by Emily Belden
Emily Belden
His “dating headline” says, Could U B the 1? Out of habit, I
start to copy and paste some of William’s data into my com-
patibility algorithm, but I notice someone walking toward the
locker room area and tilt my screen down. The last thing I
need is Gemma to see in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling
mirrors is that I’m surfing the dating web.
I hear a familiar voice behind me. “Hello, Charlotte.”
I look up and right into the face of Brian Jackson. The
Zack Morris of every friend group he’ll ever be in. His cool-
ness is the reason that I instantly casted him for the plastic
surgery segment all those years ago. It’s also how he got that
bomb internship in the first place, how he was featured in
Luxe LA’s “40 Under 40” issue (I know this because Monica wasn’t the only person I recognized in those pages), and it’s
also now the reason he’s able to waltz into my work completely unannounced after not really seeing each other or speaking
to one another for the last four and a half years. All the while, he makes it seem like he’s just casually stopping by a birthday party that I invited him to.
But alas, this isn’t a party and I sure as hell didn’t invite
him here. In fact, as he stands in front of me holding a cup of coffee and examining an ink stain on his mint-green scrubs
waiting for me to acknowledge him, it’s quite clear he’s not
here for the hot-spin class dubbed “Gaga Glow.”
“It’s been a while,” he says nonchalantly. “Since—”
“Since that time I saw you at Whole Foods,” I respond,
keeping my voice factual.
“Really? That long? Wow. Come to think of it, you’re right.
Good memory, Char.”
Brian and I don’t really keep in touch anymore. Like I said,
the last time I saw him was more than four years ago in the
hot bar buffet line at the Whole Foods on Sunset Boulevard.
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 84
1/14/19 1:43 PM
Husband Material
85
He was filling up a container with some barbecue chicken
around lunchtime while I was packing a to-go pint of mac n’
cheese just opposite him. There was no avoiding him when
our hands went for the same serving spoon, so we exchanged
casual pleasantries and I made sure to hide in the bathroom
for the next fifteen minutes just to make sure we wouldn’t
have a second run-in at the express checkout line.
“So, how are you? What are you up to?” he continues with
a jovial smile.
“I’m running stats at the moment,” I say, staying focused
on my screen and avoiding contact with his bourbon-colored
eyes. “For my job.”
“Where are you working these days?”
“The Influencer Firm.” I hope he can tell by my curt tone
that I’m not interested in conversation right now.
“That’s cool. What do they do?”
Evidently not.
I surrender and shut my computer screen completely. There’s
no way I can concentrate on anything other than taking off
my spin cleats. I bend down to do so, but they don’t budge.
Perhaps I should have afforded myself a quick Google search
regarding how to eject these first, because I am seriously struggling and my feet are starting to get claustrophobic.
“Need a hand with those?”
Before I can answer, Brian sets his coffee on the bench next
to me and kneels. He unclips the godforsaken spin cleats with
the ease of a high school stud unhooking a bra.
“Thanks. Blood flow,” I say with relief as I rub and bend
my toes through my socks.
“Try rolling your ankle from side to side and tapping your
foot like you’re pumping a brake pedal.”
I shoot him a furrowed look.
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 85
1/14/19 1:43 PM
86
Emily Belden
“Sorry. Doctor-speak. That said, your spin shoes are now
off. Suffice to say you’re not going to do this class with me?”
“You’re here for Gaga Glow?” Never in a million years…
“That’s the name of the class?” He lets out a bit of a laugh.
“God, no. I’m just kidding. I’m not quite sure I’m the demo-
graphic for a class called Gaga Glow.”
You’re not. The demo is metropolitan women ages eighteen to twenty-seven, I think to myself.
“But I am here because Debbie called me. She told me
about Decker.”
I nod like I knew it. But the truth is, no matter how much
I want to say that I indeed fucking knew it, I definitely didn’t.
The last thing I expected Debbie to do was rope Brian into
this and turn him into her little messenger when she saw I
wasn’t taking her nicey-nicey bait.
I’m not annoyed because she disturbed Brian from his busy
life of prepping women getting a new rack at the surgeon’s
office, but rather because she’s just taken her “doesn’t think
I can handle this urn thing” to a whole new level. If I wasn’t
so Debbie’d out right now, I’d dial her for the second time
in twenty-four hours and call her ass out. But I know Deb-
bie Austin. My effort would be futile anyway. She’s a villain
whose superpower is making inappropriate, rash decisions. I
can’t penetrate that, no matter how fueled I am to confront her.
“Well,” I begin. “I appreciate her calling in the reinforce-
ments, but I can assure you—and her—that I’m fine and ev-
erything is under control. So, thank you for your visit, but
you can get back to work now.”
“Relax, Rosen. My rounds at Cedars don’t start ’til noon.
I’m in no rush this fine morning.”
“Cedars? As in… Sinai?” I ask.
Brian peels open his black Members Only jacket and looks
down at his chest pocket. My eyes follow his down to the
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 86
1/14/19 1:43 PM
Husband Material
87
script font. The hospital’s name is clear as day, along with
Chief Resident right underneath it.
“Try to ignore the ink stain,” he suggests. “My pen ex-
ploded earlier, but have no fear. I’m the proud owner of a
Turbo Washer 6000. It’ll rinse it out of these scrubs before
tomorrow’s shift, no problem.”
“And what and about that spit-up just below your pocket?
Will your spiffy washer get that, too?”
“Did I get vomited on again? Damn, Pediatrics can be
brutal.” Brian licks his thumb and tries to wipe it off. Gross.
“Pediatrics? I thought you were working with the Real
Housewives of Beverly Hills, prepping them for breast augmen-tation surgeries, last time we saw each other?” I chase the dig with a sip of piping hot coffee— his piping hot coffee. The one he placed on the bench next to me before unhooking
my shoes. Oops.
“Come on, Charlotte. Cut me some slack. The internship
with the plastic surgery office was years ago,” he says. “And
you’re welcome for the coffee. It’s good, right? Alfred’s makes a killer honey-chai latte.”
So he’s a children’s doctor now? At the same hospital where
“So, just curious, but what did Debbie tell you? Besides my
exact location, I see.”
He gestures to the bench. “May I?” I nod and he takes a
seat next to me. “So, Debbie. Yeah, she just told me about the
fire and how Decker was returned to you and then she just
suggested that maybe I…see if you need a hand with anything
and told me you were at a place called WeHot. I googled it
and now I’m here.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Let’s be clear: you came
straight here, while I’m working an event for a client, and
thought this would be a good time and place to come talk to
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 87
1/14/19 1:43 PM
88
Emily Belden
me? Why didn’t you just call if you wanted to know if I need
any help? Which I don’t, by the way.”
“Why didn’t I call? Really?”
Fair enough. I forgot that Brian stopped trying to reach
me after about six months of my ignoring his calls and texts.
My grief was—is—a complicated thing. And of all the people
who I didn’t know how to be my newly widowed self around,
Brian, Decker’s best friend and reason for us ever meeting, was at the top of the list. I took away his drinking buddy, his lacrosse teammate, his frat brother. Besides that guilt, how can
you be a flailing emotional mess around Mr. Joe Cool? He
was going to be over Decker dying long before I’d ever be. It
was too painful then to pretend I was fine around him, and
I’d never bothered to see if things had changed on that front.
Why would I? My life has shaken out pretty okay since par-
ing down my involvement with the Austins and those clos-
est to us as a couple. New home, new roommate, new career,
new everything worked out for me.
“Okay, I get it. But, for the last time, I don’t need your
help.”
“I never said that you did.” Brian puts his hands up like
I’m about to shoot.
“I know. Sorry. I just… I want everyone to understand that
I’ll figure this Decker thing out myself…just like I’ll figure
out how to get these influencers to stop spelling WeHot with
two T’s. Shit! ”
At that, my eye jets over to a TV monitor mounted in the
locker room area featuring a livestream of tweets from the in-
fluencers. I’m mortified to see that @AvocadoToast1997 is just
one of many who haven’t bothered to absorb the spelling of
the name of the place they’ve been invited to take free classes at for the next six months.
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 88
1/14/19 1:43 PM
Husband Material
89
“Well, this isn’t good,” I mutter to myself as I wedge back
open my computer.
“What happened? And what exactly do you do for a living
again? Gaga Glow is work for you?”
“I write code,” I say, feverishly typing away.
“Okay, yeah, sure. You write code. How about one more
time, but in English, please?”
“I’m a Numbers Queen. I stalk people on the Internet who
I think would like to go to events like Gaga freaking Glow and then I design custom reports to show the client how much
they all talked about how much they loved it. But right now,
my metrics are getting shot to hell because apparently no one
knows how to spell. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to ad-
just my code so those cute little typos you see on that giant
screen count toward the overall impressions.” Hell if I’m los-
ing credit for curating a successful invite list because these ’90s bitches legitimately think hot has two t’s. “Here. Can you plug in my adapter? My computer’s about to die. The outlet is by
your foot.” I hand Brian my computer cord like I’m handing
him shock paddles.
“Power is officially flowing, Numbers Queen.”
Monica was the first person to call me the Numbers Queen.
It was our first year working together and I was able to prove
to one of her beer clients in a matter of clicks that they were the most tagged and tweeted brand on the internet during
the Super Bowl. It sounds maddening, but that’s just how I
think—exclusively in numbers. That just how life has been
since Decker died—data, then decisions.
How did I get to the point I was able to code a custom report
in under five minutes? Let’s just say I’ve come a long way since being so depressed I couldn’t manage to do things like pick up
the phone and text my friends back. When that was my norm,
it also meant I couldn’t manage to pick myself up off the floor, 9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 89
1/14/19 1:43 PM
90
Emily Belden
put clothes on, and go to work a lot of the time either. Turns
out people don’t have a lot of patience or understanding for that kind of thing—for never responding to texts and habitually not
showing up to work. So I lost a bunch of friends and also my
movie studio job. For a lot of people, that pretty much defines their whole reason for being in Hollywood—a circle of good-enough friends and a low-paying job in entertainment. That’s
why I came out here. But my whole reason for being in LA
changed overnight when I met Decker Austin. Suddenly, my
reason for being here was a tall blond guy who played lacrosse, told nerdy jokes, and looked good in every flannel button-down
J. Crew ever made.
I pulled myself together after about six months, right around
the time Brian finally left me alone, actually. A coding school offering accelerated classes had recently opened in Los Angeles, and I kept seeing their ads slathered all over the city. So one wine-infused night, I took that as “a sign”—something I’d
never do normally—and enrolled myself in a beginner’s level
class. Every time I entered keystrokes on the back end that
made something on the front end happen—a picture move to
the left, text bigger, etc.—I felt a rush of endorphins. Being
able to control a cause and elicit a specific effect was comforting. The more technical the task, the more I could block out
the grim realities of my personal life. So I kept going and re-
enrolling until I learned everything that school had to offer
in a mere matter of months. It was the first time since losing
Decker that I felt alive and excited and I knew this was the
path for me. Not another job in show business. Not moving
back in with my parents in New York City. And four years
later at TIF, I can honestly say that my work has been more
rewarding than I could have ever imagined. Plus, in a round-
about way, it’s how I got my groove back in the dating world.
Just then, my Apple Watch lights up with an incoming text.
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 90
1/14/19 1:44 PM
Husband Material
91
“Crap, it’s Zareen,” I say to Brian like he knows who that
is. “I need to respond.”
“Take your time,” he says as he gets up to take a closer
look at the artwork—a spray-painted abstract portrait of Kim
Kardashian doing a push-up. At least that’s what I think it is.
How
is going? her text reads.
Even though Zareen is pretty chill as far as bosses go, ev-
eryone at TIF has been a little edgy knowing that we are so
close to potentially securing the Voyager account and Zareen,
the big boss lady, has been feeling it the most.
Gaga Glow = HUGE hit, I message back.
Sure, the all-caps is a bit on the exaggerated side consider-
ing I only personally experienced the room for mere minutes
and the influencers can’t spell, but the event is a hit. The list of attendees I curated could not have been more spot-on for
this early-morning, sneak-peek gym class.
Awesome! Did everyone show up?
The room is packed. Casting was my strong point at the
studio, and I’ve found myself carrying that skill here. After
all, I coded the list-finding software so that it would auto-
matically dismiss anyone who tweeted about drinking on a
Monday night in the last six months. Why? Because those
people—and their hangovers—aren’t reliable attendees. We
couldn’t trust them to pull themselves together in time for a
brutal Tuesday morning sweat session. We couldn’t let our
client down like that.
It’s a full house, I fire off with sheer confidence.
Brava! she sends back. Feel free to head home after and I’ll see U @ BOA.
I let the excitement of a job well done sink in. While the
algorithms never steer me wrong, that doesn’t mean it’s any
less validating when I see upwards of thirteen thousand social
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 91
1/14/19 1:44 PM
92
Emily Belden
media impressions in the first fifteen minutes of the class. It’s just proof for Gemma that burning calories to Lady Gaga’s
greatest hits while glow sticks hanging from the ceiling change colors to the beat of the music is something worth bragging
about online. That translates to job security for me. And that translates to the ability to continue using my TIF chops to
develop my side-project dating app.
Gaga Glow dismisses while I finish texting Zareen. One by
one, the girls emerge like extras from a Lululemon commer-
cial, steamrolling Brian out of their way. If they just stopped for a minute, they’d realize he’s the most Instagrammable piece of eye candy they’ll see all day, but instead they are dripping sweat onto the screens of their phones while uploading the
selfies they took with the instructor. It’s all so obnoxious and perfect I just want to clap my hands and throw confetti.