And I wanted it so badly. The city, the job, the lifestyle, the romanticism of coming into your adulthood in a delirious fumble of Oh my God what the hell am I doing, who cares, this is just as exhilarating as it is petrifying. I wanted it, knowing it would probably destroy my four-year relationship. Which was, admittedly, the hardest decision I’ve ever made.
We had it out that night. I was more naive than he always thought, and wasn’t I supposed to be smarter than this? Didn’t I know everybody in New York bled money faster than they earned it? How did I think I’d ever find someone better than him? Wasn’t it selfish to want something different when I could find a job in Nashville that would set us up for the future?
Lance was right about that part. It was selfish. But looking back, I’m proud of myself for going after what I wanted.
Because New York makes me feel like I’m on the precipice of something. It’s the bridge between Casey before and Casey forever, and now, I just have to figure out what’s around the corner, on the other side of this precipice. London, maybe. Or a job that makes people’s eyes go starry when they hear about it. Or—call me a romantic, as I suppose that I am one—the love of my life, or whatever.
“Casey? You there?”
I sigh dreamily. “Let me double-check with my boss, and then I’ll look at flights.”
Jerry whoops, and Dad exhales a huge sigh of relief. It punches me in the gut, the guilt of staying away.
“Honey, it will be amazing. We’ll plan your whole trip down to the letter.”
Pleeeease don’t, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut as Dad rattles off a list of all the things he wants us to do over Thanksgiving. I love my parents. I really, really do. But sometimes, they are more exhausting and harder to manage than the COO’s ex-wife. （And just for some perspective, she once disguised herself as a janitor to get up to ninety-eight so she could berate the COO about his spicy LinkedIn chats. Apparently, he’s smitten with the CEO of CycleBar … but that’s none of my business.）
* * *
“Can you explain to me why,” Brijesh asks as he swirls the wine in his glass, “when it comes to men, I’m only ever interested in toxic himbos?”
We’re at a cozy Italian restaurant in Prospect Heights with a plate of garlic ciabatta and an olive oil flight between us. These dinners are scheduled whenever Brijesh needs new material for his Food Baby column, Guess That Restaurant.
Sometimes, Miriam comes, too. An outing like this is actually how she and Brijesh first met, exchanging lingering stares and laughing at each other’s jokes that weren’t that funny, in my opinion. But she can only make it half the time because of work.
I drain my own glass of cabernet. “I literally don’t know what a himbo is.”
“Don’t you have Twitter?”
“Yeah, but I mostly follow Jason Sudeikis fan accounts.”
Brijesh looks down and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re too wholesome for New York. I’m kicking you out. Just not before Friday at eight o’clock, because we have that Oaxacan reservation. Opening night.”
“Oh!” I brighten up. “I forgot about that. Didn’t we reserve it, like, three months ago?”
“Four. It’s an important one, too. Food Baby wants the first scoop on the chef, but he’s notoriously reclusive.” Brijesh’s eyes never leave the menu. “Do you like sardines?”
“Allergic,” I remind him. “What about the tagliatelle?”
“What about the roasted duck.”
“It’s a Wednesday,” I counter.
He puts his chin on his fist and smiles. “I didn’t know you were Catholic.”
“I’m not. That’s not a thing. You can’t just go around having roasted duck on a Wednesday, unless you’re, like, as pretentious as the Harrisons.”
Brijesh shrugs, as if he’s considering whether he’d like to be. With an evil grin he adds, “I’ll need a full report of Alex Harrison’s food and beverage choices tomorrow during your lunch meeting.” He may as well have said sexual intercourse. I already regret telling him about Saanvi’s weird YouTube idea. “I can tell things about people from the way they order,” he explains. “It’s my own personal zodiac.”
“What does mine say about me?”
“That you’re chaotic. Meanwhile, my meal choices are intentional. If I had to guess, I’d say Alex runs the creature comfort foods gamut.”
I have no idea what he means by that, and I don’t want to ask, lest I sound more invested than I’ve got any right to be. But still, my mind wanders back to what Alex said in the elevator, him questioning if I’d been right about him all along. And in the next breath: I’m dying to be wrong about you. You’re not making it easy.
My whole body frowns every time I try to decode that exchange.
“You’re thinking about him, and you wish you weren’t,” Brijesh says.
“Good Lord,” I groan, mortified. “Am I seriously that easy to read?”
“Yes.” He smirks. “You’re very expressive.”
I find myself much less concerned about Brijesh reading my thoughts than Alex reading them, which is concerning in and of itself. “He just—is so—”
“Intense,” Brijesh offers.
I frown. “Intense?”
He leans back, rubs at his chin stubble. “Honestly, Alex kind of reminds me of you in that way. You’re like each other’s inverses.”
My glare is instantaneous. “What did I do to deserve that comparison.”
“He’s all fueled up with ideas coming out of his ass every thirty seconds, and meanwhile, you’re this steady, reliable kind of genius. If people need help with something specific, you’re the first person they’d ask, but if they need a soundboard for ideas, they’d go to Alex.” He drags another piece of bread through olive oil. “I’d bet my whole cookbook collection you two have an identical podcast lineup.”
Our waiter returns with a plate of roasted squash in hand. It’s been done up all fancy with pistachios, fennel, and prosciutto. “Compliments of the chef,” he says.
Brijesh drops his sliver of bread. “Fuck!”
I flinch. The waiter takes a step back from the table, eyes wide with confusion.
Remembering himself, Brijesh apologizes and thanks the waiter, who sets the food down and scurries away.
“Well,” he says. “I can officially cross ‘restaurant critic’ off my list of future career opportunities. My anonymity is shot.”
“Oh. Someone recognized you?”
“Must have.”
My eyes track to the hostess and a few waiters in a circle, staring at us and whispering conspiratorially. Brijesh is watching them, too. Specifically, he’s watching a waitress with pink hair and doe eyes.
I don’t think Miriam minds when Brijesh hooks up with other people, considering their friends-with-benefits arrangement is her idea. Then again, I have no clue what’s really going on between the two of them. Mostly, I just stay out of it. But right now, there’s a carefully concealed smile of intent behind Brijesh’s eyes I can’t avoid.