Page 48 of Below the Shadow of the City

“Good to know,” I smile at her. “Sigrid Larson, by the way. Or @siggyssweets, since that’s how Gingham found me.”

“Greta Laurens, or @gretasgreatbites,” she chuckles at the silliness of identifying herself by her handle. It’s completely ridiculous, but the second she makes the connection I recognize the username.

“You do the NYC food guides, right?”

“Yup, for the last seven years, I also manage RoqueLox over in Chelsea, if you’ve heard of it.”

Heard of it, for sure. I certainly couldn’t afford to go there. It was rated one of the best new restaurants in New York last year, and a celebrity hotspot.

“I can only afford to eat there with my employee discount,” she continues when she sees my blank stare. “Do you know anyone here?”

“Not a soul, I hadn’t exactly been active online before Billie reached out.”

“I don’t know anyone here either, feels like being in my middle school cafeteria all over again. And I hate influencer networking, the organizers of these things tend to forget that most of us are introverted, that’s why we live on our phones all day.”

The salad plates are cleared and soup with a piece of focaccia is the next course. I can immediately tell the dough wasn’t proofed long enough, and it pales in comparison to the bread at the Italian restaurant in Maddox’s neighborhood. Unfortunately, it’s still better than the stodgy one I’d made at my parents’ house.

“If you can’t manage bread in-house, at least get a reputable supplier,” I remark while tearing a piece off and dunking it into the vaguely orange soup set down before me.

“In-house, my ass, honestly. This is from Whole Foods, I guarantee it,” I bite my lip at her comment to stifle a laugh.

The soup is microwaved, we both agree, the bread is confirmed to be from Whole Foods after Greta does a quick Google search, and we think the wine is relabeled. While the rest of the table is cheerfully talking about upcoming collaborations or travel, Greta and I have managed to find a way to poke fun at everything here. It’s refreshing to turn off the professional filter and have a laugh about the ridiculousness of the blogging industry as a whole.

“I thought this was a recipe anthology, isn’t your content exclusively reviews and guides?” I ask her as I sop up the last bits of the ambiguous squash bisque.

“The book is a ‘celebration of New York food culture and content,’ at least that’s what Billie told me. Half of the people here are tasked with recipes, half of them are tasked with neighborhood specific guides. Your whole thing is seasonal baking with ingredients from the farmer’s market, right? So the Williamsburg Farmers Market will be one of the ‘featured spots’ in the guide.”

“What neighborhood are you doing?”

“Chelsea and Hell’s Kitchen, I signed on pretty early so I got to take my pick. Might as well use the opportunity to plug my place of work,” she shrugs like this is just another day for her. And maybe it is when your entire job is centered around catering to A-list clients, she must be used to being at events like these, only on the hosting end.

I shift in my seat, imposter syndrome setting in. I don’t ask how early she was asked to join the book, and I don’t think about how I was only contacted a month and a half ago. My timeline might be heightened solely because of being a late addition to the game. Someone more qualified could have dropped out and I was chosen in their place.

This only motivates me more to do a better job at getting my shit together. I need to prove I belong among these other influencers and be memorialized in print. I have to have something to show for all of the work I’d done.

Every time I look at the date I’m horribly reminded of how little time I have to do a massive amount of work. And the pressure alone should be enough to get my ass in gear, but I keep freezing or distracting myself.

This afternoon is the first time I feel actually connected to this project. It could have something to do with the cheap wine and commiserating with Greta, but I feel like things could actually go right with this. The optimism feels unfamiliar and uncomfortable. My chest is hot and itchy under my dress. I’m trying to lean into this discomfort, at least a little bit.

The event winds down and the crowd disperses. Greta and I exchange numbers and I’m grateful I have a sounding board for this project. I linger at the table and watch Billie and Inez converse. I should say something to her, what I’m not sure.

I shrink myself a bit and cower when I approach Inez. It’s absolutely ridiculous that I, as a full blown adult, feel the need to duck and weave and pitch my voice to be the teeniest bit higher. Such habits are ingrained in most women I know, even those of us with the most progressive feminist beliefs. The closer I step the more I can sense the familial resemblance, not that she shares any monstrous features with Maddox. Under those perfectly woven buns I know two small horns sit on top of her head.

“Hi? Inez?” My voice is weird and creaky and not at all a good impression for the sibling of someone who I might be dating. She whips around and holds a perfectly professional gaze and a tight, white smile. “Sigrid Larson,” I point to myself unassumingly.

She’s nothing short of intimidating, nearly as tall as Maddox. With her few strategic physical adaptations, she’s fully passable for human.

I knew she has these attributes, but it’s an entirely different thing to see them in person. She dwarves me, and even with my taller stature and heels I feel small. Must be a fae thing. “Hi,” she says, clipped and professional. She’s still chipper, though, and gives me her full attention.

“This is going to be so weird, and probably unprofessional,” I start, she folds her arms in front of her. “Could we, uh, talk somewhere more private?” I ask timidly.

She goes into lawyer mode, sweeping up her phone and bag from the table and leading me to the restaurant’s patio, completely empty except for tables and folded umbrellas. Car horns honk on the street below, and I shudder in the October chill.

“If this is regarding your contract, your lawyer will have to reach out directly to Gingham Books,” she says in a flat voice with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Oh no, nothing to do with my contract, it’s actually a personal matter.” I take her silence and fading grin as an invitation to continue. “I know your brother, we’re…talking.”

“You’re talking…to my brother,” she huffs, and her eyes flare amber. “I think you might have mistaken me for someone else.” She turns on a heel and begins walking back inside. Of course it’s utterly unbelievable, she has the privilege of straddling the two worlds. She’s one of the rare few. In all logical cases, no one above ground should know who her brother is.