Love Interest(7)

He catches my eye and covers the mouthpiece of the phone. “Later, can you remind me why women deserve rights?” he whispers.

I wink at him and jab my thumb at the button to call the elevator. Once I’m inside, my mind drifts back to the man from this morning.

What was he doing up here on ninety-eight? Who was he here to see? I didn’t catch a glimpse of where he was headed after he left me behind, fighting a smile, but he looked more comfortable strolling into the C-suite than I did after I’d worked up here for half a year. It took me a while to adjust, working so closely with the company’s head honchos. I still don’t even use the bathroom on this floor if I’m sensing gastrointestinal turbulence.

My phone vibrates again.

Miriam: How you doing, lovebug?

Casey: Fine.

Miriam: Liar.

Casey: I promise. It just wasn’t meant to be.

For a minute I think she’s done, and then, this:

Miriam: You know you’re allowed to like what you’re good at, right? I for one am great at finding the perfect vein for butterfly IVs. I am the best vein finder in the whole peds wing and damn proud of it.

I know she’s right. And I do like what I’m good at. The problem is I’m not sure my family likes what I’m good at.

Dad: Songwriter, quasi-famous musician.

Stepdad: Florist who does Bachelor Nation weddings.

Mom: Concert and fashion photographer.

That disconnect is part of the reason I haven’t been home in so long. I love my dad and stepdad so much, but in an unexpected twist on the parental disappointment trope, sometimes I feel like I’ve let them down. Here I am, in the throes of an industry ripe with designers, stylists, photographers, recipe developers, writers. And what do I decide on? The very career my mother was running away from when she fled London twenty-five years ago.

Casey: Can I still hate whoever got the job?

Miriam: Oh yeah girl. Enemy no. 1.

It takes me a while to get all the way down to thirty-seven, and then I have to wait even longer to get buzzed into the cooking studio, since I don’t have security clearance. By the time I walk in, I’m worried all the healthed-up hot chicken has been spoken for. I walk past the industrial refrigerator, my nose and taste buds tingling from the pungent scent of garlic and spice.

“Can you blow steam away while I snap this shot by the window?” a recipe developer says to the cooking studio manager. She garnishes a plate of what looks like chickpea curry with a smattering of handpicked cilantro leaves.

My eyes search for Dustin in the recipe dev bay, the same spot I always find Brijesh whenever he invites me downstairs to taste something he’s planning to present to the Food Baby editors. But neither Dustin nor Brijesh is there, and the bay is covered in remnants of Middle Eastern cooking.

I frown. Did I really miss Dustin’s recipe test by that much?

“Case!” a voice calls out from the far side of the studio. I track the sound, my head swiveling.

“Oh. Fuck,” I whisper.

Dustin isn’t testing this recipe for Food Baby consideration. He must have gotten it approved months ago. Because now he’s recording at the film bay.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been allowed in here, and it’s never been on a film day.

I blink, frozen in place.

Brijesh is standing on one side of the counter, Dustin beside him, aproned up. The videography crew and all their gear are on the other side, sleek and ominous. It’s intimidating, how much gear they’ve got. In my head, I pictured a dinky little camera on a tripod like all my favorite vloggers use.

I was not anticipating my YouTube debut today. Or, like, ever. I can safely say I don’t have the right personality to fit in with the rest of Food Baby’s “on-camera talent.” To say the absolute least.

Brijesh beckons me impatiently. I gulp, walking forward. When I’m close enough to touch, he throws an arm over my shoulder and pulls my side against his.

“This is Casey,” he says, addressing the front-and-center camera lens. “She’s a financial analyst up on ninety-eight. For all you folks at home, that means she works beside my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s boss. And she also happens to be a born and bred Nashvillian. So we’re going to get her opinion on the healthed-up hot chicken.”

“Go easy on me, Casey from ninety-eight,” Dustin says, grinning at me widely.

We’ve never met, but I watch all his YouTube videos—even the ones he does for other brands besides Food Baby. Here are just a few of the creepy, parasocial factoids I’ve learned about Dustin through many hours of cooking-demo consumption. He is: of Jamaican heritage, a barbecue whisperer, scared of turmeric powder stains, and allergic to most nuts (same!).

Also, there is abundant fan fiction about him and Brijesh on the internet.

(I haven’t read it.)

(I have.)

“Do not go easy on him,” Brijesh tells me, countermanding Dustin’s request. “It’s in the public’s best interest for you to be scrupulous.”

“Noted,” I say, my voice audibly unsteady. I cross my arms over my chest, glancing down at the fancily plated dish on the countertop. I point at it and turn to Dustin, doing my best to ignore the camera. “You know it’s normally served on a piece of white bread with a pickle and a toothpick, right?”