Love Interest(2)

Like “Jack and the Beanstalk,” I think about boarding that elevator every workday and reaching a kingdom in the sky.

“Casey!”

My feet do a one-eighty on the sidewalk at the sound of my name, and I smile softly once I recognize who’s calling me: Brijesh Krishnu, a recipe editor at Food Baby.

He’s got one hand wrapped around what I’d guess is at least a six-dollar cappuccino, the other buried deep in the pocket of his light-wash jeans. He probably spent more money on the vintage T-shirt he’s wearing than I do on twenty bottles of Trader Joe’s wine. The men flanking him are both dressed in Jos. A. Bank suits, but Brijesh’s whole aura brooks no argument about how comfortably he fits into FiDi. He was born and raised here, and he knows Manhattan like he knows a good menu—with intimate familiarity.

“Ugh,” I groan when he gets close, eyeing his comfy-looking sneakers. “I hate your work attire policy.”

“You’re jealous of my work attire policy,” he corrects, falling into step with me as we cross the street toward our building. “And I’m jealous of how close your desk is to the execs. You know what they say about real estate.”

“Location, location, location?” Brijesh and I part ways around a slow walker and join up again once we’ve passed him, nearly across the street. “I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe I can get some favors in exchange for my old cubicle.”

Immediately, I wince, wanting to the claw the words back the second they leave my lips. Did that sound too cocky? I only meant it as a joke, but the reminder of Molly’s calendar invite comes rushing back unbidden.

The company has already made its decision. Yes, or no. I need to just hold my tongue, wait to be told my future.

Brijesh twists to look at me, his deep-set eyes blown wide with realization. “Oh yeah, that’s right. I almost forgot you interviewed for that project manager job.” He nudges my shoulder, and the tiny gesture from one of my only friends in this whole city calms my nerves … a bit. “If you get the new job, we can trade. Your old desk outside the CFO’s office in exchange for mine, outside the cooking studio.”

I roll my eyes, not buying his offer to trade for one second but still admiring his attempt to distract me. “You’d never give up being the first person who gets offered the extra food from the cooking studio,” I say with a snort. “I bet you’d sooner trade your fame.”

Food Baby, the magazine where Brijesh works, is owned by Little Cooper Publications—the larger business conglomerate that employs us both. Brijesh and I are technically coworkers, although we’ve never coworked a day in our lives. Our departments are, like, third cousins twice removed on your mom’s side. His job is hands-on, fun, and flashy. Mine is all about crunching numbers and pleasing corporate executives.

Which isn’t the worst, to be honest. I like finance. I’m good at finance. Math makes sense to me, and it doesn’t play games with you if you don’t play games with math (Hello, Wall Street). But truthfully, I’ve spent my whole life believing I’m supposed to want something more. A job that’s more creative. A life that’s more inspirational. A career track that doesn’t make my Brooklyn flower guy release a disappointed “Oh” when he learns what I do all day.

That unshakable feeling is why I applied for this project job with Little Cooper—to stretch my creativity, to see if I can help build something new from scratch—and it’s why I’ll remain in a panic spiral until I find out if they decided I’m right for it.

Yes, or no.

“My fame?” Brijesh repeats, drawing me back to the moment. The word sounds greedy on his lips.

“Following,” I correct, stepping around a puddle.

Brijesh has been featured in some of Food Baby’s YouTube videos lately, which means he has no small number of social media fans out there. I suspect more than half just like the look of him. He’s all muscled and bisexual, with black stubble and cheekbones sharper than his very expensive Japanese knife collection. Physically, I understand what the Food Baby subscribers see in him, but they don’t know about his inability to retain how compound interest works.

Also, he and my roommate occasionally bang, so my apologies to the subscribers for introducing them.

“Brijesh.” We land on the sidewalk in front of our building, and I still him with a hand to his forearm. He pauses and faces me, eyebrows drawn together, sensing my change in tone. I show him the notification on my home screen.

“Oh,” he says, working through the meaning the same way I did when I first got the invite. “Today’s the day they’re getting back to you?”

I nod solemnly.

It’s quiet for a moment. Then Brijesh says, “Well, it’s bound to be good news.”

His tone is full of unbridled reassurance. I wish it could kinetically transfer to me, but the lead brick in my stomach only sinks deeper.

“You’re dynamite, Casey. Like, your whole aesthetic is its own résumé.”

“What do you mean?” I tilt my head.

“How hard you work, how many people rely on you, how good you are with numbers. Honestly, LC would be idiotic not to promote you.”

I blush, feeling warm blood pool behind my cheeks. Flyaway hairs escape my bun. I tuck them snugly behind my ears. “Thanks, Brijy, but it’s not a promotion. It’s just a new job.”