Dad steals the phone back from his husband and flips the camera around. He pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose and says, as if plants are utterly boring, “Anyway. Listen to this drama about the family across the street. It involves a Serbian cellist and half a dozen illegitimate children, all of whom are named after a pastry. Jer and I got invited to this Yom Kippur break fast.…”
I listen obediently to the scandalous tale of my parents’ weird new neighbors and the murder-mystery-esque plot that unfolded at Yom Kippur break fast. I give soft, convincing mm-hmms during the juicy bits, only halfway paying attention, but by the time Dad gets to the part about a hidden message in the cellist’s music indicating a seventh illegitimate Serbian child named Croissant, I’m laughing my ass off, buried in my mountain of jewel-tone pillows.
“I’m calling bluff,” I say at last, bleary tears staining my cheeks.
“Fine,” Dad mutters. “Only about half of that is true. You’re too sharp these days, kiddo. But they really did name their offspring after pastries.”
He talks and talks and talks some more until he’s told me every menial detail about whatever floats into his head. Jerry pipes up every now and then, and they have a whole conversation about which Aldi cracker brand they like best for charcuterie boards before they steer themselves back to me.
“How are you doing, Case?” Jerry asks. Before I can answer, he adds, “I heard a story about you from someone you know from college, Andrew something. He works at an event-planning company?”
“Andrew Martinez,” I supply.
“Yes! He ordered an apology bouquet for his girlfriend, but that’s none of my business. I mean, it’s technically my business, since I’m his florist, but anyway, he saw you on YouTube. Is that part of your finance job?”
I giggle. “No, it’s not related to finance.” I try to explain, but I think I lose Dad and Jerry somewhere between vertical and profit optimization. We occasionally fumble in our communications at the junction of where art meets STEM.
“Now I’m craving hot chicken,” Jerry says. “Can you show us how to watch the YouTube video?”
“I’ll text you guys the link.”
“Thanks, hon,” Dad says. “Have you thought about coming home for Thanksgiving?”
Ugh. I knew that was coming.
I haven’t seen my parents in nearly a year. We vacationed in Key West last Thanksgiving, but I didn’t go home for Christmas because the year before, I’d visited Nashville and experienced some sort of … geographical depression. It’s what I assume people who hate the cold feel like during winter.
If I had to psychoanalyze it, I think it comes back to my college ex. Our knock-down-drag-out-graduation-day breakup. We had just exited the auditorium in our black caps and gowns, our stoles and cords draped over our necks, when I got the call. From an HR rep at Little Cooper, telling me they were offering me a job as an entry-level financial analyst.
I was shocked. I’d already written off the interview as hopeless, thought my chances of landing the job were especially slim considering the lineup of Ivies the other people in LC’s Finance department had graduated from. Miriam was the one who pushed me to apply; she was moving here to work as a nurse, and with Sasha heading to Manhattan, too, I’d thrown a few applications at the wall just to see what might stick.
Little Cooper stuck. And with that brand-new option before me, I realized something.
Moving back to Nashville with Lance would be a given, but moving to New York with Miriam would be a choice.
And I wanted it so badly. The city, the job, the lifestyle, the romanticism of coming into your adulthood in a delirious fumble of Oh my God what the hell am I doing, who cares, this is just as exhilarating as it is petrifying. I wanted it, knowing it would probably destroy my four-year relationship. Which was, admittedly, the hardest decision I’ve ever made.
We had it out that night. I was more naive than he always thought, and wasn’t I supposed to be smarter than this? Didn’t I know everybody in New York bled money faster than they earned it? How did I think I’d ever find someone better than him? Wasn’t it selfish to want something different when I could find a job in Nashville that would set us up for the future?
Lance was right about that part. It was selfish. But looking back, I’m proud of myself for going after what I wanted.
Because New York makes me feel like I’m on the precipice of something. It’s the bridge between Casey before and Casey forever, and now, I just have to figure out what’s around the corner, on the other side of this precipice. London, maybe. Or a job that makes people’s eyes go starry when they hear about it. Or—call me a romantic, as I suppose that I am one—the love of my life, or whatever.
“Casey? You there?”
I sigh dreamily. “Let me double-check with my boss, and then I’ll look at flights.”
Jerry whoops, and Dad exhales a huge sigh of relief. It punches me in the gut, the guilt of staying away.
“Honey, it will be amazing. We’ll plan your whole trip down to the letter.”
Pleeeease don’t, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut as Dad rattles off a list of all the things he wants us to do over Thanksgiving. I love my parents. I really, really do. But sometimes, they are more exhausting and harder to manage than the COO’s ex-wife. (And just for some perspective, she once disguised herself as a janitor to get up to ninety-eight so she could berate the COO about his spicy LinkedIn chats. Apparently, he’s smitten with the CEO of CycleBar … but that’s none of my business.)
* * *
“Can you explain to me why,” Brijesh asks as he swirls the wine in his glass, “when it comes to men, I’m only ever interested in toxic himbos?”
We’re at a cozy Italian restaurant in Prospect Heights with a plate of garlic ciabatta and an olive oil flight between us. These dinners are scheduled whenever Brijesh needs new material for his Food Baby column, Guess That Restaurant.
Sometimes, Miriam comes, too. An outing like this is actually how she and Brijesh first met, exchanging lingering stares and laughing at each other’s jokes that weren’t that funny, in my opinion. But she can only make it half the time because of work.
I drain my own glass of cabernet. “I literally don’t know what a himbo is.”
“Don’t you have Twitter?”
“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 Baby wants 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.”