“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 Babywants 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 yourlunch meeting.” He may as well have saidsexual 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,mymeal 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’sbeen 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.”
