"So what is your type, anyway?" she asks, leaning in slightly. "Since you are being so insistent that Alex is not it."
"Finance guys," I say. "You know, the buttoned-up spreadsheet types. Structured. Predictable. Good with numbers."
Margot makes a face like I just told her I enjoy eating broken glass. "Noooo. Finance guys? And here I was thinking we were kindred spirits, soulmates even."
I laugh. "Hey! They can be charming. In their own way. In a very specific, slightly boring way that I find comforting."
Which is true, mostly. My last boyfriend was an analyst at a hedge fund in Manhattan. He was perfectly nice, perfectly appropriate, and perfectly forgettable. We dated for a few months until he told me he loved me and I dumped him.
But none of that matters. Alex and I are going to be working together for a while, so I might as well smooth things over between us. He makes his way through the crowded bar and leans against the counter next to me, nodding at Margot with familiarity.
"Nice to see you again," he says.
"You too, Alex." She raises her glass in a small salute. "How are you settling in?"
"Can't complain. The cottage is incredible, the views are unbeatable, and the company..." He glances at me with a grin. "Ismostlytolerable."
I roll my eyes. "High praise."
Margot is watching this entire exchange like she has front row seats to the best show in town, her wine glass raised partway to her lips, not bothering to hide her smile.
He turns to me more fully, and there is something almost boyish in the way he grins, like he is perpetually on the verge of getting into trouble and enjoying every second of it. "So. Two days out from opening night. How are you feeling?"
"Exhausted," I admit, because there is no point in pretending otherwise. "But good. I think we are in decent shape."
"Better than decent," he says, leaning back against the bar. "The menu is solid, your team knows what they are doing, and you have got everything dialed in. You are going to crush it."
The bartender appears with Alex's drink, setting it down in front of him. He picks up the glass and nods his thanks, then turns back to me. "Nerves getting any better at all?"
"No, I'm still a disaster," I admit. "I just told Margot about my increasingly horrifying food dreams. I'm worried the next one will be even more disturbing. Like the salmon will start a revolution or something. Maybe eventually that will stop happening before big events like this."
"I doubt it," he says. "I still get that way before big services, the ones where I really want everything to be perfect. I think it's healthy, actually. Means you still care."
"Is that your philosophy?" I ask. "Stay nervous, stay sharp?"
"Something like that." He takes a sip of his drink. "Though I prefer to think of it as caring enough to want it to be perfect, even though you know perfect doesn't exist."
I find myself nodding. "The pursuit of something you know you will never quite reach, but you chase it anyway."
We settle into conversation after that, swapping work disaster stories that get progressively more ridiculous. We trade them back and forth, each trying to outdo the last, and Alex is unfortunately quite funny, and I find myself laughing so hard at one point that I have to wipe tears from the corners of my eyes and catch my breath.
We eventually move off work stories and onto movies, both Alex and I turning out to be complete cinephiles who can argue about film for hours, whereas Margot sits back and watches us with amusement.
"No, the original is objectively better," Alex argues, grinning at me. "There is nowayyou can possibly think the remake holds up."
"I can and I do," I say, leaning forward. "And you're justholding onto nostalgia. You have to be able to admit that the newer version has stronger performances and better pacing."
"I have no idea what you two are even talking about," Margot says with a laugh. "My parents thought anything rated above PG was morally corrupting, so my film education stops somewhere around animated musicals and historical dramas with no kissing."
Alex and I both burst out laughing at that.
"Oh, Margot," I say, grinning at her. "You're too pure for this world."
"I know," she says with a sigh. "It's a burden."
Alex laughs. "Well, in the interests of all parties being able to converse, I have a subject change. You know your pear dessert problem? The delivery issue with the Warren pears?"
I groan and press my fingers to my temples. "Do not remind me. I have been trying to figure out what to do about that and nothing feels right. The whole dish was built around the texture of a perfectly poached Warren pear. No other variety is working how I want it to."