After thinking for a minute, he leans toward me, both his elbows propped on the table’s surface. Eyes on mine, as if it’s just the two of us here. “Working in Manhattan is halfway a dream and halfway a living nightmare,” he says lowly.
I nod, swallowing. “Couldn’t agree more.”
“There are so many weird smells.” He wrinkles his nose. “I dry-clean my suits so often now that I’m only one punch away from fifty percent off the next time I walk past a garbage truck at high noon.”
I laugh, take a sip of my Topo Chico （stalling）， and then fiddle with the bottle, making sure the label is facing the camera. My eyes dip up to Alex, then back down again. I can already feel myself starting to choke.
“What’s something that surprised you about working downtown?” he asks, pitching me a softball. Still trying to make me feel comfortable.
“Um.” My brain produces word vomit: “The mansplaining I get subjected to is more random than you’d think?” Alex arches an eyebrow in silent question, cuing me to go on. “Like, this one time, completely unprompted, a guy at Pret saw me reading a New York Times op-ed, and he started lecturing me about the history of newspapers. I’ve also gotten sailboat anatomy from somebody at Blue Bottle whose coffee order is a decaf drip with two shots of espresso. And another time, on my way to the office, somebody just, like, walked right up to me, and started giving me unsolicited directions to Rockefeller Park.”
“Well, you do have a picnic-girl vibe. Very pack-and-play,” Alex says.
My eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“It’s a compliment.”
“In what world?”
“In mine. People who upheave themselves at a moment’s notice in the name of fun are the best kind of people.”
“Guys!” Saanvi says, snapping. “No tangents, please!”
“Sorry.” I put the question back on Alex: “What about you? What’s something that has surprised you about downtown?”
He runs a hand over his jaw, thinking. “I guess it shouldn’t have, but the level of security did. If you’re forgetful like me, getting around the building with no badge can be a pain.”
I nod and add, “Stock market volatility is like FiDi’s version of Mercury in retrograde.”
Alex grins. “A rat followed me into the revolving door of our building yesterday.”
“Young professionals around here thrive on gossip, but they’ll disguise it with the word ‘networking.’”
“People from the city love to remind you they’re from the city,” he adds.
“Also, this whole video concept of an hour-long sit-down lunch with a coworker? It’s kind of bullshit.” I turn toward the camera, half expecting Saanvi to be pissed at me for the honesty, but her lips are pulled up like I’m playing right into her hands, so I keep going. “Low-level grunts like me and Alex don’t have time for fancy Italian lunches. I typically eat takeout or vending machine food at my desk.”
“I don’t even bother most days.” Alex absentmindedly twirls his bottle between his thumb and pointer finger, completely reversing the label. Saanvi scowls, and I can’t help but smirk. “But I don’t mind,” Alex goes on, oblivious. “I love my job, and the scope of what we’re doing at Bite the Hand feels endless. I think that’s what’s cool about the magazine industry, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you’re willing to evolve, cut your losses when it comes to print, keep things fresh, it’s a launchpad for whatever you want it to be.”
“Is that why you came here?” I ask. “The launchpad?”
“That’s part of it.” Alex nods. “But also, I just … burned out eventually, I guess. I needed to come home.” He drops his eyes to the table and picks up his slice of pizza. “Sorry, Saanvi, that was probably too personal.”
“We can cut it if you want,” she says. “But to be honest, our subscribers tend to find the personal lives of on-camera talent just as entertaining.”
Alex nods while I do a mental checklist of every personal detail I’ve absorbed about all my favorite entertainers. I hope Amy from @unironicliterarybitch got an A on her senior thesis. And that @gypseaswholesomelife figures out if she’s gluten intolerant.
Speaking of personal lives—
“What did you study?” I ask Alex. “That’s a good question, right, Saanvi? What majors got us here?”
“Sure,” she says.
“I double majored in entrepreneurship and digital media,” Alex says.
Which means: All along, even back in college, he wanted this. The whole time, he was figuring out how to be good at it.
Something cracks open inside me, and air rushes in. I am starting to know him, and it feels like … relief. Like an inevitability I wasn’t ever going to be able to stop from happening.
“Let me guess.” Alex laces his fingers together, pinning me with a knowing look. “Finance?”
“What gave me away.”
“The necklace you’re wearing is engraved with ‘It’s Accrual World.’”
My hand flutters to my neck, and I fiddle with the gag gift Miriam gave me for my last birthday. Alex’s gaze drops to my neck, too. He frowns and looks away, twirling his Topo Chico bottle.
“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask, nodding at his pizza. He’s eaten only three-quarters of one slice compared to my two and a half.
He shrugs. “Adderall screws with my appetite.” Glancing at the crew, he adds, “Can I say that on camera, Saanvi?”
“That’s PG compared to what’s ingested on Wall Street,” she mutters, more focused on Eric’s video frame than the Real Us. “Especially if it’s prescribed.”
“It’s prescribed.”
“Guys, don’t say anything useful right now, something’s wrong with Eric’s camera.”
“ADHD?” I ask Alex, ignoring Saanvi.
“Yes.” He shakes his head, smirking. “Don’t say it.”
“Don’t say what?”
“That finding that out makes perfect sense for me.”
I bite my bottom lip. “You were right.”
“Yeah?” He grins, crossing his arms over his chest. “Regarding?”
“I didn’t know anything about you.”
Alex’s smile drops. After a beat, he says, “You’re starting to.” His eyes catch and hold on to mine, and it feels like he’s withholding my oxygen. “Here. I’ll give you one more thing. I’m an Enneagram seven.”
“Okay.” I tilt my head, appreciative but confused. “Sorry, I don’t know my number.”
“Should we do Enneagram tests during our next seminar?” His eyes brighten. “And then, as a follow-up, we could get a comedy contributor to write a spread on how to work with each Enneagram type—but make it snappier and funnier than what’s on the internet now.”
“You really do shit ideas.”
“Casey, say that again for the camera, but less gross,” Saanvi says.
“You are an idea factory,” I restate, never dropping my eyes from his. “But I don’t want to know my Enneagram, because I refuse to believe my personality can be boiled down to a number. Besides, who says my work personality is the same as my regular one, anyway?”