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?”
Dustin sighs. “This is why I can’t have nice things.”
Brijesh grabs a fork and knife, cutting a piece of chicken for me as he talks to the camera about how multifaceted the flavor of the dish is. I watch （him, not the camera lens）， enraptured, unable to do anything but smile at the sight of him in action. This feels ridiculous and panic-inducing to me, but Brijesh and Dustin make it seem like the most natural thing in the world. A couple seconds later, I forget all about the camera. Brijesh and I taste test while Dustin offers up the ingredients and tasting notes he was aiming to hit.
“It’s delicious,” I say after taking a bite.
“Gas me up, baby girl,” Dustin says.
“But it’s not Nashville-style. My lips aren’t peeling away from my face right now, which isn’t a good sign in the way of authenticity.”
“It’s healthed-up—” Brijesh protests.
“Yeah, I got that,” I interrupt. “And I do really like it. But in terms of using this recipe as a comp for Nashville hot chicken, I don’t think it works. It’s not fried, and the heat profile is totally different. Did you use cayenne?”
“Aleppo.”
I sigh. “I was lured here under false pretenses.”
“All right, who let her in here?” Dustin complains to no one in particular.
Brijesh mocks kicking me out, whipping a tea towel near my knees, and I back away, hands up in placation.
“That was great, guys,” says the video director as he steps away from the equipment. I wince at his implication—that we’re acting like this for show—and move toward the sink, firmly out of frame, under the pretense of washing my hands. “Let’s take five before the outro,” the director adds.
And that is my official cue to GTFO ASAP.
“Hey.” Brijesh rushes up to me, handing me a paper towel. “I know something that might make you feel better, or very much worse.”
I raise my eyebrows, shutting off the water. “Okay. I can handle it.”
“They gave the job you interviewed for to the board chairman’s son.”
In all fairness, Brijesh has never been one to mince words.
A beat of silence as it sinks in.
They gave …
The job I wanted …
To the board chairman’s son?
“You have got to be fucking joking.” My voice is deathly soft. Brijesh shakes his head. “Is that even legal?” I hiss.
“No clue. I don’t know who all knows. I got suspicious when I learned his last name.”
“Harrison?” I ask. Our board chairman is named Robert Harrison.
Brijesh nods. “New guy is Alex Harrison. He’s Korean American, biracial.”
“How do you know that? Did you already meet him?”
“Not yet, but I spent, like, two hours stalking his LinkedIn and Instagram to confirm his family connection,” Brijesh says. “I almost gave up, but then, under his tagged photos, there’s one with Robert on the Harvard alumni account from a few years back. His college graduation, I think. I’m sure they’re trying to keep the family relation on the down-low, but like, did they think no one was going to find out?”
Wait. A. Damn. Minute.
Korean American, who graduated from college a few years back?
Was Alex Harrison the guy in the elevator?
Blinking, I start to mutter, “I think I—”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Brijesh hisses. “He just came in.”
I turn on my heels, the squeak of my rubber soles mimicking the sound lodged in the back of my throat.
Sure enough, Deirdre—the cooking studio manager—is walking Elevator Man around. Giving him a goddamn tour like she’s a real estate agent on Selling Sunset and he’s looking to spend a few million. I watch numbly as his gorgeous face lights up from the inside out. He takes in his surroundings, holding out a hand to greet the video crew as Deirdre introduces him.
He says something that makes Dustin laugh. Then he grins, just like he did in the elevator this morning. And it’s devastating, just like it was this morning.
My blood is on fire. I am going to sink my nails into something and claw it to shreds, and it’ll probably end up being his throat. Are we seriously still giving jobs to people because of their family tree?
Alex Harrison’s eyes skate toward Brijesh and me. When he sees me, he does a double take, his expression warming with familiarity. He starts toward us both, but his gaze stays focused on me.
“Simba.”
“It’s Casey,” I barely manage. “Maitland.”
Amused, he sticks out a palm. “It’s a pleasure to officially meet you. I’m Alex Harrison, the new project manager for Bite the Hand.” His voice is velvet with tiny scratches, like the morning after a concert or a swallow of whiskey.
I press my palm against his, and my shaking disappears, engulfed by his strong grip. I try to imagine I’m capable of the kinetic transfer of pain. Mine to him. The way I feel right now, just so he’d know. Just to see if he’d care.
As we lock eyes, and he keeps smiling with private amusement, and I try not to start crying or screaming, I realize I don’t know what to be more furious about.
That the prince of nepotism got the job I wanted, or that Little Cooper dangled a transfer to London in front of me to keep me quiet about it.
* * *
Four weeks later, the video premieres on Food Baby’s YouTube channel. And the comments section sets the course for …