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Running down a Midtown Manhattan sidewalk during rush hour might as well be running an obstacle course. Leap the pile of garbage spilling out from glossy black bags. Dodge the woman weaving from side to side, eyes fixed on her phone. Zero in on the tiny opening between a row of businessmen spread out about as wide as they can go, blocking almost the whole pathway. Try not to sweat through your silk work blouse.

I jerked to a stop, panting, in front of the address. I didn’t even need to confirm the restaurant name etched on the great glass window because Alice Wong was standing in front of it. Frowning at me. “You’re late.”

“I’ve had a day.” I drew in a great deep breath. “I woke up to a text from my bank saying that my account had been overdrafted, and then there was a troll in my DMs and comments who wasn’t even creative with his dick metaphors—come on, sausages have been overdone—and then Mr. Decker was grouchy all day because it’s tax season, and with New York raising its tax brackets on the ultrarich, he keeps saying he might have to sell one of his yachts—”

“My God.” Alice pressed the back of her hand against the blunt black bangs cutting across her forehead. “The poor man.” She turned to go inside the restaurant, but I stopped her with a touch to the shoulder.

“One second. Let me make sure BiggerBoi69 hasn’t popped back up under another name.” I grabbed my phone and flicked open the app. My profile, JulieZeeEatsNYC, scrolled across the screen, little shots of restaurant meals I’d reviewed and video stills of me biting into things, which, no matter how I timed them, always looked awkward. My last few comment sections were clear. Well, mostly. A small-time troll was arguing with my commenters about the optimal doneness of steak, but I could deal with that later.

I sighed. Such were the trials and tribulations of someone who ran their own restaurant reviews on social media instead of doing it for real in a newspaper or other well-known blog. They had a support staff for this kind of thing so that their reviewers could focus on the food.

Though I knew better than to complain aloud. I knew exactly what Alice would say. Not because I was psychic or anything, but because she’d said it all before. You are a real reviewer, babe. You review restaurants, and you have a pretty big following, too. That makes you no less real than the others and their fancy papers.

Alice cleared her throat. I looked up to find her staring at me, her slash of red lipstick pressed tight in a way that meant I’m starving.

“Alice,” I told her. “You’re a genius.”

The frown smoothed out. “I know. But how so?”

My phone dinged with an email notification, and my heart skipped a beat as my head ducked back down. I couldn’t help holding my breath as I opened it up. I’d been doing that for days now, hoping for one specific email asking me in for an interview. Dreading the email that would start with We regret to inform you that . . . or Thank you very much for your application, but . . .

It was my bank offering me more overdraft protection. I sighed again. It was a little too late for that. “I’m ready. Let’s go in.”

The restaurant was dark, narrow, and cluttered, the tables set so close together I’d have no problem leaning over and taking a bite off my neighbor’s plate. The walls were hung with kitschy representations of boats and lobsters, the ceiling strung with garlands of twinkling white lights. The tacky decor was, fortunately, not a reflection of the food. I’d learned that on my two previous visits.

I didn’t answer Alice’s question until we were seated, glasses of tepid water before us. I preferred it tepid. Too cold and it was a shock to the system, numbing the taste buds. “You were giving me a pep talk in my head. That’s why you’re a genius.”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t mastered telepathy yet, so that pep talk was all you talking to you,” said Alice. “Let me guess: ‘I’ was telling you that you’re real and valid in what you do?”

I didn’t have to nod. She knew what it meant when my eyes ducked down and stared intently at the starched white tablecloth.

“I was indeed right,” Alice said. “I love saying that. It doesn’t matter if you don’t have a byline or a salary. You’re out there doing the work, and you have a devoted following for it.”

I’d heard this before, from her and from my parents and even from one of my three older brothers, which was a surprise coming from someone whose preferred mode of communication with his younger sister had always been belching the ABC’s in her face.

So what if I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it? I snuck another glance at my phone. If the thing I couldn’t even think about or risk jinxing came true, I wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore anyway. I’d have the respect I craved. Even someone like my boss, Mr. Decker, would listen to me then.

This wasn’t the time to argue with Alice, though. “How’s the coding going?”

Alice’s face brightened. “Fabulously. For real. My team just hired another girl! Now there are two of us.”

“Compared to how many dudes?”

“Seven.”

“Progress.” I lifted my water glass in a toast. “To very, very slowly getting to equality!” By the time we clinked, drank, and set our glasses back down, the waiter had arrived with our menus. I didn’t even have to page through mine. “I’m ready to order, please.”

As I listed off everything I wanted to feature in my post, I did my best not to cringe at the prices. If I reviewed restaurants for a real outlet, whether it was a prestigious paper like the New York Times or the New York Scroll or a blog like Eater, I’d have an expense account to cover these checks. But alas, all I had was a small advertising revenue. I mostly broke even, or sometimes just went broke. Hence the overdraft fee.

“So hey,” Alice said as the waiter walked away, scribbling on his pad. “How’s Greg?”

I tried not to grimace. I’d gone on three dates with Greg, a thirtysomething marketing guy and surprise taxidermy enthusiast. Despite the weirdness of being watched as I slept by eight pairs of beady black fake squirrel eyes, I’d still texted him the next day. And had not heard back in the two days since. “Pretty sure he’s ghosting me.”

Alice swiped the back of her hand dramatically over her brow as if wicking away a nervous sweat. “Oh, thank God. I was kind of afraid you’d end up with your head mounted on his wall.”

“Whatever.” I shrugged like I didn’t care. To be honest, I didn’t care that much. It was the rejection that stung more than anything. If I’d been the one to ignore him, I probably wouldn’t even be thinking about it. “There are plenty of fish in the sea.”