In other words, I wanted Alex to take one look at me and develop a sudden urge to whisk me off to the bedroom.
After giving my reflection a once-over, though, I decided I had a lot of work to do.
A quick Google of the phrase “date night beauty tips” brought up a treasure trove of advice on “how to knock his socks off.” I picked a link at random and began working my way through the items on “The Ultimate Pre-Date Checklist.”
For the next hour, I primped and preened, tweezing my eyebrows, filing my nails, shaving everything south of my collarbones. At item number seven, I hit a dead end:
Get Glowing: Brighten your complexion with a hydrating and restorative face mask.
There were no face masks in my limited arsenal of beauty supplies, and it was too late to pop out to the store to get one. But judging by the number of empty Sephora shopping bags we had crammed under the sink, Vanessa must’ve had something I could use to “clarify tone and improve texture.” Whatever that meant.
I emerged from my bedroom to look for her and, instead, found our entire shared living space covered in party paraphernalia. Flowers, streamers, and strings of fairy lights littered the couch. Silver tubs filled with bags of ice and bottles of rosé were strewn around the kitchen. Our counters overflowed with all manner of snacks and serving trays. And, of course, there were fifty tin-can lanterns in the foyer.
It was like a Pinterest board exploded inside the apartment.
Vanessa popped up from behind the breakfast bar with a giant bag of marshmallows in her hand. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” Instantly, I felt a pang of guilt. I’d been so consumed by beauty prep that I hadn’t considered asking her if she needed any help with party prep. Even though this was technically her shindig, and I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of getting in trouble with the landlord, it’s not like I’d tried to talk her out of hosting it. Our rooftop did have incredible views of the city. It would be the perfect backdrop for a springtime get-together.
Or, say, a first kiss.
“There’s a lot of stuff going on here,” I said. “How can I help?”
She tore open the bag and waved away my offer. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”
With a meaningful glance toward the cluster of tin cans blocking the front door, I asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s totally fine. I have a system.” One by one, she plucked the marshmallows from the bag and placed them gingerly on a tray, aligning them flawlessly, discarding those with surface imperfections. “Oh, I meant to ask you—how many of your friends are coming? So I know how much food to put out.”
“Just Dani, Whitney, and Lia. And Lia’s bringing her boyfriend.” I paused, swallowing a squee. “And I invited a guy, too.”
“A guy?” She cocked her head, intrigued. “Tell me more.”
“His name’s Alex. I met him at work.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-six.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“I told you, I know him from work. He’s with one of the start-ups there.”
“Hmm.” She pursed her lips and squinted. “That could go either way.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, if all goes well, he could be making a ton of money in a few years. But if he can’t find a good investor, he’s one step away from bankruptcy.”
“I don’t really care about how much money he makes.”
“Okay, sure.” She winked, like we were sharing some secret. “What about his family?”
“What about them?”
“Who are they? Where do they live?”
“I have no idea. Why does that even matter?”
“His relationship with his parents can influence so much about how he acts toward you. A clingy mom, a domineering dad—these things can cause problems down the line. It’s important to know what you’re dealing with up front.”
Geez. If this was the kind of background check Vanessa put all her first dates through, it was no wonder she was still single.
It was one thing to screen prospective partners for assholish behavior, like sending dick pics or committing adultery. But it was quite another to research their family history and calculate their earning potential. Not only was it bonkers, it was putting the cart before the horse. First see if there’s any chemistry, then start inquiring about messed-up parents.
Though having messed-up parents seemed irrelevant. After all, I didn’t want to be judged by my dysfunctional family.
Eager to change the subject, I said, “I was wondering if you had a face mask I could use.”
“Of course.” She dropped the empty marshmallow bag on the counter and rubbed her palms together. “What kind do you want?”
“Uh...something to clarify tone and improve texture?”
She nodded sharply. “I’ve got just the thing. GlimmerGlam makes this colloidal silver mask with algae plasma. Let me go grab it for you.”
After Vanessa disappeared into her bedroom, I leaned in for a closer look at the tray she was putting together. The marshmallows were on the top level of a three-tier stand. The second tier held an artfully arranged stack of graham crackers, while squares of chocolate took up the bottom. A hand-lettered sign beside it read S’mores Station.
Super cute, but it’s not like we could have a campfire on the roof. Could we?
A knock came at the door. I gently kicked the tin cans aside, clearing a pathway to answer it. I flung it open to see Ray standing in the hallway, a ladder slung over one of his burly shoulders.
He smiled politely. “Hi, Melanie, how you doin’?”
Oh, shit.
My first instinct was to shove him forward and close the door, hiding the evidence of the forthcoming crime from his view. But the man was twice my size. I could lean all my body weight against his broad, brawny chest and he wouldn’t budge an inch.
Instead, I shimmied to my right, forming a human shield between his eyes and the catastrophe going on behind me. Of course, as I did that, I completely forgot about the tin can collection on the floor. Pretending not to hear them crash and clatter around my feet, I said, “I’m great! Totally great. How can I help you?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but fell silent when his gaze drifted over my shoulder to see inside.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I panicked, grasping for a plausible lie that would explain away the existence of a S’mores Station in the middle of our apartment. Then his face broke out in a goofy grin. “Hey, Vee.”
Vee?
I spun around and saw Vanessa strolling toward us, entirely untroubled, jar of GlimmerGlam in hand. “Hi, Ray.”
“You ready for me to hang up those lights?”
She nodded, grabbing a tangle of wires from the couch and foisting them into his arms. “If you can string them diagonally from the chimney to the access door in a symmetrical crosshatch pattern, that’d be great.”
“I remember the pictures you showed me.” He looked at me and said, “You believe this girl’s got me surfin’ Pinterest?”
So that’s why Vanessa wasn’t worried about getting in trouble with the landlord. Ray had a thing for her. If anyone complained about the party, he wouldn’t turn her in. Not with that lovestruck look on his face.
“Hurry up,” she said. “The party starts in two hours. When you’re done, I need you to set up the tables and bring the rest of this stuff upstairs.”
“All right, all right. I’m on it, boss.”
With that, he lugged his ladder and the lights down the hall and disappeared into the stairwell.
Vanessa closed the door and saw my mouth hanging open. “What?”
“Are you dating Ray?”
She scowled, scandalized by my question. “Of course not!”
“Well, he’
s obviously in love with you.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“Yeah, he is. Why else would he be helping you with all of this?”
“Because it’s his job.”
“It’s not his job to string up fairy lights for your illicit rooftop party. In fact, I’m pretty sure this could be putting his job at risk.”
She flinched, like she hadn’t yet considered this possibility. But the concern quickly faded from her face. “You worry too much.”
This coming from the woman who conducted an investigative report on every guy she’d ever considered dating.
“Here.” She handed me the cosmetic jar. “Apply a thin coat, leave it on for fifteen minutes, and your face will be taut as a drum skin.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Vanessa returned to her spot behind the kitchen counter, and I retreated to my room to resume my groom-athon. Kneeling in front of the mirror, I smeared the pearly white gel onto my face, which promptly hardened into a shiny, silver mask. When it was done, I looked like one of those living statue street performers that hung out at the Seaport.
I replaced the lid and inspected the label. GlimmerGlam made some bold claims about the efficacy of their product. Was this truly going to “infuse my cells with energy and empower my skin”? Not likely.
Turning the jar over in my hands, my eyeballs nearly popped out of my skull when I read the price tag on the bottom: a hundred and nineteen dollars. How could Vanessa afford this stuff? And she was so quick to share it with me. This single serving of face mask must’ve cost at least twenty bucks, probably more. I’d have to throw in a little more toward our grocery bill next month to make up for it.
While waiting for the mask to do its magic, I signed into the JerkAlert dashboard to check up on the current stats. Ever since Whit sent the upgraded link to “a few more people,” hundreds of new records had been added to the database. The site had even found an audience beyond New York City. As I scrolled through the latest additions, I found a ghoster from LA, a con man from Austin, and a guy from Washington, DC, who liked to call women he matched with on Fluttr “whores.”
JerkAlert was rapidly turning into a nationwide directory of douchebags.
I got so wrapped up in reading profiles that I lost track of time and left the mask on for a full half hour. It didn’t seem to matter, though. After I peeled it off, my skin looked fine. Holding my face close to the mirror, I searched for signs of empowerment or energy infusion, but came up empty. I looked pretty much the same as I always did. This mask was a rip-off.
After that, I lost steam on the whole beauty checklist thing. I wanted to look good—jaw-dropping, even—but the truth was, there was no hiding who I really was from Alex. He’d already seen me in the office, with my drab business attire and disempowered skin and, despite that, he was still interested. Besides, did I really want to run through this checklist every time we had a date?
So rather than squeeze into Spanx and stilettos, I plucked my favorite maxi dress from the closet. It was flowing and gauzy, with a flattering empire waist and a plunging back. I slipped on some comfy flats and let my hair fall over my shoulders in natural waves. My only makeup consisted of smudged eyeliner and a sheer shimmery lip gloss.
Without meaning to sound like a total egomaniac, I thought I looked pretty damn hot. Hopefully, Alex would feel the same way.
By the time I emerged from my bedroom, it was a little after eight. The mess in our common area had been cleaned up, and there was no trace of Vanessa or Ray. With festivities presumably underway, I grabbed my phone and headed upstairs to the roof. The access door was ajar, so I pushed it open and stepped directly into a party stylist’s wet dream.
The first thing I noticed was the lighting. Vanessa was right: those tin can lanterns made the whole space twinkle. Coupled with the fairy lights sparkling overhead, and the Manhattan skyline in the distance, the rooftop had an otherworldly feel.
At the same time, the decor made it homey. Distressed area rugs and oversize pillows covered the ground. There were ultralow tables constructed from wooden pallets, adorned with lacy tablecloths and flower arrangements. Off to the side was a bar area featuring pitchers of something pink and a snack table with a spread of finger foods.
But the pièce de résistance was the infamous S’mores Station. It was set back against the redbrick chimney, the hand-lettered sign hanging from the wall. And beside it was a makeshift fire pit, constructed from a metal bucket and a heaping pile of lava rock. A few early arrivals were already roasting marshmallows over the flames.
“Whaddya think?” Vanessa had sidled up behind me. “Did I go over the top?”
“No.” Well, maybe a little. “It looks incredible.”
“Thanks.” She led me to the bar and filled a mason jar with pink liquid. “Try this sangria.”
The first sip was sweet and tangy on my tongue. “Yum.”
“I made it with rosé and raspberries.”
“Delicious.” I scanned the growing crowd, looking for familiar faces. Specifically, I was looking for Alex, but he was nowhere to be seen.
There was a group of guys in the corner, big, beefy dudes in Dickies and tight T-shirts. Not really my type, but pleasant to look at.
“Those are Ray’s friends,” Vanessa said, following my gaze. “See? He didn’t do any of this because he’s in love with me. He did it because he wanted to have a rooftop party, too.”
“So, you guys are, like, cohosting this?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Sort of.”
“Where is he now?”
“Hooking up speakers. We need music here, desperately.” Waggling her fingers at someone behind me, she patted my arm and said, “I’ll catch up with you later,” before sashaying away.
I took a long, slow sip of sangria and walked toward the parapet at the edge of the rooftop. This view of the city was postcard-perfect. Before I moved to New York, this was how I’d pictured it: flashy, flawless, highly romanticized. I never considered the reality of day-to-day living in this town. How I’d have to keep a job I hated just to pay my rent. How I’d have to fend off erections in a crowded subway car.
Then again, it wasn’t all bad. I’d made some great friends here. Like Whit and Dani, who were striding through the roof access door now, smiling at me.
“Hey, girl!” Whit bellowed, arms outstretched for a hug. “You look super hot.”
“Thanks, so do you. Where’s Lia?”
“She’s coming with Jay,” Dani said.
“Oh. I’m excited to finally meet him—aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I’m really curious to see what he’s like in person.”
“Whatever.” Whit motioned toward the bar. “I need a drink.”
She poured two mason jars full of sangria and handed one to Dani before topping off my half-empty glass. “What’s new with you two?”
“I had a shitty date last night,” Dani said.
“Where’d you meet her?” Whit asked.
“Iris.”
“So why was it shitty?”
“We had nothing in common. She’s a fashion blogger living off a trust fund. Meanwhile, I’ve been wearing these—” Dani pointed to her well-worn motorcycle boots “—since I was an undergrad.”
“So what? You’re supposed to be sharing a bed, not a closet.”
“It wasn’t about the clothes. It was about what the clothes represented. Our disparate backgrounds. Our divergent values.”
Whit popped a raspberry in her mouth. “She was dumb, wasn’t she?”
“As a rock. Our conversation stalled before we’d even ordered our drinks.” Dani sighed and stared into her mason jar. “I’m so tired of dating. Part of me just wants to give up, and I might as well. Studies show the stigmatization of singlehood is waning, anyway.”
“Have you tried Instabang?” Whit aske
d. Dani opened her mouth to protest but Whit quickly said, “I’m serious. Sometimes an NSA hookup can reinvigorate you. Think of it as a pit stop for fuel on a long-haul flight.”
“That’s repulsive.”
“Don’t be so judgmental.”
“I’m not being judgmental, I’m simply—” Dani stopped midsentence and pointed toward the door. “Oh, there’s Lia.”
I turned around and spotted her weaving our way.
“Hey, guys!” Her voice was a high-pitched trill. She seemed excessively chipper, like a cheerleader who’d downed a case of Red Bull. “Sorry I’m late, but Jay was taking forever so I told him I’d just meet him here.”
“Why was he taking forever?” Whit asked.
“He’s working.” Lia threw up her hands. “I know, who works on a Saturday night, right? At this rate, I’m half expecting him to bail on Cabo.” Her smile faltered a bit.
“I’m sure he’s not gonna bail on Cabo,” Dani said.
“Of course he’s not,” I added. “He’s probably working all these extra hours so he can afford to take the time off.”
“I know. You’re right.” Lia let out a shrill laugh. “I’m being dramatic. He’ll be here soon.” She turned to me and asked, “Where’s your man?”
Whit scowled. “What man?”
“Just this guy from work I’ve been flirting with. Alex. I invited him tonight.” I stole a glance down at my phone. 8:22. Maybe he was gonna pull a Jay and bail, too. “It’s totally casual, though. Like, he might show, he might not.”
God, I was an idiot. I’d used that stupid silver face mask for nothing. Didn’t I know better by now than to let myself get emotionally invested in some guy who was only going to disappoint me in the end?
Men are the worst.
Suddenly, the music started up, a sexy swell of bass and synth. I felt warm all over, as if someone had switched on a heat lamp and aimed it directly at my body. It must’ve been the alcohol coursing through my veins. One glance at my empty mason jar confirmed my suspicion.
The bass thumped, the synth pulsed, the heat continued to rise. Maybe it was more than the alcohol. I raised my head, searching for the source of the unexpected warmth.
How to Hack a Heartbreak Page 8
