“Whatever you want. This angle is shitty, so we won’t use much of this footage.”
The only thing I want to talk to Alex about right now is the one thing we can’t: his dad.
The dad he left three voicemails for that apparently went unplayed. Maybe even deleted.
Somewhere in Seoul, months ago, Alex tried to explain to his father that he was moving to Manhattan, that he got a job at LC. Robert Harrison doesn’t strike me as the type to have gotten where he is in life by not following up on loose ends. Which means he was ignoring his own kid on purpose.
His bastard kid, according to Dougie Dawson.
I try to recall a single time my dad sent me to voicemail and can’t. Once, I called him drunk at three A.M., screaming into the speakerphone, “Listen, your song! Playing at Radegast, Dad, the guy on the saxophone, listen, he’s riffing on your song!” And he answered, and laughed, and told me to drink water before I went to bed.
He used to take me backstage with him in the days he played in concert bands, strumming guitar and singing backup vocals for the lead. Every few minutes his eyes would drift toward me, and he’d wink, reminding me he was there if I needed him. He taught me how to ride a bike in Percy Warner Park. Never let go of the handlebars until long after I was certain I wouldn’t fall. When I was twelve, I did my first mathletes competition, and Dad showed up to watch with three extra calculators in case mine broke.
He was always, always there.
I’ve heard stories about a parent dying, and the child and the surviving parent never repairing what they used to have. Becoming estranged, the space between them swelling with the grief they don’t know how to share. But that’s not what happened to me and Dad. He made sure of it—with a family therapist and the crying sessions that neither of us shied away from, the Wednesday nights at Mom’s favorite restaurants, the songs he wrote about her, about me. He turned something broken into something beautiful, and until I met Miriam when I was eleven, Dad was my best friend.
And Alex’s father won’t even listen to his voicemails.
How does his mom fit into all of this? I’d always assumed Robert’s wife must be Alex’s Korean mother. But—
“Hey.” He bends toward me, his lips level with my ear, and I catch a whiff of that same cologne. There’s something else, a nicer, cleaner scent beneath it he’s nearly masking. “Across the street, right there.” He points with one hand to a Greek street cart with numbered photos of menu items printed on one side. The gesture makes his shirtsleeve pull up, and I catch the barest glimpse of an inked tattoo on his forearm. “Best gyro in FiDi.”
“You’ve tasted them all?”
“Impossible. That one’s the best because the owner’s name is Alexander.”
When I look over, Alex is smirking, but his eyes are tight, the color of his brown pupils somehow muted, despite the daylight. I have the weirdest notion he’s trying to distract me because he knows I’m thinking about what happened in the lobby, and he doesn’t want me worrying about it.
“Your vanity is humbling,” I deadpan.
“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you mind if I copy your email signature? I like your font and company logo.”
I stare, wondering if he’s serious. “Uh. It’s not copyrighted.”
“Cool,” he says, winking, and I trip a little, on nothing. “We’ll match.”
Eataly, an Italian market with dry goods and food stalls, is on the third floor of 4 World Trade. It’s a popular lunch spot, so I guess if we’re going to be filming a “One Day at Work” segment not at the office （which is odd, now that I’m thinking about it）， this is as good a location as any. The building appears as we round the corner of Church and Liberty, and five minutes later we’re inside.
The video team has more space now, swinging around at all angles, making me feel like a fish in an aquarium. Briefly, I plot a daring escape to the bathroom to check my makeup before deciding that I will not be That Girl.
“I had pasta last night,” I tell Alex as we board the escalator for the restaurant section of the market. We’re kind of facing each other, kind of facing the camera. Stage angle, Saanvi called it.
Alex glares, and the effect it has on me is … really something. “Saanvi told us we were coming here at four thirty yesterday. I had a salad for dinner, like, very specifically.”
“Can we get pizza instead?” I ask hopefully.
“Sure.” He rolls his eyes. “What do you like on it?”
“Anything. What do you like?”
“Anything.”
I bite my lip, dancing from one foot to the other as we step off the escalator. “Actually, I have several allergies.”
He tilts his head. “Actually, I hate mushrooms.”
I freeze. “Why did we lie.”
“Nerves.” Alex smiles. He doesn’t look nervous, but I think he can tell I am and is trying to make me more comfortable. Still trying. “Come on. Let’s just build our own.”
We order for ourselves, Fari and Don （both of whom were so focused on month-end books they would have forgotten to eat if I hadn’t offered to pick up lunch）， and the video crew. But when we select our tables, the crew under good lighting and us in the corner to protect the sound quality as best we can, everyone else keeps their food in the bag. Our pizza is staged on our table alongside two Topo Chico bottles. Saanvi tells us to “sip and place them, but don’t turn the label away from the camera.”
“This cannot possibly be sponsored,” I say.
“No, but here’s hoping.”
One of the hipster twins, Andre, gets a bunch of artsy, close-up shots of the food, drinks, and table while Alex and I stand behind our chairs awkwardly. He shakes his head, clearly just as amused as I am unsettled by this entire procedure. Sara’s got ear mufflers on, the other hipster, Eric, is working the wide lens, and Saanvi is watching everything like a hawk.
I am this close to slamming Andre’s camera to the ground. My stomach is growling, our pizza looks scrumptious, and this is pure torture.
Finally—finally—we’re allowed to sit down and start eating.
“Talk about work,” Saanvi instructs after a few minutes of uninterrupted lunchtime. “But can you make it, like, not boring?”
Alex and I both burst out laughing, and our eyes catch at the same moment. Maybe because it’s the first mutual feeling we’ve ever shared.
My memory flashes to the latest episode of the “One Day at Work” segment I caught on YouTube; it was a female head chef of an upscale Mexican restaurant, and she was making some sort of mole while they filmed her talking about irregular work hours, gender issues in restaurant kitchens, her favorite professional-grade cooking tool, and what she eats off the job. The reminder doesn’t give me any ideas about what I could say now that’s even remotely interesting.
“Saanvi,” Alex says, voicing my concern. “We need more direction than that.”
“What’s it like to work around here?” she prompts. “The environment, the people, the expectations? Make sure you answer in a complete sentence because my voice will get cut. And say it to Casey, like you’re having a conversation.”