How to Hack a Heartbreak Page 7

  An angry, anonymous shadow that had been turned into a meme.

  It seemed bored basement boys everywhere were having a blast creating their own versions of #DickInTheDark. Taking stills from the video, they Photoshopped cartoon penises, cylindrical vegetables, and a whole host of other phallic objects into the space behind my silhouette. One budding videographer had added a soundtrack to the original clip, auto-tuning my voice and dubbing it the “#DickInTheDark Remix.” It had been posted to YouTube less than twelve hours ago, and had over fifty thousand views.

  Needless to say, I was humiliated. On the plus side, it was a relatively private humiliation. My name wasn’t popping up in any online comments, I didn’t get any double takes on the street, and, as far as I could tell, nobody besides Whit, Lia, and Dani knew it was me.

  At first, I was afraid the Hatchlings might know, too. When I arrived to work on Thursday morning, I half expected to find my cubicle wallpapered with meme printouts, or the “#DickInTheDark Remix” blaring over the loudspeaker.

  Obviously, though, that was a ridiculous notion. My colleagues never listened to a word I said, so of course they didn’t recognize my voice in the video. When I skittered into the office that morning, no one looked up from his computer screen. I was my usual invisible self.

  At eleven o’clock, everyone gathered in the large conference room for our monthly all-hands meeting, where the management team spent an hour boring us to tears. We heard from Charles in Accounting, who assured us we were solvent. Then our chief innovation officer, Arnaud, blathered on about “radical breakthroughs in bleeding-edge technology” for thirty minutes. Finally, our HR manager, Benny, took the mic to remind us of all the things we had to do to remain in compliance with New York’s labor laws.

  “Just a reminder, people—you need to have your annual workplace harassment training modules completed by the end of the month.”

  Sighs of annoyance filled the room.

  “Yeah, I know, I know.” Benny put his hands up. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Our attorneys make us do it to mitigate potential liability. It takes ten minutes. Just get it done so I don’t have to come after you.”

  “Wouldn’t that be considered harassment?” one of the Hatchlings yelled out, setting off a ripple of laughter through the audience.

  Benny chuckled. “You’ll have to take the training to find out. Okay, that’s all from my end. I’m gonna hand it off to Vijay to close out the meeting.”

  The crowd clapped as Vijay shook Benny’s hand and took his place behind the podium. As the founder and managing partner of Hatch, Vijay was the most powerful person in the room. But with his plaid shirt and oversize glasses, he came across as an ordinary guy. Nothing about him screamed “millionaire,” which he was, several times over, thanks to those fifteen years he put in at Google developing search algorithms.

  Now, he was taking all that money he’d amassed and investing it in start-ups he believed in. Every Hatchling who walked through the door had Vijay’s personal stamp of approval. And at the end of each incubation period, his influence helped decide which Hatchlings received Series A funding and which ones fizzled into obsolescence.

  “Today,” he said, “I’d like to take a moment to chat about the Hatch philosophy. What we come to this office every day to do. And, more importantly, why we do it.”

  I slumped down in my chair, preparing to tune out until Vijay was done talking. Every month, I sat through some version of this same speech, and it was never relevant to me. These were rah-rah pep talks meant specifically for the Hatchlings. Praise for their innovation, encouragement for their effort, and enthusiasm for their future success.

  All I did was fix their broken laptops. Vijay had no clue who I was.

  “Three years ago, I started Hatch with a purpose—to provide a supportive environment for entrepreneurs to nurture and develop their ideas. And not just any ideas. I was on the hunt for ideas that would make a significant impact. Ideas that would revolutionize the way we do business, the way we interact, and the way we live our lives.”

  Was he serious with this? The current crop of Hatchlings were developing apps for fantasy football and ridesharing, ideas that had been executed a million times before, in a million different ways. There wasn’t anything revolutionary or impactful about them.

  You know what was revolutionary? JerkAlert. Nothing else like it existed. It was the first public forum where women could easily band together to rise up against the tyranny of dick pics. With one little website, I was making the world a safer place.

  And those changes I’d added last night considerably improved the JerkAlert experience. On my way to work this morning, Whitney texted to tell me she loved them.

  Perfect! she’d said. You killed it! I’m gonna send it to a few more people, ok?

  Great! I’d responded, and practically skipped the rest of the way to the office. When I arrived at my cubicle, not even the sight of Bob stacking desktops on the floor behind my chair could bring my spirits down.

  “These need to be upgraded by the end of the day,” he said, and I cheerfully obliged. After all, my days at Hatch were numbered. Soon, I’d be able to strike out on my own, and then I’d never have to sit in one of these tedious all-hands meetings again.

  Vijay continued his sermon, his hands peacefully clasped upon the podium. “While there are many start-up incubators running successfully in the United States today, I believe the key characteristic setting Hatch apart from the rest is our unyielding commitment to our core values—integrity, decency, and respect.”

  I thought of the “Free Mustache Rides” sticker on Josh’s laptop. Or the barrage of curses and insults the Hatchlings regularly threw my way. Or how Bob expected me to grin and bear it all without complaint.

  These core values were a joke.

  Surely, I wasn’t the only one who realized this. Sitting up, I stole a few discreet glances around the conference room. Guys perched on the edges of their seats, hungrily devouring every word rolling off Vijay’s lips. Eyes focused, heads nodding, their attentiveness on full display.

  It was all an act, put on for Vijay’s benefit. It had to be. Because these Hatchlings sure as hell weren’t committed to living their professional lives with anything close to integrity, decency, or respect.

  “In conclusion,” Vijay said, “I want to say that I’m proud of the work we do here. Hatch start-ups have the power to change the world.”

  The room erupted in another round of applause, a few hoots arising from the back, before everyone stood up and filed into the hallway. My stomach rumbled. It was lunchtime, and there was a peanut butter sandwich with my name on it waiting for me in my purse.

  But during my earlier scan of the conference room, I’d noticed Alex was MIA. So instead of heading right back to my desk, I casually veered to the left, toward the Fizz work area. There, I found him hunched over his keyboard, shoving heaping forkfuls of salad into his mouth between frantic fits of typing.

  Clearly, he was drowning in code. Not wanting to interrupt his flow, I stopped short, ready to double back toward my cubicle. Then suddenly he sat up, stretching his arms way over his head. His shirt lifted away from his waistband, and my eyes dropped to the sliver of abdomen peeking out. Hard, tan, toned.

  “Hey, Mel.”

  I jumped at the sound of his voice. When I looked up, his mouth was twisted in that mischievous little half smile. I’d been caught gawking. Oops.

  “Hey,” I said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “No bother.” He wiped his lips with a napkin and spun his chair around to face me. “What’s up?”

  “Just dropped by to say hi. I didn’t see you at the all-hands meeting.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. I’ve been so wrapped up in this.” He waved his hand over his laptop, reference books, sticky notes, crumpled-up pieces of paper. “Did I miss anything
good?”

  “Nope. They’re always boring and pointless.”

  “So, basically, they’re Fluttr dates.”

  “Basically.” I broke out in a belly laugh, happy for the comic relief after the tragedy of that miserable meeting. Alex laughed, too, our eyes like opposing tractor beams drawing each other in. For a split second, we were the only two people on the entire twenty-ninth floor.

  Then Greg materialized, seemingly out of thin air. He was looking at my face, studying me, almost as if he was seeing me for the very first time.

  “Wassup?” he said.

  “Uh...nothing.”

  I turned to Alex, wondering if he noticed these creepy vibes Greg was giving off. But his gaze was already sliding back to his computer screen, the wheels turning in his brain as he tried to solve some programming problem.

  “I’m gonna get back to work,” I said.

  Alex grinned and glanced my way. “Talk to you later.”

  “Later,” added Greg. He simpered, his tongue touching the tip of his front teeth.

  So gross.

  I returned to my desk, to the peanut butter sandwich and the stack of desktops awaiting upgrades. By 4:59, I’d finished them all. At five o’clock, I was in a bathroom stall, changing into my sweats. Five minutes later, I was already headed out the door, toward the uptown 4 train, on my way to meet Lia for our weekly workout.

  Every Thursday after work, Lia and I had a fitness date. We started planning them a few months back, after one particularly gluttonous all-you-can-eat happy hour experience at El Cantinero. The two of us drooped over our supersized margaritas, struggling to digest the countless flautas and enchiladas we’d inhaled.

  “I feel unhealthy,” she said. “Like I’ve got refried beans and tequila pumping through my veins.”

  “In a way, you do.”

  She groaned. “I need to start working out.”

  “Me, too,” I said, cramming another salsa-laden chip in my face.

  “Hey, wait.” She straightened, brightening. “I just remembered I have this Groupon for a kickboxing class.”

  “Why do you have that?”

  “I think I bought it after the last time we came here and stuffed ourselves.” She pulled out her phone and started swiping. “It looks like they’ve still got some available. Wanna get one and go with me? They’ve got a class open this Thursday after work.”

  “Sure. Sounds fun.”

  And it was fun. It was also grueling and excruciating. I left with bruises all over my body. The next morning, each step I took was torture.

  By the weekend, I started feeling better. Stronger. Healthier. But on my meager budget, paying full price for these classes was out of the question. That’s when we decided to scour Groupon for fitness deals, switching up our workout routines based on whatever was cheap. We committed to Thursday nights, and hadn’t missed a single week since.

  Tonight’s class was in Union Square at a rowing studio, which was essentially a small room packed from wall to wall with rowing machines. When I walked through the door, Lia was already there, decked out in mesh-panel leggings and a sports bra. She’d plopped her purse onto the machine beside her.

  “Saved this for you,” she said.

  “Thanks.” I carefully lowered myself into the sliding seat and looked around. “What do you think a rowing class will be like?”

  “I watched a YouTube video last night. It seems pretty intense.”

  “Ugh.” I moaned, not because of the intensity of the upcoming workout, but because the mention of YouTube sent me spiraling into a vivid flashback: cartoon penises. Auto-tune. #DickInTheDark.

  Lia knew exactly what I was thinking. She squeezed my forearm and gave me a sad smile. “Are you doing okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s really not that bad. Nobody knows it’s me in that video, besides you guys.”

  “I’d love to find out who started the whole meme thing. These people are losers with too much time on their hands.”

  “In their defense, some of them do have good Photoshop skills.”

  Our conversation was cut off by three sharp claps. A woman with massive traps and a velociraptor tattooed on her bulging thigh stalked into the room, yelling, “Are we ready to go, people, or are we ready to go?”

  The question was hypothetical, obviously, because thirty seconds later, the small space resounded with the zip and whoosh of a dozen rowing machines in motion. Five minutes in, I was short of breath; ten minutes in, I could no longer feel my feet.

  Whenever I got to this point in a strenuous workout, panting and snuffling like a dehydrated dog, I’d usually start half-assing it. Go a little slower, ease up on the weight. Stop pushing myself so hard. Give myself a chance to catch my breath.

  Today was different. Today, rather than giving up, I conjured images of reasons why giving up wasn’t an option. Reasons I needed to grow stronger, to build stamina, to show the world I was not to be fucked with.

  Each yank on those handlebars had a meaning.

  Yank. I was going to make it someday, on my own.

  Yank. These Hatchlings would be sorry they ever crossed me.

  Yank. The same goes for that subway perv and the jerks who turned it into a giant internet joke.

  Before I knew it, we were in our final sprint. Our instructor screeched at us, “Go as fast you can! Give it your all!” I yanked and pulled and heaved, sweat pouring off my forehead and splattering onto the parquet floor.

  These men will not break me.

  A buzzer rang out, sudden and terrifying.

  “That’s it, everyone! Good work!” She clapped again, then added, “Make sure you get your stretches in,” before disappearing behind a door marked Employees Only.

  My whole body throbbed. I leaned forward, head in hands, willing my heart rate to return to normal. All my worry and anger were gone, replaced by fire, passion, and, inexplicably, burning sexual desire. I pictured Alex, his sliver of stomach, the tuft of hair on his chest beneath his shirt, my hands exploring—

  “That was weird, wasn’t it?” Lia said, busting apart my fantasy. “Good, but weird.”

  I sat up and huffed out a breath. “Yeah. Weird.”

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re grinning like an idiot.”

  “Am I?” My hand flew to my face, patting my cheeks, my lips. Yup, that was a smile. “I guess I’m just feeling good.”

  “Good! If this place ever does another Groupon, we’ll have to get in on it.”

  We gathered our belongings and walked down the stairs to the street. Out on Fifth Avenue, we exchanged sweaty hugs.

  “Are you headed to Jay’s now?” I asked.

  “Nah, he’s working late.”

  “What does he do again?”

  “He’s in finance.”

  “Doing what?”

  She gave me a funny look. “Honestly, I don’t even know. He’s explained it a few times, but I always zone out when he talks about it. Something to do with trading. All I know is it’s boring as hell.”

  We laughed, then she added, “Actually, you can ask him yourself on Saturday night.”

  “Is he coming to the party?”

  “Yup. We’ve been together almost three months now. I told him it’s way past time for him to meet my best friends.”

  “Awesome. I can’t wait.” I looked down at my feet, hesitant to say the next words. As if admitting it might jinx me. “I’m bringing someone, too.”

  “Who?” Her eyes bulged, fingers wiggling in excitement. “Did you meet someone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “On Fluttr?”

  “No, at work. His name’s Alex. He’s a Hatchling. Super nice and funny.” And hot.

  She grabbed my hand and squeezed, squealing in delight.
That was one of the things I loved most about Lia: when her friends had good news to share, she always reacted with unfettered joy. There was never any pettiness or jealousy with her. Just genuine delight.

  If anyone deserved happiness, it was her.

  “That’s so exciting! Congrats!”

  “Thanks. Here’s hoping.”

  Squeezing my hand one more time, she smiled. “I have a good feeling about this one, Mel.”

  And though the words were on the tip of my tongue, I was too afraid to say them out loud.

  I have a good feeling about this one, too.

  9

  In my time as a single woman, I’d been on a lot of dates.

  A lot of dates.

  But it had been a while since I’d been on a date that I actually cared about.

  I mean, in a way I cared about all of them. If I didn’t think there was some tiny fragment of a chance that a guy could become my happily-ever-after, I never would’ve bothered to swipe right on him in the first place.

  The problem was, I’d encountered so many terrible men, suffered through so much disappointment and humiliation, that I’d stopped looking forward to dating. It had become a chore, a burdensome task I had to check off my to-do list: Don’t wanna die alone? Better go have a drink with this random guy from the internet!

  So while I remained vaguely hopeful and remarkably persistent, my enthusiasm for dating had waned. I stopped investing myself emotionally. I stopped caring.

  Which is why it took some time for me to identify the source of that funny feeling in my stomach. It started as a little twinge on Saturday morning. By afternoon, it had morphed into a full-blown tremor. When I checked the clock at half past five and realized Alex would be arriving in less than three hours, my belly was churning like a stormy sea.

  Only then did it hit me: I was nervous.

  And I was nervous because I actually cared.

  See, Alex wasn’t some random guy from the internet. Our flirtation had not been restricted to skillfully angled selfies and text bubbles; it was real life, in person. Whether or not I liked it, I was already emotionally invested. I wanted tonight to be amazing.