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"Newsletter. These go out to my biggest fans, keeping them in the loop about new features or bug fixes. It's all pretty straightforward. As of this week, I have twenty-five hundred sign-ups." A touch of pride breaks through her tone, and unexpectedly, I feel it too, as she angles the remote to the screen and—
A finger taps on my notebook. "Write that down," Elias says, much too loud for my liking. When Juliana pauses, offering a strange look, he smirks.
Dick.
The rest of her presentation follows the same suit, touching on other avenues of finding players, like reaching out to niche communities and posting on gaming threads. In addition to hosting other advertisements on her game, which serves as her main source of revenue, aside from players buying the game outright.
All in all, when she clicks to the final slide with a simple "Thank you," I'm impressed. Stunned, actually. Not only by her presentation skills, but her creative imagination, technical knowledge, business prowess, and the hard work she clearly puts into the game. And going off of Elias's thunderous applause, he is too.
"Wow. Thank you, Juliana." He stands, checking his watch. "We've exceeded the presentation's time limit, so we don't have time to chat. However, rest assured, Hayden took notes."
"Sorry about that, I didn't notice the time," she chuckles, a bit anxiously, as she watches him head toward the door, presumably to let in the next candidate.
"No worries. Really, it was a pleasure."
"So... you liked it, then?" Hope gleams in her eyes, only to fade as he sighs, his hand clutching the door handle.
"Look... it's a cute game, and I'm genuinely impressed by the effort you've poured into it. I have no doubt it'll succeed—in its niche category. But... based on our market research, we're looking for something a bit more mainstream, like a First-Person Shooter, for example, or a racing game... It's just... I'm having a hard time believing this game will appeal to a wide audience." He offers her an apologetic glance. "I wish you the best of luck, though," he says on the way out the door.
Deafening silence suffocates the room as I watch Juliana's heart crumble into little pieces at her feet. In turn, a chunk rips off mine when she turns her head from me, collecting her emotions, then grabs her things in a hurry.
"Juliana..."
Laptop in hand, she rushes past me, eyeing the ground.
"His word isn't the end-all, be-all."
She stops halfway out the door, and although she doesn't say a word, I can feel the question burning through her mind. One I hate the answer to, even more than she does.
"My father's is."
Her shoulders sag, only to perk back up when I murmur, "I think your game is amazing, if that counts for anything."
TWENTY-EIGHT
JULIANA
Nothing tops a thin-crust Margherita pizza, especially not one from Vinny's Corner.
Nestled in the heart of downtown Brooklyn, Vinny's just screams homey vibes, right down to its warm cherry-oak walls, traditional ceiling fans, overhead Tiffany lamps, red-and-white checkered tablecloths, and dozens of family photos hanging from the walls.
Family owned since 1935, the business shows no signs of slowing down. Luckily, we beat the lunch rush and snagged a booth.
"Good Lord, Jeremy, slow down. You're going to choke." Mom shakes her head, watching him scarf down a huge slice of an extra-large meat lovers' pizza, which he ordered all for himself. I swear, we haven't had our food for longer than five minutes, and his pizza's almost gone.
"Sorry," he mumbles through a mouthful of food, prompting more head shakes as he finishes the crust and immediately swipes another slice. "I'm starving. I just got done working out."
I snicker, glancing at his sweaty gym clothes. "Yeah, no need to explain. We can smell you just fine."
A grin marks his lips, but they have no time for a retort—only chewing. And that's precisely what they do for the next two minutes straight, until not a single slice remains. Not that I'm surprised. It's a known fact Jeremy was born with an extra stomach. He's like a vacuum, or a human garbage disposal.
I gesture toward his tray. "Don't let those crumbs go to waste."
His gaze drifts to Mom and I's pizza.
"Oh, nonono. Not a chance." I nudge our tray away from him. "You're the one with the big Silicon Avenue tech job. I think you can manage buying yourself another round."
Sinking into the booth, he groans, "No way. I'm tapped out," and pats his stomach, as if bloated, when I know there's nothing but rock-hard abs underneath that would remain intact, whether he ate an entire second pizza or not. Just another Jeremy Brooks fun fact—he's an athletic freak. Guess those genes skipped a sibling.
