BooksBarbecue
Back Someone Had to Do It
Chapters (39)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. About the Authors
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  37. THE STORY BEHIND SOMEONE HAD TO DO IT
  38. SOMEONE HAD TO DO IT: THE PLAYLIST
  39. DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

I don’t react for a while. It really is that simple for her. “So that’s...that’s it?”

It feels like there has to be a catch, something she’s keeping to herself.

Her voice firms. “As long as you keep your mouth shut.”

I go still. Her words, though soft, always seem to carry an element of threat, but this time, in an odd way, it also sounds like she’s pleading. Like she needs me. Like I’m the one with the power.

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

11

TAYLOR

I take one final glance under the table. There she is. My one-of-a-kind, custom Birkin. I’ve never actually carried her; it’s always felt too disrespectful to do anything besides admire her on her shelf. My mom commissioned my favorite artist to hand-paint it for my eighteenth birthday after they met at Art Basel. He signed the inside and even wrote a little note. It’s one of the most valuable pieces I own, could probably get fifty grand for it, but I had to take what I could get on such short notice.

I wasn’t exaggerating when I told my father I was broke. But I had to find a way to get Brandi her money.

I told Mei and Jared I have it handled. I didn’t say anything about me agreeing to pay her tuition; the less they know, the better. All they need to know is that after today she won’t be anywhere near my father and she won’t be talking to anybody.

When I look up, I see my contact heading over to my table. She’s dressed in a cut-off men’s Oxford shirt, cropped so short it can basically double as a bra since she’s not wearing one, high-waisted biker shorts that barely cover her navel, Celine sunglasses and Balenciaga sneakers. A tiny red purse dangles from her hand, too small to even fit her phone.

She takes off the sunglasses and smiles at me. “Hey.”

I don’t smile back.

I reach underneath the table and put the bag on top. Her entire face lights up before I even get it out of its dust bag, just like mine did when I first saw it, and a part of me shatters.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. It feels wrong. Like selling a piece of my mom. It isn’t just a handbag. It’s art. It’s a piece of history. Our history.

The girl picks the bag up and inspects it. I snatch it back before my brain can process what I’m doing.

She frowns. “Didn’t you get my payment? I got a confirmation saying it went through.”