Love Interest(3)

Even as I say it, I know it’s not the whole truth. The job would be an upgrade. A step forward. A venture into uncharted waters. Best of all, a positive affirmation that I don’t have to subscribe to the full range of weirdly exclusive Girl Boss Culture to be a successfully functioning adult.

Funny enough, my own boss, Don, was the one to suggest I apply for the opening at Little Cooper’s new digital media platform, Bite the Hand. What started as a pet project for zany ideas not aimed at our print subscribers—like a list of the best hangover meals for every kind of liquor, activism city guides, quizzes to determine your ideal sex toy, or links to the internet’s funniest memes of the moment—has morphed into its own beast with an identity wholly separate from its parent print magazine. It’s almost like an amalgamation of BuzzFeed, The Cut, and whatever content is trending on TikTok right now.

Don didn’t suggest I apply in an I’m-trying-to-get-rid-of-you way but more of an I-need-someone-loyal-to-me-on-the-inside way. He’s stressed about how fast the platform is growing, how no one seems financially minded. Don went so far as to set up a networking meeting between me and Bite the Hand’s deputy director weeks before the job opening posted. He’s genuinely confident I have a shot, which has my hopes—and my nerves—way up about the whole thing.

I take a deep breath. I’ll know, one way or another, in less than fifteen minutes. As a girl who does poorly with unknown variables, that’s the consolation I’m clinging to. Even if I get bad news, the waiting will be over.

My skin is sticky from the fog, and I feel a drop of condensation roll between my boobs. I’m so glad I reapplied deodorant. It’s a typical August day in the city: sweltering, crowded, muggy, and just miserable enough to be a little bit magic.

We start walking again and hit the lobby of our building a minute later. It’s all high ceilings, modern art, escalators leading to straitlaced desk attendants. Brijesh and I swipe our badges by the security kiosk. CASEY MAITLAND, my badge reads in fading blue ink, along with the job title FINANCIAL ANALYST and the company identifier LITTLE COOPER PUBLICATIONS.

I desperately attempt to manifest that, soon, I’ll have a newly issued badge to swipe.

We wait in line, eventually piling into an elevator with a crush of bodies that sometimes rivals the subway. Brijesh drains his coffee, then starts muttering the ingredients he needs for a recipe test over and over beneath his breath.

“Ground lamb, white wine, ras el hanout—”

“What’s that?” I whisper.

“Tell you when you’re older.”

His stop arrives before mine; Little Cooper owns nine magazines based in the US, but the staff occupy twelve different floors.

“Good luck. Don’t forget my cubicle offer,” he whispers as he hops off on thirty-seven.

“Don’t forget me when you’re famous,” I whisper back.

On my way up the beanstalk, my legs grow restless. As the elevator starts and stops, lets people off and lets them on, I tap my right foot in rhythm with the song stuck in my head (“Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake, of all things). The higher we climb, the fewer people remain.

Eventually, as we reach the high nineties, it’s just me and one other person.

I’ve worked here long enough to know that I should keep my gaze forward, on the slowly dwindling number of glowing elevator buttons. Back home in Nashville, I people-watched all the time, but New Yorkers don’t like it when you stare. So, I try not to look at him. I really, really try. But like a moth inevitably drawn to a bright light in the dark, I can’t help but peek over.

And—I swear to God. At first, I think I might be sharing the elevator with a straight-up male model.

LC owns a fashion magazine called Frame, so it’s not like my thought is outlandish. He’s styled impeccably in a lavish but traditional black suit that I know without a doubt has been tailored, the jacket slung over his left shoulder and held in place by a couple of loose fingers. A white button-down covers his broad chest.

The man is Asian, maybe biracial, with the calm, bored quality of a person who spends plenty of time waiting. The way he’s leaning against the opposite side of the elevator looks so aesthetic, it’s almost like he’s unintentionally posing. One loafer sole is pushed flush against the stainless-steel wall, and there’s a slight bend in his knee. I’m halfway expecting a camera to start snapping him ad nauseam as soon as the doors pull open on the next floor.

My next discernment is that he’s unabashedly watching me right back.

He’s around my age, maybe a year or two older, but definitely in the midtwenties bracket, a few years past the cusp of when the word “man” has permanently overwritten “boy” in your head. He has a couple of tiny lines by his eyes, a tiredness to the set of his mouth that’s probably correlated to an absence of work-life balance. But regardless, he’s so handsome, it sort of hurts my feelings, with jet-black hair; a straight nose; tawny, freshly shaved skin; and expressive lips that are, at present, pressed together like he’s holding back a secret he doesn’t want to share. I would describe him as tilt-your-head tall, but not crane-your-neck tall.

So, basically, perfect.

The hand in his pocket is tapping out a rhythm. It’s strangely in sync with my restless foot.

I catalog all this with a few careful glances, my eyes moving skittishly over the stranger. With a peek at the solely lit elevator button, I realize we’re headed for the same stop. I’m certain I’ve never seen this person before, which is rare this high up the beanstalk. Outsiders don’t frequent my floor. It’s really not for the faint of heart, considering business executives—much like volcanoes—tend to erupt spontaneously.