Page 11 of Best Served Hot

I pulled up my account. It was early, but this wasn’t a review where I was worried about staying on theme and maximizing engagement. Besides, I didn’t want this video to interfere with any of my scheduled posts on the food festival, which were coming later today and tomorrow. I let my thumb hover over the touch screen for just a moment before bringing it solidly down.

Post.

And then, before I could chicken out, I tagged the Scroll’s food page, because I wasn’t hiding.

I exhaled slowly as I set my phone down on my desk. Then picked it back up again to put it on do-not-disturb mode. Back down. Somehow I was still exhaling, all the air leaking out of me like a deflating balloon. Something with tentacles was swimming in my stomach, which was murky with acid. I was afraid it might swim up my throat.

Deep breath in. Had I just done an incredibly stupid thing? It had only been a couple of minutes, but I picked my phone back up again, flicked my social media open.

To, already, a storm of comments. I thought I might pass out as I opened them up. Squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to gird up my nerves, and popped them open before I could lose my resolve.

WOW what a dick that guy is

Hey @newyorkscrollfood are you really ok with your reviewer talking about us that way??

Ahhhh Julie you’re a queen!!! Tell him!!!

My shoulders relaxed as I continued reading, lowering from their tense perch around my ears. Most of the comments followed in that vein—true, the people seeing it this early on were likely my fans who spent a lot of time on social media and were on right as I posted, but I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t overreacting. People were on my side.

That knowledge made it easier to put my phone back facedown and leave it there while I dealt with what qualified as a crisis in the Decker office (one of the TVs on his Florida yacht was down—gasp). You’d be amazed how an entire morning can fly by while you’re focused on something that, in the grand scheme of things, matters not at all. There were three other TVs on the yacht. Mr. Decker wouldn’t even be down there to watch any of them until late fall. By the time I picked up my phone again, it was almost noon. I ran downstairs for a salad—shoes on—and then back up—shoes off—settling into my chair to see what had gone on over the last few hours.

My jaw dropped. A few pieces of farro dropped with it, falling onto my lap. I blinked at my screen once, twice, three times, not thinking until then that I should probably clean the farro off so that the oil of the dressing wouldn’t stain my pencil skirt.

Six thousand followers: that was how many I’d gained since I checked last. My heart pattered against my rib cage as I scanned the comments. They were still mostly supportive of me, but—whoa! I’d been reblogged by Eater and Grub Street and Jada Knox. Jada Knox! She’d even done a little reaction to the video, all, this is why the old guard is dying, bring on the new guard.

We were the new guard. I thought so, anyway.

My breathing grew shallow as a new notification popped up on my screen. From the Scroll’s account. Before I even read it, I wondered if it was from the social media intern who’d accompanied Bennett to the food festival. Hey, everybody! Our food critic Bennett was glad to meet up with Julie Zee at the food festival and discuss their careers. Please know he greatly respects her and all of you. He looks forward to continuing these conversations with Julie Zee about how the old guard and the new guard can coexist and respect each other in the restaurant-reviewing space!

We’d be “continuing these conversations”? That was news to me.

Just as I was thinking that, my screen pinged. I instinctually reached for my phone, but of course it wasn’t my phone; I always had sound notifications turned off at work. It was my work computer. I spun in my chair, exhilarated, ready to run down to Florida and beat that nonworking TV into submission . . . only the email wasn’t from the Palm Beach house manager. Or a member of the charity board. Or Mr. Decker himself. Or . . . well, anyone else in Mr. Decker’s prodigious address book.

It was from Bennett Wright.

I inhaled so loud I started to cough. And amid that coughing, before I could even check the email, the office door flew open and in breezed Emerson Leigh, a big paper shopping bag crinkling over her shoulder. “Julie!” she trilled in greeting. I had no idea how she managed to trill a word with no Rs in it; maybe that was something you learned at prep school. “I saw your post! It’s going viral!”

She set the bag down on the reception table, skewing the pile of glossy magazines from the past several years, all of which featured Mr. Decker somewhere in their pages (he was most proud of his write-up in Golf Fancy). The bag slumped, and some garment wrought of plush emerald silk peeked out the top. “That was quite a bold thing to post, wasn’t it?” she asked, smiling. She sure smiled with a lot of teeth. “Calling Bennett out like that? Making it seem like he’s some kind of jerk?”

“I don’t know,” I said mildly to Emerson Leigh, because she was my boss’s daughter, and I couldn’t say that her friend was actually a massive jerk. “I mean, I didn’t edit the meaning out of it. Everything on that video was something we actually said.”

She put her hand on her hip and cocked it. Though the physical gesture wasn’t similar, it reminded me of cocking a gun. “You guys really seemed to be hitting it off.”

That was so different than what I’d expected her to say that I blinked in surprise, stunned into silence. She only blinked back at me, her high blond ponytail shivering, her mouth set seriously.

When I finally managed to speak, it came out almost as a cough. “Are you sure you watched the right video?”

That was the wrong thing to say, evidently, because the corners of her mouth turned down. “I watched the video you posted. There was a crackle between the two of you. Of chemistry.”

“The only crackle between me and Bennett was anger,” I said, barely holding the laugh back. “Besides, his face was blurred out. How could you even tell?”

“Right. That’s true. Maybe I was just seeing things.” And then she turned her brilliant smile on me. “The food looked soooo good, by the way. And your follower count is climbing really fast!”

“Thanks, Emerson Leigh,” I said, and yawned, maybe tired from the whiplash. My eyes strayed back to the screen, where Bennett Wright’s email lurked beneath my screen saver of obscure words. Nikhedonia was currently bouncing around the screen with its definition: the feeling of excitement or elation that comes from anticipating success. I took it as a good sign. “Your dad’s not here—he’s still in Connecticut. Do you want me to get him on the phone for you?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No, I just came in to . . . say hi to you.” I expected her to wave goodbye, but she plopped down on the couch instead, crossing her leather-bootied ankles. “What’s new?”

By the time she’d finished prattling on about all the deals she’d found on today’s shopping trip, my stomach was growling again. It really had not been happy with me lately. “Well, I’m going to finish my salad,” I said. “It was good to see you, Emerson Leigh.” And I picked up my bowl, taking another big bite.