WHITNEY:
Walking into SoulCycle rn, will tell you later.
WHITNEY:
BTW are you free for dinner tomorrow? Happy hour @ Stanton Social.
MEL:
Sure.
WHITNEY:
Cool. I’ll text Dani and Lia to see if they’re in.
WHITNEY:
And get ready, baby. You’re about to blow up. Big time!
My stomach gurgled, possibly a gut reaction to the idea of blowing up big-time. Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Just last night, the idea of blowing up was exciting. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? For people to spread the word about my product. A trending hashtag was like a ticket on the express train to success. The stuff start-up dreams were made of.
Technically, though, I didn’t have a start-up. I was merely a woman, running a website from her bedroom, hoping that someday it might turn a profit. I truly believed JerkAlert could be financially rewarding one day. I even believed it could be revolutionary. But at the moment, I was having second thoughts about whether I wanted to lead this particular revolution.
If JerkAlert went viral, there’s no way I could maintain my anonymity. Not in this day and age, when everyone carried GPS and a video camera on them at all times. People would be curious. They’d unmask me. Then they’d put two and two together and realize I was the same woman from #DickInTheDark. Imagine the memes they’d make then.
There was also the whole Alex factor. If he found out I was the brains behind JerkAlert from some internet meme, he’d undoubtedly wonder why I didn’t just tell him myself. He’d question my motives, become suspicious, and lose faith in me. A wedge would form between us. Our relationship would be over before it even began.
All this anxiety was making me thirsty, so I rolled out of bed and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. Vanessa was there, standing over the sink, scrubbing out mason jars. She didn’t look up when I entered the room.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” Her scrubbing became more vigorous.
“Do you need any help cleaning?” I asked.
“No. I’ve got it under control.”
A quick survey of the apartment confirmed that she did, indeed, have it under control. The mess I’d spotted in the early morning hours was long gone. All that was left were some dishes, but she was flying through them at an extraordinary rate.
Vanessa herself was cleaned up, too. No more smudged eye makeup, no more tousled hair. It was like our hallway meeting in the middle of the night had never happened. And since she refused to look at me, I assumed she wished it hadn’t.
Without a word, I moved toward the cupboard and reached for a glass.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.
Oh, boy.
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“It was a mistake,” she said, never once looking up from her scrub job. “I drank way too much sangria, and I made a stupid decision.”
“Okay.”
Vanessa didn’t need to justify her romp with Ray to me; honestly, I was the last person to judge someone for making a bad man-related decision. But she seemed intent on explaining herself, anyway.
“Really, I’ve never done anything like this before. It’s so not like me to jump into bed with someone I’m not seriously involved with. I always wait until at least the third date to have sex, usually longer.”
“It’s really not that big of a deal,” I said.
“Yes, it is.” She turned off the water and threw the sponge in the sink. “I am so embarrassed. I mean, Ray, of all people.”
“You could’ve done worse.”
She snorted. “Not likely.”
“He’s a really nice guy.” With a really nice ass.
“He’s the super.”
“Well, think of it this way—if you’re dating the building super, you’ll be allowed to have rooftop parties whenever you want.”
Her face twisted in disgust. “That is so not funny. Anyway, I think after that fire, we won’t be allowed on the rooftop anytime soon.”
“Ray didn’t get in trouble, did he?”
“No. Only one neighbor complained, but Ray managed to keep him from calling the landlord. We were all really lucky that nothing seriously bad happened, though, so he’s putting the kibosh on future rooftop parties.”
“That’s probably for the best.” I filled my glass with water, regarding Vanessa out of the corner of my eye. “When that fire broke out, Ray jumped into action fast.”
“Yeah. He was so on top of things.”
“He seems like a dependable guy.”
She smiled wistfully. “He is.”
“Plus, he’s super handy.”
“Oh my God, did you see how flawlessly he strung up those lights? Perfectly symmetrical.”
“He’s definite boyfriend material.”
Vanessa’s wistful smile hardened to a scowl. “No.”
“Why not?”
“He lives in Bensonhurst.”
“So?”
“With his mother.”
“Oh.” Granted, I wouldn’t be too thrilled about the idea of having sex with a guy under his mother’s roof. But I thought of how radiant she looked, emerging from her bedroom in that silk kimono. “He’s obviously smitten with you, though. And it seemed like you were really happy last night.”
“I wasn’t happy—I was drunk.” She peeled off her rubber gloves and slapped them down on the kitchen counter. “Besides, lots of people are happy when they first meet someone, when everything’s new and the sex is hot and they have no idea what it is they’re getting into. Happiness is irrelevant.”
Everything’s new. The sex is hot. That sounded a lot like me and Alex.
“You’re talking about choosing a partner,” I said. “How could happiness be irrelevant? What could possibly be more important than being happy?”
“Like-mindedness. Compatibility. And you figure all that out by doing your research beforehand.” She tapped her temple. “Knowledge is power. That’s why I go to Vilma. The more you know about a guy beforehand, the less likely you are to suffer some horrible breakup that leaves you shattered into a million pieces.” Her lower lip twitched, then she took a deep breath. “Speaking of which, Vilma arranged a date for me on Tuesday night. I’ve gotta go call my stylist now and see if she can squeeze me in later today. This balayage is starting to look dull.”
With that, Vanessa retreated to her bedroom and shut the door behind her. I stood there, staring at the empty space she left behind, marveling at how quickly she was able to dismiss a future with Ray. Living with his mom was an issue, but surely, he couldn’t live with her forever.
Then again, was Vanessa’s process of elimination really any different from the way I’d filtered out potential mates using Fluttr? I often made my decisions in under two seconds, based on factors that were far more superficial. Who knows how many potentially good dates I’d left-swiped because of a goofy smile or a bad camera angle?
Not that any of that mattered now. Because now I had Alex. And if things continued to go well with the two of us, I’d never have to use Fluttr again. In fact, I was going to go back to my room and deactivate my profile immediately.
And that’s just what I did.
When it was done, I scrolled through my Instagram feed, catching up on everything that had happened while I’d been sexing and sleeping. Whit had clearly had a late night, posting a 3:00 a.m. selfie in front of a DJ booth at that club in Greenpoint. Dani, on the other hand, had gotten up early and posted a photo of her coffee cup next to her laptop, with the caption: Sunday morning torture session #dissertating.
And then there was Lia’s photo: a bouquet of lavender roses, arranged in a crystal vase. She’d posted it twenty minutes ago and captioned it: Flowers from bae. Apparently,
Jay had apologized.
I clicked on Lia’s profile and swiped through her most recent photos, stopping when I got to a selfie she’d taken last week. A close-up of their faces, their cheeks pressed together. He was average-looking; a little on the old side, but he wore it well. Salt-and-pepper hair, a couple of distinguished wrinkles around the eyes. He looked decent.
But looks could be deceiving.
Just to be safe, I loaded JerkAlert and searched for “Jay, 41, Midtown.” When the page displayed NO MATCHING PROFILES, I realized how silly I was being. Couples had disagreements all the time. Guys flaked, girls cried. Flowers were sent as apologies. It didn’t mean Jay was a bad guy.
It didn’t mean he was a good guy, either, but the absence of a JerkAlert profile was encouraging nonetheless. As nutty as I’d thought Vanessa sounded with all her talk of matchmaking, there was some truth to be found in her words. Having knowledge made me feel powerful. Maybe JerkAlert could be a useful tool for avoiding not only dick pics, but heartbreak, too.
A twinge seized my chest as I remembered the panicky look on Alex’s face when I’d caught him getting dressed in a hurry. He’d had a perfectly reasonable explanation. He’d even written a note. He was a decent guy. But who knew if he was telling the truth?
Like Vanessa said, the more you know about someone beforehand, the less likely you are to suffer afterward.
I typed “Alex, 26, FiDi” in the search box. And when I saw Alex’s dazzling smile shining back at me from the screen, my heart shattered into a million pieces.
Review: typical fluttr douche. super hot, but a smooth talker. says all the right things at all the right times. don’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth.
13
I was not going to freak out.
This was only one review. Sure, it was scathing, but it was also sort of vague. “Typical Fluttr douche” could mean just about anything.
Well, not anything. It definitely meant something bad. Still, I had no idea who actually posted it. Why should I trust the words of some anonymous internet reviewer?
Of course, that begged the question of how useful JerkAlert really was if the reviews were unreliable.
But Alex had been perfect last night, in every single way. Holding me close as we danced under fairy lights. Rushing to help Ray in the aftermath of the fire. Charming my friends with his sweet, thoughtful commentary.
Which, I supposed, could be construed as smooth talk.
I didn’t realize your friends were all geniuses...
I used to dread going to work in the mornings...
Just knowing I’ll get to spend a few minutes with her...
No! That wasn’t smooth talk. When Alex said all those things, he was being totally sincere.
Wasn’t he?
Maybe not.
I needed to distract myself from this subject, immediately, so I popped open my laptop and fired up Netflix, then spent the rest of my Sunday in bed, bingeing on junk food and Jessica Jones. As I was drawn out of reality and into a fictional world, I dreamed of opening my own superhero detective agency, where I’d investigate secret shady behaviors of men who did women dirty and expose them for the liars they were. Kind of like JerkAlert, only more badass.
Between episodes, I checked my phone in vain for a text from Alex. When I inevitably found nothing, I refreshed my Twitter feed to see if any new tweets had been added to the #JerkAlert hashtag. As the night wore on, activity seemed to die down, so I signed into the JerkAlert dashboard to check current stats and found that, over the past twenty-four hours, web traffic had remained largely unchanged.
This Twitter trend wasn’t turning into the big marketing blowout Whit had predicted it’d be. There’d been more buzz over #DickInTheDark, for God’s sake.
Which should’ve eased my mind, right? When Whit told me I was gonna blow up, I’d been so worried about being found out.
Now, all I could think was: Who cared? Who cared if a bunch of basement boys turned me into a sexist meme? Who cared if they exposed and humiliated me? My entire life was a series of humiliations at the hands of men, anyway, and I was still standing. I might as well try to make a buck off it.
Since no one gave a damn about JerkAlert, though, the point was moot. It looked like I’d be stuck working the help desk for the foreseeable future.
By the time I’d burned through the entire first season of Jessica Jones, it was close to midnight. I checked my phone one last time before I turned out the light, hoping to see a message from Alex. But, of course, there wasn’t one.
He never texted like he said he would. And frankly, I was beginning to suspect he never had any intention of texting me at all. He probably didn’t even have to work on Sundays. It was merely an excuse he’d conjured up when I’d caught him trying to make his escape. Because he knew how to say all the right things at all the right times.
That’s when the truth hit me like a runaway freight train: Alex Hernandez had smooth-talked me into the sack.
* * *
“The same shit is happening again.”
Josh Brewster’s voice boomed through my cubicle. I spun around in my chair to find him standing in the doorway, shoulders squared, chest heaving, gripping his laptop in one meaty pink fist. For a second, I was afraid he was going to hurl it at my head.
Instinctively, I smiled. “Good morning, Josh. Can I help you?”
Instead of defusing the situation, my pleasant attitude only seemed to deepen his scowl.
“I don’t know. Can you?” He shook the laptop in my direction. “Every time I ask you to fix this piece of shit, it comes back even more broken than when I dropped it off.”
Stay calm. Don’t engage.
“Let me see what’s going on,” I said, coating my voice in so much syrup I could taste the sweetness on my tongue.
With a grimace, he handed it over, and I flipped it open to look at the screen. “Hmm. Looks like you’re infected with malware again.”
“Yeah, that’s what you said last time, so obviously, that’s not the problem.”
I cleared my throat, counting to three in my head before I said something rash that I’d later regret.
Josh took my silence as an opportunity to continue his rant. “The only reason I even brought this to you was because I couldn’t find Bob. He’s the only one around here who knows what he’s doing.”
God, this guy was such a dick.
“Well, why don’t you leave it with me, and I’ll bring it to Bob when I see him? I’m sure he’ll be able to fix this right away.”
He hissed, sneaking in one final sneer before stalking away. As soon as he was gone, I pulled up the keylogger and started scrolling through the sea of data it had collected on Josh’s activity. There was plenty of innocuous stuff in there: emails he’d composed in Outlook; Slack messages between him and the other members of his team; lots of really poorly written code.
But there was a lot more of the not-so-innocuous stuff. Like the hours he spent at a website called FreeBigBoobs.com, or the myriad visits he made to the Sexy Beautiful Women board on 4Chan. Also, as suspected, Josh frequented many a gambling site. If it had the words fantasy, bet, or casino in the URL, chances are Josh had been there.
The logger also showed that before every session, he’d disable the virus scanner. Afterward, he’d restart it, then delete his browser history—the man hadn’t even heard of incognito mode!—but by then, his computer was already infected.
I couldn’t wait to show Bob the evidence. Tucking Josh’s laptop under my arm, I hopped to my feet and headed toward Bob’s favorite hiding place: the server room. Whenever he went missing, I knew he was simply holed up somewhere among the racks of computers, seeking solace in the whir of their cooling fans. In there, no one would bother him.
As the boss, he could get away with that. As the underling, I couldn’t. I had to sta
y out on the office floor, acting as the face of the help desk and dealing with the wrath of the Hatchlings. When Bob was in the server room, I was supposed to leave him alone to work in peace, unless there was some sort of urgent crisis.
Technically, the discovery of Josh’s internet activity was neither urgent nor a crisis, but I felt it warranted an interruption, anyway. I needed vindication, and I needed it now. These logs were irrefutable proof that the Hatchlings were egregiously irresponsible, and that I was right about it all along. Maybe now Bob would realize I shouldn’t have to endure their insults and abuse. Maybe now he’d tell them to stop giving me such a hard time, instead of the other way around.
I swiped my access card to disengage the dead bolt, and as soon as it clicked, I pushed open the heavy metal door to the server room. Rows and rows of black shelves contrasted with white walls and fluorescent high bays. Hundreds of fans spinning simultaneously created an otherworldly hum. I tiptoed along the corridor, peering around each corner until I spotted Bob sitting on the floor, hunched over his laptop, eyes narrowed in deep concentration. When he heard my footsteps approaching, he shot me a look halfway between fury and dread.
“Why are you in here?” he barked.
“Remember when I said Josh was probably surfing around gambling sites?”
Bob let out an exasperated breath. “Not this again.”
“It’s different this time. I have proof!” I sat down beside him and whipped out the laptop. “Look.”
As I scrolled through the logs of Josh’s guilt, Bob looked confused. “What is this?”
“I installed a keylogger on his machine.”
His eyes bulged. “You what?”
“You told me that I couldn’t accuse him of anything without logs of his activity.”
“I didn’t tell you to install a keylogger. This isn’t Hatch-sanctioned software. It’s against company policy.” Bob grabbed the laptop from my hands, commanding control of the touch pad and inspecting the evidence. “Does Josh know you did this?”
“No.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Do you see what this shows?” I leaned over and pointed out the damning evidence. “He turns off the virus scanner so he can go surfing around shady websites. That’s against company policy.”
How to Hack a Heartbreak Page 11