How to Hack a Heartbreak

by Kristin Rockaway

  “The thing is,” I said, “I’ve decided that I’d like to take credit for JerkAlert.”

  “And you will,” Whit said. “Just give it a little more time. We need to draw out the suspense for as long as we can.”

  “Why?”

  “The longer people don’t know who’s behind JerkAlert, the more people will offer up their own theories. That means more people posting about it on blogs and social media, more press coverage, more excitement. Speculation can work people up into a frenzy.”

  “Like with the iPhone,” Dani said. “They always release as little information as possible before the official product launch.”

  “Exactly,” Whit said. “There are literally hundreds of articles written about each new iPhone before anyone has any idea what it looks like or how it functions. And you see what those sales are like. People love a mystery.”

  Wasn’t the whole point of JerkAlert to demystify the dating process? Anyone who spent their time researching a guy before they right-swiped most likely did not love a mystery. I must’ve looked skeptical, because Whitney sighed in that way she always did when she thought I was being, as she called it, a “philistine.”

  “How do you think Fluttr got so popular?” she asked.

  “Word of mouth?” I shrugged and sank my teeth into a beef slider.

  “In a way, yes. But it was all fueled by leads from the Fluttr marketing team. They planted rumors about a revolutionary new dating app that was coming soon. They created an artificial waitlist to make people feel special when they were granted an invite. They sent out vague emails and teaser tweets for weeks beforehand. By the time it went live, there were already thousands of users who were dying to get access. And what’s so incredible about the whole thing is that there’s absolutely nothing unique about Fluttr. It’s exactly like every other dating app out there. It’s only popular because of the buzz.

  “But,” she added, “you have a leg up, because JerkAlert really is unique. Now you just have to craft an image that will make investors hungry. Then you cash in.”

  Dollar signs danced before my eyes. Solid financial backing would change my life, dramatically.

  Goodbye, help desk.

  Goodbye, student loans.

  Hello, start-up success.

  “How are those sliders tasting?” The waiter sidled up to Whitney, interrupting my daydream.

  “Delicious.” Whit seductively sucked a drop of sriracha mayo off the tip of her finger. “Can we get some more napkins?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, and dashed off toward the service station.

  Lia pulled her phone out of her purse. “So, I need your opinion, guys. It’s about Cabo.”

  “We already told you,” Dani said, sounding mildly exasperated. “Jay is not going to bail.”

  “Oh, I know that.” She laughed, like the mere thought of him bailing was absurd. “I was totally overreacting the other night. I blame the champagne. Anyway, the resort we’re staying at has this beautiful spa on the premises.”

  She swiped through her phone and showed us the photos from the Villa de Oro Resort & Spa’s website. Massage tables lined up on beachfront platforms, gentle aquamarine waves battering the shoreline in the background.

  “It looks incredible,” I said, tamping down that familiar pang of jealousy.

  “Well, since he’s been so busy lately with work, I was thinking it might be nice for him to unplug completely for a little while, and I was planning to surprise him with a gift of a day at the spa. Do you think that’s too cheesy?”

  “No, not at all. It sounds really romantic.”

  “Great! So, my question is—should I do a couple’s massage and a facial, or just stick with the massage and that’s it?”

  “Um...” I exchanged glances with Dani and Whit. “It’s hard to say without knowing what he likes.”

  “It’s really a bummer we couldn’t meet him on Saturday night,” Dani added.

  “Yeah,” Lia said, “he was really sorry he missed it.”

  Whit pursed her lips. “Sounds like he’s the one who should be treating you to a spa day, and not the other way around.”

  “Well, he’s treating me to an entire tropical vacation.” When Whit rolled her eyes, Lia took a deep breath and calmly said, “Look, he apologized. I was completely honest with him about how disappointed I was and how he hurt me. He listened, he said he was sorry, and I’ve forgiven him. We’ve moved on. Relationships don’t work if you hold on to grudges.”

  “Suit yourself.” Whit polished off her crispy fish slider right as the waiter returned with a six-inch stack of napkins.

  “Here you are,” he said, placing the whole pile in front of her. “Anything else I can get for you?”

  Whitney touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip. “I don’t know. Is there?”

  “I think we’re good,” I said, probably a little too loudly. Normally, I found Whitney’s sex kitten act amusing, but tonight I didn’t have the patience.

  “You know what,” I said, turning to Lia, “you can’t go wrong with a massage. I say stick with that.”

  “Thanks.” Lia smiled and tucked her phone back in her bag. “How are things going with Alex?”

  “Yeah, he’s super nice, Mel,” Dani said.

  “And hot,” Whit added. “Good job snagging that one.”

  Alex had really charmed my friends, hadn’t he? They all looked so impressed, so happy for me. It almost pained me to sully their image of Mr. Wonderful.

  “Things are not so great with Alex.”

  Their mouths fell open in shock. “What happened?” Lia asked.

  “I found him on JerkAlert. Apparently, he’s got a reputation as a liar.” I loaded his profile on my phone and passed it around for all the girls to see.

  “Oh, that’s bad,” Lia said.

  Dani and Whit weren’t as concerned.

  “That seems a little vague,” Dani said. “I’m not sure you should dismiss him over one nebulous accusation.”

  “Yeah,” Whit said. “You can’t believe everything you read on JerkAlert, anyway.”

  “But why would anyone lie about what they post there?”

  “Why would anyone lie about what they post anywhere? The internet is filled with people making shit up for the hell of it.”

  Whit had a point. I thought about the comments I’d read on that BuzzFeed article. All those men posting garbage opinions like they were facts, when in reality, they had no clue what the hell they were talking about. Was JerkAlert nothing more than an elaborate comments section?

  “If you can’t trust what you read on JerkAlert,” I said, “then isn’t it pretty much worthless?”

  “Of course not,” Whit said. “Its value isn’t in the legitimacy of its reviews. It makes no promises of authenticity, or guarantees about finding a trustworthy partner. JerkAlert is valuable because it provides a safe, communal space where women can vent about their shitty interactions with men. It’s purely about catharsis.”

  Catharsis. That’s what had driven me to create it in the first place, wasn’t it? I’d wanted so badly to tell the whole world about the guys who’d done me wrong. Brandon from Brooklyn. Joe from Murray Hill. Alex from FiDi.

  Except it turned out I was wrong about that last one.

  “For what it’s worth,” she continued, “I really liked Alex. And you know I don’t ever like anybody.”

  “I liked him, too,” Lia said.

  “So did I,” added Dani. “He really struck me as a straightforward kind of guy.”

  “You could always talk to him about it,” Lia said. “Tell him how you’re feeling and ask him what’s going on.”

  “I’m not going to tell him I found him on JerkAlert,” I said. “That’s just...weird, isn’t it? Like I was spying on him or something.”

  No one answer
ed. Which was an answer in itself.

  Dani reached into her purse and dropped some cash onto the table. “Well, ladies, it’s been real, but unfortunately, I need to cut out a bit early.”

  “What’re you up to?”

  “I’ve got a date.”

  “Ooh!” Whitney clapped her hands together. “With who?”

  “Her name is Yvelise, she’s twenty-eight, she lives in Astoria, and she’s getting her PhD in Neural Science at NYU.”

  “Sounds like a match made in heaven,” Lia said.

  “Hopefully. We’ve been talking for a while now. I have high expectations for this one.”

  “Did you meet her on Iris?” I asked.

  “Nope. Iris shut down.”

  “Oh, no. What happened?”

  “Who knows,” Dani said, shrugging one shoulder. “You know how it is with these start-ups—here today, gone tomorrow. So I’m back on Fluttr.”

  Of course.

  “Wish me luck,” she called, before heading out the door.

  We crossed our fingers and said, “Good luck!” As soon as she was gone, our waiter materialized. “Are you ladies leaving already?”

  “Not just yet.” Whit looked at us. “Want another round?”

  “Sure. And maybe one more plate of those beef sliders?”

  “You got it.” He winked, a gesture I usually find cheesy and repulsive. Whitney didn’t mind, though. She returned the wink and wiggled her fingers at him as he walked away.

  The three of us lingered awhile, enjoying the cheap eats and the conversation. Soon, Whitney’s flirtation started paying off; the waiter brought us warm chocolate donuts, free of charge, and when he finally brought our check at the end of the night, he’d slashed at least half the drinks from the bill.

  We placed our cards in the leather folder, and as he swung by to pick it up, the waiter knelt down next to Whitney and murmured, “My shift ends in ten minutes. What’re you up to tonight?”

  “Actually,” she said, “I might hang around until you get off.”

  “Cool,” he said. “And then, hopefully, I can return the favor.”

  Barf.

  With a quick hug and a promise to text us when she got home to make sure this waiter didn’t do something shady, we said our goodbyes. Lia and I walked down Stanton Street, lamenting how early we had to wake up in the morning, and cursing ourselves for agreeing to that last round of drinks.

  At the corner of Delancey and Essex, we parted ways; I was heading underground to catch the F train, while she was going to walk the rest of the way toward her apartment in Chinatown.

  “I’ll see you on Thursday,” I said. “What are we doing this week?”

  “Krav Maga. It looks intense.”

  “Why do we only ever pick intense workouts?”

  “Because they’re cheap.”

  We laughed and hugged, and before I ducked into the subway station, Lia said, “Mel, I really think you should talk to Alex. You don’t have to tell him you found him on JerkAlert, but at least let him know what you’re thinking. He has no idea what’s going on. And honestly, you have no idea what’s going on, either. This review could be a total fake. And even if it isn’t, people do change.”

  “I know,” I said. “You’re probably right.”

  “I’m definitely right. He really seems like such a great guy. Let him at least give you a chance to prove himself.”

  The whole ride home, I mulled over Lia’s words. I was giving far too much credence to the words of an anonymous stranger. Which was crazy, considering I already knew you should never trust anything you read on the internet. Why was I ignoring this tried-and-true advice, simply because the words appeared on JerkAlert?

  When I emerged from the train station in Brooklyn, I sent Alex a text:

  Hey. I know you’re probably working right now, or maybe you’re sleeping, but I wanted to tell you something. So whenever you have a sec, let me know.

  Almost instantly, he responded: I’m free now.

  Oh, no. It was too soon. I hadn’t had enough time to compose my thoughts. I typed out a text, then deleted it and tried again. Over and over, trying to find the perfect words to camouflage the real question I needed to ask: Can I trust you?

  Then I realized, this wasn’t the time for pretense, or for perfectly worded questions. It was the time for honest, raw connection.

  My finger slid to the call button.

  “Hey.” His voice was warm and thick like honey.

  “Hey.” Take a deep breath. Don’t think so hard. Just say what you’re feeling. “I’m sorry I was so...weird today.”

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry I didn’t text you last night. I know how it must look, especially after you caught me trying to sneak out in the morning without saying goodbye. I’m completely preoccupied with work right now. But I promise, it doesn’t mean that I don’t really like you. Because I do.”

  “I really like you, too.” But can I trust you?

  “Let me make it up to you,” he said. “They’re upgrading the servers tomorrow night, so I won’t be able to work. Come to my place. I’ll cook us dinner, okay?”

  If I went to his place and let him cook me dinner, I knew exactly where that would lead: back to bed. Which was a dangerous proposition. Did I really want to dig myself any deeper without first finding out if he was who he said he was?

  Considering our chemistry between the sheets, though, the offer was mighty tempting. I thought of our last sexual encounter, the sheer ecstasy of it. And all I knew was I wanted to feel that way again.

  “Okay.”

  “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See ya.”

  I ended the call without asking the question I really needed to ask.

  But it wasn’t a question he could answer, anyway. The only person who knew if I could trust him was me.

  16

  Alex lived in a luxury apartment building on John Street. The lobby had white marble floors and wavy crystal chandeliers and abstract art on the walls. Compared to my dumpy walk-up in Brooklyn, this place was a palace.

  After the doorman (a doorman!) waved me in, I took the elevator to the thirtieth floor, following the faint scent of bacon and onions until I reached apartment 3017. Alex had propped his door open, and when I entered, I found him standing behind the stove, midsauté. Soft background music filled the room, something rhythmic and heavy on maracas. He flipped the contents of the frying pan to the beat.

  “Whatever you’re cooking,” I said, “it smells amazing.”

  “Hey, there.” He set the pan down and fiddled with the oven dial. “I didn’t hear you come in. How are you?” Wiping his hands on a dish towel, he came out from behind the breakfast bar and gave me a warm, drawn-out kiss.

  “I’m good now.”

  “Can I interest you in a glass of wine?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He pulled a bottle of red from a wine rack—an actual wine rack built into his cabinets; not an upcycled dresser drawer—and poured us two glasses. We raised them in a toast, and Alex said, “Thank you for coming tonight.”

  “Thank you for having me.” The first sip went down smooth. I craned my neck to peer into the frying pan. “What’re you making?”

  “My specialty—arroz con gandules. It’s rice with pigeon peas and pork.” His face blanched. “You eat pork, right?”

  I nodded. “I eat all the things.”

  “Good. I probably should’ve asked you about that before I planned the meal. I’m making a salad, too. Is that all right?”

  “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

  Alex let out a breath and returned to his station behind the stove. “I hope it turns out okay.” He seemed nervous, bouncing back and forth between the frying pan and the well-worn cookbook splayed open on the counter, Puerto Rican Coo
kery.

  “Can I help with anything?”

  “No.” There was that dazzling smile again. “You just sit back and relax. Enjoy your wine.”

  I hoisted myself onto a barstool and watched as he selected a ripe tomato from the basket beside his refrigerator. With a shiny chef’s knife, he sliced it into even segments and placed it in a bowl, repeating it over and over until all the tomatoes were gone. His movements were careful and precise, the same way he’d washed those lava rocks after the fire. The same way he’d touched my body.

  “So, this dish is your specialty, huh?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Well, kind of. My dad taught me how to make it, but it’s been a few years, so I’m a little rusty. Cooking isn’t exactly like riding a bike.”

  “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble, honestly.”

  “It’s no trouble,” he said, quickly. “I love to cook, it’s just I don’t have much time to practice. I always wind up ordering takeout. This is really a treat, to be able to cook for you.”

  “It’s a treat to be served. I rarely ever cook for myself.”

  “Do you enjoy cooking?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  He laughed. “Well, then, I can do all the cooking in our relationship.”

  “And I can do all the ordering of the takeout.”

  “Sounds good.” He poured a few ingredients into the pan and covered it tightly with a lid. “My parents are like that. Mom can’t stand cooking, so Dad made us dinner almost every night. They’ve been happily married for almost thirty years, so if it works for them, it could work for us.”

  I sipped my wine, hiding my giddy grin behind the glass. Silly as it may have been, it felt good to hear him talk as if we had a future together, to divvy up imaginary household chores and compare ourselves to his parents who’d been married for years. Jokes like these were reserved for girlfriends, not for meaningless flings.

  That is, if it wasn’t just smooth talk.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and grimaced. “Goddammit,” he muttered, tapping away at the screen. “Sorry, this’ll only take a second.”

  “No problem.” I continued to drink, but my excitement gave way to annoyance with every passing second he spent silently engrossed in his phone. Who could he be texting so fervently? It couldn’t be about work—there was a planned outage tonight; he’d said it himself.