How to Hack a Heartbreak Read online

  “At a tech meetup in Brooklyn. I was working this corporate job and hating it and wanted to try to get into the start-up world. Greg was there and we got to talking and he said he was super close to securing funding for Fizz. All he needed was a strong engineer. So I helped him with some specs and a mock-up to finish his application to Hatch. A few weeks later, I quit my job.”

  “And now here you are.”

  “Here I am. Except it’s not what I was expecting it to be.”

  “What were you expecting it to be?”

  He nibbled his cracker and shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. Not like this, though. Half the time, it’s like I’m working in a frat house.”

  I could relate to that. Testosterone levels in the office were off the charts. Of course Josh Brewster got away with his “Free Mustache Rides” sticker. Any guy who complained about it would be seen as a traitor to his gender.

  “Plus,” Alex continued, “I’m shouldering most of the workload right now. Greg’s not really holding up his end of the deal. He makes a lot of promises, but he’s not so good with the follow-through.”

  “Can you complain to someone about it?”

  “There’s no one to complain to. The investors don’t wanna hear it. Now’s the time when we’re supposed to be proving we can run a business independently. But honestly, I don’t think we can.”

  Disappointment settled in the grooves etched across his forehead. And who could blame him? Imagine quitting your stable, if soul-sucking, job to take a chance on a fledgling start-up, only to discover your partner was a fraud and a flake. It made my gig at the help desk seem downright tolerable.

  Alex shook his head, clearing away the furrows. “Anyway, like we were talking about on Friday, this is just a stepping-stone to bigger and better things.”

  I swirled a bread crust in honey and took a sweet, crispy bite. “Totally.”

  “How long have you been working at Hatch now?”

  “About four years. I started right out of college.”

  “Wow. You’ve probably learned so much about the start-up world. What works, what doesn’t. What investors look for in potential founders.”

  I nodded. From my experience, there were two main requirements most start-up founders needed to secure seed funding: being a guy, and being a jerk. Of course, Alex only fulfilled the first of those two, but his partner more than compensated for the second with his obnoxious behavior.

  “And I bet you’ve made a ton of contacts in the industry, too,” he said. “Especially with a new set of Hatchlings coming in every three months.”

  “Not really. I work the help desk. Hatchlings aren’t really interested in discussing the business with me. They only ever acknowledge my existence when they have some laptop emergency, and then they come into my cubicle screaming their heads off and lobbing insults. Present company excluded, of course.”

  His mouth hung open in shock. “That’s awful.”

  Poor, naive Alex. So unaware of the inequities of the tech world.

  “Look,” I said, “to be honest, all I want out of Hatch is a paycheck. And the health insurance is pretty sweet, too.”

  “So, you’re not interested in launching your own start-up?”

  “Of course I am.” The words burst forth with conviction. Because if I dug down deep into the softest parts of my core, I’d find this truth buried there: I did want a piece of the start-up pie. And not just a tiny sliver. I wanted a big, fat, decadent hunk of it. I wanted to create something of value, something that would make people’s lives better. To have a vision and to bring it to life.

  I didn’t want to coast. I wanted to speed down the runway and take flight.

  The problem was, my accelerator seemed to be jammed.

  “Hatch just isn’t a good fit for me,” I said, grossly oversimplifying a complex and sexist situation.

  “Have you ever been to any of the tech meetups around town? They have happy hours at least once a week. That’s where I connected with Greg.” He grimaced. “Though I realize that’s not a ringing endorsement.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been to a couple of those.”

  Actually, I’d been to only one. Two years earlier, and it was not the inspirational networking event I’d been promised.

  I’d certainly had high hopes. Eager to make a good impression on potential collaborators, I designed business cards with a link to my programming portfolio, and bought a chic blazer on clearance to conform with the professional dress code. When I strolled into the vast conference space that night, I was feeling calm and confident, ready to reach out and grab entrepreneurship by the balls.

  Unfortunately, there weren’t many balls to grab at this event. Oh, there were plenty of men there—in fact, it was a veritable sausagefest. But any time I struck up a conversation with a guy who seemed halfway decent, he’d invariably prove me wrong.

  More than once, a guy gaped at me in astonishment and said, “You don’t look like a software developer.” Some guys hit on me; others avoided me like the plague. I didn’t have any worthwhile discussions and left feeling completely discouraged.

  I did give out two business cards, though. Which was a huge mistake, because for weeks on end, I kept getting anonymous text messages containing—what else?—dick pics. After that, I threw the rest of my cards in the trash and swore off tech meetups for good.

  “They haven’t been very constructive,” I said.

  “That’s a shame,” Alex said. “So much of this business is about making contacts and networking and putting yourself out there.”

  “Well, I’m sort of hoping that the right opportunity will come along when I least expect it.”

  “The right opportunities are the ones you create yourself.”

  He beamed at me, and my insides melted to warm goo. God, he was gorgeous. But his beauty went beyond good looks. It went far deeper, into his brain and his heart. He was a rare breed of man, one who didn’t see a woman as an objective or a threat. Sure, he might’ve been a little clueless, but he seemed like he was open to listening and learning. Most important, he was kind and supportive, and damn if I didn’t need some positivity in my world right then.

  “I like that idea,” I said, a smile tugging at my lips. “Creating my own opportunities.”

  “Absolutely. You’re in charge of your own life. You’ve got the power.”

  “I’ve got the power.”

  Just saying it made me feel powerful. It seemed so obvious, but I’d never considered it before: I didn’t need to play nice with the guys to get ahead. Playing nice was for chumps. All those obnoxious brogrammers and disparaging douchebags and sexual deviants? Screw them.

  If I wanted to launch a start-up, I didn’t need to lean in and claim a seat at the table. I could stand up and do it by myself. Because I was in charge of my own life.

  And that included my love life.

  “What are you up to this weekend?” I asked.

  “No plans as of yet. How about you?”

  “My roommate is throwing a party on the roof of our building. She said I could invite whoever I wanted. Some of my girlfriends will be there. I’d love it if you came.”

  His eyes sparkled in the afternoon sun. “Thanks. I’d love to go.”

  “Great.”

  With a satisfied grin, I sunk my teeth into a fat slice of salami.

  I was going to get what I wanted out of life, I was sure of it. And nothing would stand in my way.

  6

  It’s amazing how a small shift in perspective can make a monumental difference in your quality of life.

  After that lunchtime chat with Alex, I returned to the office with a spring in my step. And though I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was eager to resume my afternoon shift at the help desk, I certainly wasn’t dreading it the way I normally did. The mind-numbing tasks were the same as a
lways—installing software updates, clearing paper jams, resetting passwords for people who accidentally left their caps lock on—but completing them no longer drained me of my will to live.

  Because now I knew: this job at Hatch was a means to an end, not the end in and of itself.

  Of course, I didn’t have a clue what the actual end was, but it had to be out there waiting for me somewhere. I’d find it eventually.

  Probably.

  In the meantime, I had a steady salary and eight paid holidays a year.

  And I had Alex.

  My secret office crush was now my plus-one to Saturday night’s shindig, and I was counting the minutes until it arrived. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d looked forward to a date like this, or the last time a guy had made me feel this hopeful and happy. To think we might never have been brought together if it weren’t for a couple of shitty Fluttr dates. Brandon from Brooklyn sure did me a solid.

  With visions of Alex’s broad chest and dazzling smile swirling through my head, the hours in my cubicle sailed by. The next thing I knew, it was way past five—almost six o’clock. Time to head home, where I could unwind with my favorite pastime: snarfing junk food and binge-watching Netflix. If my commute went smoothly, I could be snuggled up in bed with a bag of Doritos in under twenty-five minutes.

  But, naturally, my commute did not go smoothly.

  Commuting on the A train was never a pleasant experience. Every day, there was some sort of signal problem or system failure, and it was always so crowded, snagging a seat was out of the question. So it didn’t strike me as odd when the train pulled into the station packed from window to wall. The doors opened, and I dropped a shoulder to shove my way on, wedging myself beneath the arm of a man who was holding the overhead handrail.

  It was a precarious position—my face jammed into one guy’s armpit, my hips skillfully twisted to avoid the crotch of another guy behind me, my arm stretched skyward to grasp the remaining three inches of available subway pole, my whole body trying desperately not to lurch into the lap of the woman seated directly below.

  But the trip was supposed to be only twenty-five minutes. I could deal.

  Then, somewhere between Jay Street and Hoyt-Schermerhorn, things went south. The conductor’s voice, muffled and apathetic, came over the loudspeaker.

  “We’re experiencing congestion up ahead. We should be moving shortly.”

  Congestion was their code word for everything. A chorus of teeth-sucking and sighs echoed throughout the car, but I took solace in knowing the next stop was mine. When the doors opened at Hoyt-Schermerhorn, I’d be free.

  Ten minutes later, we still hadn’t budged an inch, and the comforting whir of the AC ground to a halt. Shortly thereafter, the lights went out. Neither event seemed to warrant an update from the conductor, though. As we waited in the dim, sweltering train car, the murmurs among my fellow straphangers grew increasingly agitated and profanity-laced. Without proper ventilation, the air grew thick and funky. People took off their jackets and fanned themselves with their New Yorkers.

  Soon, fury set in. Men and women alike started cursing and screaming.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I need to get out of here.”

  “Why aren’t they telling us what’s wrong?”

  “This fucking subway!”

  A cramp seized my shoulder. Even though the train wasn’t in motion, I still had a firm grip on the handrail over my head. Partially because I wanted to brace myself—you never knew when we might start up again, unexpectedly—but also, because it was next-to-impossible to move. We were crammed together in this insufferably small space, like a joyless, foul-smelling clown car.

  Finally, the pain grew unbearable, and when my fingertips started to tingle from lack of circulation, I had no choice but to let go. Ever so slowly, I lowered my right arm, turning slightly to reach for the open space with my left hand. As I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, my ass brushed up against something narrow and stiff.

  Shit. It was the crotch I’d been trying to avoid.

  Quickly, I pivoted away, but the crotch followed me, quite literally on my tail. My heart smashed against my rib cage like an unhinged prisoner trying to break through the bars of her jail cell. Beads of sweat dotted my hairline. There was nowhere to go. I was trapped in a tube underground with a stranger’s erection pressed against my ass cheek.

  I had a choice: I could pretend it wasn’t happening, and passively allow this pervert to grind against me. Or I could make a big stink. Tell everyone in the subway what he was doing. Publicly shame him for his depraved and disgusting behavior.

  In the past, I’d always chosen the former. Whenever I happened across some masturbating weirdo on the street or handsy bro in a bar, I merely turned the other way, hoping that if I ignored them, these guys would simply vaporize into thin air. It required a healthy dose of self-delusion, and the ability to instantaneously incite an out-of-body experience. But the alternative—speaking up—was always too terrifying to consider.

  Now, as I stood there getting dry-humped by this sicko, I realized I had nothing to be afraid of. What could he possibly do to me? He was stuck, just like I was, just like everyone else was, on this godforsaken subway. There was nowhere for him to hide, and if he tried to hurt me, I had a hundred angry commuters here to back me up.

  This guy was doing this because he didn’t think I had the courage to call him out. He figured he’d get away with it. He’d undoubtedly gotten away with it before.

  Well, fuck him.

  “Excuse me!” A voice boomed through the darkness—confident, commanding, and totally badass.

  To my surprise, the voice belonged to me.

  “May I have everyone’s attention?” I paused for effect, took a deep breath, and continued. “I’m sorry to bother everyone, but I just needed to let you all know that the man behind me is rubbing his dick against my backside.”

  Immediately, the crotch retreated. I turned my head as far as it would go, finally getting a close-up look at my molester. He was shorter than I’d envisioned, with greasy hair and thick glasses. An angry pimple flared pink against his pasty chin.

  What a sad little acne-ridden man.

  “It’s this guy.” I jerked my head back toward him. “Right here.”

  Snickers of disgust rose from the crowd, followed by loud reprimands.

  “Leave that young lady alone!”

  “The fuck is wrong with you, man?”

  “Can somebody alert the conductor?”

  Flashes went off as people whipped out their phones to snap pictures of him. He looked panic-stricken, eyes darting around the car at the irate mob. “I didn’t do anything—she’s making it up.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “We believe you,” said the woman sitting below me.

  The guy next to her moved to stand. “Here. Sit down. Get away from this guy.” I squeezed past him and lowered myself into his seat. He stood in my place, easily a foot taller than the perv, who was now cowering beneath his hostile stare.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Try that shit on me and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  The energy in the car seemed to pulse and swell. Some people continued to scream at the offender, while others asked me if I was okay. “Thank you so much for your concern, but I’m fine,” I said.

  And I meant it. In fact, I felt great. Exposing this shithead was empowering. Maybe next time, he’d think twice before jamming his hard-on against an unsuspecting commuter.

  Suddenly, the lights came back on. Cheers erupted from the crowd as the train lurched forward without an explanation. We inched along, intermittently stopping and starting, until we finally arrived at Hoyt-Schermerhorn. When the doors opened, a flood of passengers streamed out, carrying the subway pervert with them on the tide.

  I fol
lowed closely behind, feeling significantly less invincible than I had a few moments ago. My squad of protectors was dispersing, walking up the stairs toward the G train or the exit. Now I was alone, and if he wanted to, this guy could follow me home and get his revenge.

  Then I saw the cop. He was standing against a pillar, his eyes scanning the crowd as he mumbled into his walkie-talkie. A small but raucous group of people headed his way: the woman who told me she believed me, the man who gave me his seat, and, in the middle of it all, the perv, who was being manhandled by the others and appeared to be on the verge of tears.

  “This is him, Officer,” one of them said, thrusting him forward into the arms of the law.

  New Yorkers get a bad rap, but in a time of crisis, they will rally to your side without a second thought.

  A hand rested softly on my shoulder, and I turned to see an older woman with a furrow of concern in her brow. “Are you sure you’re okay, honey?”

  “Yes, I’m okay.”

  “That was a brave thing you did, putting him on the spot like that,” she said. “Lord knows I’ve dealt with my share of unwanted willies. If you ask me, they should cut it right off.”

  Her gnarled fingers sliced through the air like a pair of dick-snipping scissors.

  “Uh...thanks so much.”

  She smiled warmly, revealing a mouth full of yellowed dentures, the last person on earth you’d ever suspect of advocating for penile amputation. Women are often a lot tougher than they look.

  After giving the police a brief statement, I politely declined their offer of an escort home. The pervert was going with them, so I was no longer afraid of being hunted through the streets of Downtown Brooklyn.

  Instead, I enjoyed a leisurely stroll back to my place, feeling safe and free and brave. On the way, I decided to treat myself to an extra-special dinner, loading up on all my favorites at the corner bodega: Sno Balls, Cool Ranch, Chubby Hubby, and, purely for nutritional balance, some coconut water and a bruised banana. I couldn’t wait to throw on my pj’s, crawl into bed, pig out, and watch Jane the Virgin until my eyes were sore.

  But when I stepped inside the apartment, I realized getting to bed wasn’t going to be so easy. Not with fifty tin cans blocking the path from the foyer to my bedroom. And in the middle of the mess sat Vanessa, wearing safety goggles and wielding a cordless drill.