don’t make a comment about eating hot Italian sausages.”
“You really do have a dirty mind, Gabriella. I’m gonna have to hack into your e-reader and see what you’ve got in there.”
“I told you I don’t read stuff like that.”
“Bull.”
“Back to the marketing plan,” I said. Subject closed.
Thankfully, Landon let me off the hook, because he wanted to talk about marketing for 313 as well. He seemed really eager to help bring more business to the store, even though it didn’t benefit him at all.
How often does that happen? Someone doing something out of the good of their heart for no compensation?
But Landon grew up in the Taylor family. And since I knew their background, I imagined it probably happened a lot.
Chapter 8
“Were you the last one here last night, Gabriella?” Papa asked.
“No. Joey locked up. Why?”
Papa shook his head, dismissing me as he walked to the back, still looking at a scrap of printer paper in his hands. The door to the office slammed.
“I’m gonna tell Mom!” I yelled toward the door. Papa probably couldn’t hear me, but I said it anyway. And I would tell Mom. He wasn’t supposed to be at 313 until his cardiologist gave him the all clear. How could he recover if he kept his stress level at a ten?
Pissed and stressed were not the ideal moods for Papa to be in before I presented my idea for a marketing campaign. But it was now or never. As the newest and least known store, 313 needed customers if we wanted to keep it running. I didn’t have a complete advertisement with photos and slogans to show Papa, but I’d printed a rough draft of it as well as an outline of the marketing plan Landon and I created together.
We’d fleshed out the details on the phone the previous night. After memorizing the information Landon passed to me from the Pilots sales team, I could recite the statistics about advertising with them like it was the Pledge of Allegiance. For the first time in years, maybe in my entire life, I felt confident. I’d prepared for any logical business questions Papa had for me. I was ready.