Chapter Three
Everybody who is anybody is at Picotea tonight.
At least, that’s what Charlotte tells me.
I don’t recognize anyone myself, but every table has a stylish party with portable ring lights, so I guess it’s a big deal to be here.
The place is buzzing, and the tables are pushed so close together that I could appear in the elaborate video the patron next to me is taking of his tapas.
We’re seated at the dining end of the restaurant, near the carefree commotion of the bar and lounge.
I can’t help but wonder if we’re at the wrong place.
What did Charlotte call it? A casual business dinner?
It certainly doesn’t feel like a job interview.
To add to my suspicions, the editors from Modrix have been anything but professional since they sat down with us.
Charlotte had greeted them both with eager hugs, and the one with dark brown curls, Jerry Rodgers, even cupped her ass.
I suppose that’s what she meant when she said she had an in.
The man sitting across from me is Ernest Miller. He wears a V-neck so deep, a scraggly patch of chest hair is peeking out with intent, fluttering with the AC as if to wave hello at me. He also winks at me every time he slips an innuendo into conversation, and it makes my skin crawl.
“You guys are crushing it at Adagio,” says Ernest, and I’m delighted to finally talk shop. “Unlike Jerry, I don’t name-drop you guys just to sound smart. I’ve actually read your stuff.”
“Adagio is amazing. I’m just a copy editor right now, but I’ve been lucky to have them publish a few of my pieces.” I remind myself to speak with confidence and maintain eye contact. “I’ve already talked to my boss, and should everything come together, she’s agreed to let me work remotely.”
“Uh, okay. That’s great?”
Uh-oh. That was a tepid response. Would they prefer that I not be overly committed to my current job? “Of course, if there are bigger opportunities, I would be happy to consider them.”
“Sounds like you’re quite the fireball.” He winks at me again.
“Dani is such a hard worker!” Charlotte cuts in so suddenly, I startle and hit my knee against the table. She turns to me with a forced smile, her jaw setting tightly as she whispers, “When are you going to take that thing off your head?”
I hold on to the rim of the bucket hat in case she tries to remove it herself. “I told you, I can’t! I literally fried my hair with my curler.”
“You did not.”
“From one copy editor to another, you know how we feel about misusing that word. I’m telling you, Charlotte, I literally burned a chunk of my hair.
It’s scorched land back there. All because you guys made me self-conscious back at the office.
” Imagine my horror when the curling iron I hadn’t used in four years clamped onto my hair and would not unclamp.
Once I’d broken free and the smoke had dissipated, I could do little to salvage the singed mess on the back of my head.
“It’s so bad, you might even smell the sulfur if I take this off. ”
Charlotte scrunches her nose. “Fine. Leave it on.”
The guys call for another bottle of wine, and the next order of tapas arrives at our table.
I’m so nervous that I haven’t been able to stomach anything.
I sip my sangria in an effort to look natural.
“Um, I’m a big fan of Modrix. I think your take on digital journalism is really refreshing.
” That’s one way of putting it. I did check out their website, and in truth, it was all over the place.
Without a singular focus, their approach to everything from tech news to lifestyle to personal finance felt, frankly, chaotic.
But they seem to be doing well, and if they can afford to send me to another continent, I’ll suck up like never before.
“I love that you haven’t pigeonholed yourselves into one niche. ”
“Oh, yeah. We call it next-level ideation,” Ernest says. “It’s not just about clicks; it’s about content and conversation. At the end of the day, the algorithm loves genuineness.”
“That’s our motto at Modrix: Authenticity reaps attention,” Jerry inserts. “We’re trying to elevate journalism as we know it. Disrupting tradition, shifting the content paradigm. The way I see it, we’re creating a movement. A hustle with heart.”
“Wow.” I fear I’ll pull a muscle in my jaw if I smile any harder.
That’s a whole lot of talking just to say nothing at all.
I peek over at Charlotte, who’s preoccupied with taking a selfie.
She stops to inspect Jerry from behind her phone, grimaces, and then returns to her Instagram account.
Well, that makes their relationship clear: The editor is her flavor of the week, to be kicked to the curb once she’s exhausted his connections.
Picotea is so packed, anyone trying to make it to the bar has to squeeze past our table. The foot traffic picks up throughout the evening, which means that unfortunately, I have to lean closer to Ernest and his unruly chest hair in order to hear him.
“So, Dani, what do you like to do for fun?”
I can already tell that no one at this table cares to hear about the fantasy trilogy I’ve been discussing at length on a Discord server. I go with the usual safe reply: “I like to watch movies and read.”
“I’d love to catch a movie with you sometime.”
Did he just ask me out? If so, isn’t that extremely inappropriate?
I nudge Charlotte with my foot under the table, but she’s busy tuning her antennae to the group of men passing by.
The restaurant’s lighting is too dim to make out their faces, but I can tell they’re exactly her MO: young and expensive-looking in their Tom Ford suits.
She tugs on my sleeve. “The view is gorgeous tonight.”
I glance over dapper haircuts to the tallest of the pack. He’s looking down at his phone, not paying attention to the others. Something about him commands my attention, and my gaze traces his long legs and broad shoulders all the way up to his satiny dark hair.
And then, he looks up, and all the air is sucked out of me.
No way. There is no way. In a city of over eight million people, how could I be here at the same time as Parker Tran?
I duck, snapping my bucket hat lower with reflexes I didn’t know I possessed.
My knee connects with the table again, sending a fork flying over the edge.
I scramble to pick it up, my heart pounding fiercely in my throat.
Charlotte pokes me aggressively in my side, but I’m still trying to find my bearings.
My lungs are feeling dangerously deprived.
Once I’m certain the party of suits has made it to the other side of the restaurant, I excuse myself to the bathroom.
Hunching over the sink, I splash my face with cold water and teach myself to breathe again.
There’s. Just. No. Freaking. Way. Could I be hallucinating from the stress of the interview?
No. I know that face. I know how he walks, the magnetic way he carries himself across a room, his size and intensity. I’d spent years dedicating it all to memory.
Charlotte enters through the door. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” I lie. “It’s too crowded out there.”
“You’ve barely spoken, and you’re, like, totally distracted. Aren’t you having a good time?”
About that. I look at her, puzzled. “I may be imagining things, but I have a feeling Ernest thinks we’re on a date right now.”
She twists her lips. “You haven’t figured it out yet. Dani, that’s exactly what this is. There’s no interview, I made that up to get you to come out.”
“What do you—” It dawns on me then: the restaurant choice, the flirty remarks. “Oh my god! Are you serious? You told Ernest I'm here for a date?”
“I was doing a favor for Jerry. He knows everyone in New York, and I’m trying to get a referral to Casa Cipriani before the end of the year. He asked me if I knew someone to set Ernest up with, and I thought you and he might hit it off. But I also knew you’d never say yes if I asked honestly.”
“Yeah, because I hate being set up!” I throw my hands up for emphasis. A woman steps out of a stall, and Charlotte lowers her voice. “I know, so I had to—”
“Trick me into a double date?” I gasp. “Does the correspondent position even exist?”
“It does, I swear! I heard Jerry mention it last week.” She places her manicured hands on my shoulders. “Look, the interview might’ve been a lie, but if you make a good impression tonight, you can still schmooze your way to your dream job.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”
“The same way we’re going to get these guys to pay for dinner—flirt with them! For starters, you can undo a button and let your hair down.” She makes a grab at my hat. “Take that stupid thing off!”
I dodge her. “Leave it, Judas!”
Charlotte huffs and takes her disappointment out the door with her.
I don’t follow yet, reluctant to leave the safe haven that is the women’s bathroom.
This is quickly shaping up to be one of the worst nights of my life.
The half-wits of Modrix I can handle—I just have to keep track of where that single braincell bounces between the two—but Parker?
Nothing about this night feels real, as if it were all a vivid nightmare.
And yet I should’ve seen this coming. If everything was meant to go catastrophically wrong tonight, it only makes sense that the universe would throw him at me too.
Should I make a run for it? To where, I haven’t decided, but the call of the void is strong. If the interview isn’t even real, I should cut my losses and go home. And if I slip out of here fast enough, I might be able to avoid running into my unwelcomed blast from the past.
But then, I think about the untraversed volcanoes in Indonesia, all the adventures still waiting for me.
Straightening the protective gear on my head, I let out a groan from the depths of my soul.
One crisis at a time. The dudebros might believe they’re here for a date, but that doesn’t mean I have to be here with the same intentions.
I can even play this to my favor. Charlotte flirts with leads all the time if it’ll land her a good article.
So long as I steer us back to the Asia gig, I won’t have to entertain Ernest for too long.
I’ll charm the chinos off him, let him know what I came for, and he’ll have to consider me for the job.
Armed with only my resolve, I fling the door open with force, adrenaline propelling me straight out of the bathroom.
And I head-butt Parker Tran in the chest.