Page 19

Even though he wasn’t specifically taking a photo of me, the flash hit my eyes anyway. For a moment, I saw stars.

8

People might lie, but numbers don’t. Specifically, my engagement numbers and follower count. After Bennett and I posted our reviews of Calabaza, they both jumped for the sky. People loved our differing takes on the same meal, and my new followers loved my association with the Scroll. I wasn’t just some random girl out trying new restaurants anymore; the Scroll had varnished me with a veneer of legitimacy.

I’ve been skeptical of food influencers before, but she’s the real deal. Thanks, random Internet guy, for making me feel validated.

I liked Julie’s better!! Bennett didn’t pick up on all the nooances of flavor that Julie did. So what if she couldn’t spell nuances? The sentiment was clear enough. I’d continue doing my usual restaurant reviews, too—maybe once per week instead of twice, with some extra stuff mixed in to make up for it—but my focus would be on this collaboration for a bit.

I sent Mr. Decker off to lunch with a reassuring pep talk about how his new hat didn’t draw too much attention to his ears (it didn’t; what drew attention to his ears was all the hair sprouting out of them), and then my phone buzzed. I picked it up and yelped. Jadaknoxeats has followed you. And, just a moment after that, while I was still staring gape-mouthed at my screen, jadaknoxeats has sent you a message.

I felt like I might vomit from happiness, the way I did as a kid when my parents would take me and my brothers to the fair and we’d compete to see who could eat the most fried Oreos and cotton candy. (The twist was that it was always my parents who lost because of all the vomit in the car.) And even more so when I swiped it open. Hey, Julie! Congrats on all the buzz! Let’s collab sometime—maybe we can do a joint neighborhood crawl?

I had to fight myself not to write back YES YES YES immediately and risk looking too eager. Instead I set my phone on the desk, face widening in a smile so big it threatened to split my cheeks. Ironically, I realized a couple hours later that I’d actually forgotten to reply. I apologized for the delay as I told her how much I’d love to team up with her. But Jada didn’t seem to mind. She wrote back immediately. Yay! Let’s talk dates?

The afternoon passed in a blur of validation and busywork. Between scheduling meetings for Mr. Decker and coordinating a new office-cleaning service, I snuck peeks at my phone. Every so often I’d click over to Bennett’s social media teaser that linked to the paper’s official review, which dampened my enthusiasm slightly, because his number of likes was three times mine.

I emailed him before I could help myself. Your bosses must be happy about how well your review is doing on social media.

His answer came immediately. About as happy as I was when I got the level seventy Blood Sword of Death and Blood!!!

I blinked. Before I could formulate a coherent response to the Blood Sword of Death and Blood, another message popped up. I apologize. For some godforsaken reason, I allowed Penny to come visit me at work. Rest assured, it will never happen again.

His pink-haired twin sister. Of course. After the way I’d turned her orange dress into a red wine bloodstain, I had no doubt she wouldn’t mind using the Blood Sword of Death and Blood on me.

And yet something about a level seventy Blood Sword sounded familiar . . . I dug deep into my memory, searching for that combination of syllables. And landed upon Marcus, shouting so loud one night from his room he’d woken me up. You wizardy motherfucker! You think you’re so hot because you’re level seventy? Don’t you dare snatch that Blood Sword out from under my nose, you motherfucking asshole!

I’d found out the next morning that Marcus had missed out on his Blood Sword; it was apparently a very exclusive, very rare, and very-difficult-to-obtain reward from a raid boss in his favorite video game. My curiosity piqued, I emailed Bennett back. You play Dark Avengers?

He replied, I will neither confirm nor deny that.

Then, Why? Do you?

And then, Never mind. I don’t care. By the way, I noticed your numbers have been looking good, too. At least, as far as I can tell, as someone who rarely uses social media. I rolled my eyes, but kept reading. It seems like it’s working out well for the both of us. Where should we review next?

I set a timer on my phone for twenty-two minutes and twenty-two seconds—as not to look too eager, but also not to forget like I just had with Jada—then responded, I guess. Did you have somewhere in mind?

He didn’t set a timer. He wrote back immediately. Are you familiar with Wander in the West Village? It just opened up a month or two ago.

Wander! My heart leaped. Yes! I’ve been dying to go there for ages. Good choice, when should we—backspace, backspace, backspace. I would not show him a hint of happiness. He didn’t deserve it. Yes, I’m familiar with it. That sounds fine. Send.

The rest of the day, I couldn’t get the picture of Bennett hunched over his computer, bright reflections of virtual battle reflected in his glasses, out of my head.

• • •

When I met Bennett at Wander the next week, it was with a smug sense of satisfaction and also an epic set of cramps. (Thanks, copper IUD!) We didn’t technically meet at Wander but on the sidewalk outside; I’d gotten there early and decided to stroll down the narrow sidewalks, stepping occasionally onto the cobblestoned sections of street to admire the quirky little shops that had been driven out of so many other neighborhoods by Starbucks and CVS and bank chains. A cigar shop. A hatter. A shop that seemed only to sell dusty teapots and was almost certainly a front for the mob.

I was lingering in front of the teapot shop, wondering if I went inside what percentage chance there would be that I would stumble upon a murder and be shunted into witness protection and if that percentage was worth it for that porcelain beauty shaped like my childhood beagle, when a figure appeared next to me. “Are you a collector?” Bennett asked. From this close, he smelled like soap and something a little spicy, like he’d just come from a noodle shop.

“No, I just like that one.” I pointed at the beagle. His snout was the spout, his long, floppy ears pinched together to create the handle. It was the cutest thing, except maybe for my actual childhood beagle, Snoopy. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like they have any Blood Sword of Death and Blood–based teapots in stock.”

“Ugh.” He actually said the word, not exhaled it in disgust. “That’s the last time I let Penny come to see me at the paper.” He waited a moment, then added in the most begrudging tone, “And just so you know, it’s not actually called the Blood Sword of Death and Blood, as Penny called it. That would be absurdly redundant. Its actual title is the Blood Sword of Destiny and Fortitude.”

“Ah yes, much less absurd,” I said. “Shall we?’’

Inside the restaurant, the space was small but bright and open, with modern tables of light wood and abstract woven tapestries in bright colors hanging from the walls. I was pleased to see the place bustling, all the tables except for one packed full. A window open in the back showed a shiny silver slice of the kitchen, people bustling around inside, pots clinking.

A cheerful hostess led us to our table. I slid into the booth side, letting Bennett take the chair, and wiggled around a bit to see how comfortable it was. Very. “Thanks,” I said to the hostess.