How to Hack a Heartbreak

by Kristin Rockaway

  “A tech company in Silicon Valley.”

  “Which one?”

  “Fluttr.”

  From the look of horror on her face, you’d have thought I’d said “Hell.”

  “Like I said,” I continued, “I don’t know what’s gonna happen. If I can score something with them, though, it’d be huge for my career.” And my debt pile.

  “No judgment.” She turned back to my closet, picking daintily through my clothes. “You need something that says ‘girlboss.’”

  “I don’t have much.” As a help desk analyst, my wardrobe consisted mainly of outfits I felt comfortable wearing while crawling around on the floor behind a malfunctioning printer. And that one discount blazer.

  “We’ll find something,” she said, then pulled her phone out of her back pocket. “I’ve got a Pinterest board for this.”

  “For what?”

  “How to shop your closet. Basically, how to take pieces you already own and mix them up to make something different. I know I pinned something in here about creating stylish ensembles from comfy basics.” She scrolled up, squinting at her screen. “Aha! Here it is.”

  We spent the next half hour going through my stretchy pants and billowy shirts and garbage bag dresses. Miraculously, Vanessa came up with two separate options for interview outfits that looked not just presentable, but totally chic.

  “The key is to accessorize,” she said, pulling out belts and earrings and something called “statement necklaces” from her own stash to pull the looks together.

  “You’re so good at this,” I said.

  “It’s fun.” She cinched a thick braided belt around my waist and smoothed the fabric above the buckle. “There, that’s perfect.”

  I assessed my reflection in the full-length mirror bolted to the back of my door. “Thanks. You saved me.”

  “No problem. Where are you staying in San Francisco?”

  “The Westin in Union Square.”

  “That’s a nice hotel. Fluttr must really be trying to win you over. While you’re there, you should grab a drink in the lobby at the Clock Bar. It’s super cute and they have the best cocktails.”

  “You’ve been to San Francisco?”

  “I used to live there.” She gathered my discarded clothes and hung them back up in the closet. “My ex worked at a tech start-up. He got in on the ground floor before they blew up really big.”

  That explained why she walked away from the marriage with a huge lump of cash. “Is he still there?”

  “Last I heard, he got fired. I’m not surprised—he’s a total cokehead.” She took a deep breath and closed my closet. “I actually looked him up on JerkAlert the other day. He’s one of those losers that sends out dick pics.”

  “No!”

  “Yeah. Obviously, I’m much better off now.”

  “Obviously.” I took off my shoes and tossed them into my open suitcase. “So, are you and Ray, like, officially an item?”

  She shrugged. “We’re taking it slow. I’m not thrilled about the fact that he’s living with his mother, but like you said, he can’t live with her forever. And who knows? Maybe he will change his mind. In the meantime, our apartment is getting some serious upgrades.”

  “I know. Those countertops are amazing.”

  “He’s got some ideas for an easy backsplash, too. Which reminds me, I wanted to show him this pin.”

  With her nose in her phone, Vanessa left the room, and I got to work packing the rest of my stuff. In addition to the outfits we’d assembled, I also made sure to bring my laptop, as well as all the handwritten notes I’d taken while JerkAlert was under development. The six-hour flight would be the perfect time to put together a PowerPoint presentation all about my motivation for creating the site, a brief high-level code walk-through, and some stats about web traffic and performance.

  Of course, I didn’t want to spend too long discussing performance, since it was clearly JerkAlert’s main weakness. My tweaks had helped, but the hosting service had its limitations, and it couldn’t handle much more in terms of load. Fortunately, this problem could be solved easily with an influx of Fluttr cash. Moving JerkAlert to a spendy but spacious server farm would speed things up significantly. I’d make sure they understood that.

  Packed and ready to go, I wheeled my suitcase out the door, waving goodbye to Ray and Vanessa, who were taking measurements in the kitchen. “Good luck,” they said in unison.

  “Thanks,” I called, and let the door close behind me.

  Between signal problems, congestion, and the general clusterfuck of New York City public transportation, it took about an hour and a half for me to get from my home on State Street to Terminal 4 at JFK Airport. As suspected, the security line was out of control, nothing but a disorganized clump of angry travelers, barely contained by a handful of apathetic TSA personnel. I meandered to what appeared to be the end of the line, but when I showed my boarding pass to the ticket agent, she shook her head.

  “You want Priority Boarding,” she said, gesturing to a much shorter, much calmer line of people. Happy people, who strolled through the metal detectors with their shoes still on their feet and their laptops still safely stowed in their bags.

  “I’m not TSA PreCheck,” I said.

  She glared at me. “You’re First Class. That gets you in over there. Unless you’d like to wait in this line.”

  First Class?

  I’d never flown First Class in my life. I hadn’t flown all that much, to be honest, but when I did, I was always crammed into those tiny coach seats in the back of the airplane, like a pleb. Things like free food and legroom and short security lines were completely foreign concepts to me.

  But, I guess, they wouldn’t be anymore, now that I was entering this new phase of my life. The high-tech, high-flying, Silicon Valley start-up phase.

  Sauntering through the Priority Boarding lane, I reveled in my new status, thinking about how different things were going to be. Daily lunch would no longer be a sad peanut butter sandwich; it’d be an overpriced organic salad packed with non-GMO superfoods. And forget fitness Groupons, because now I could afford my very own gym membership, at a fancy gym.

  Most important, I’d no longer be drowning in debt. Because once I got my big payday, the first check I’d write would be to my student loan servicer. I couldn’t wait to get the notice that my obligation was paid in full. I’d frame it and keep it on my desk, right next to my college diploma. Finally, this computer science degree was going to prove its worth.

  After flying through security, I made my way to the Sky Club, also known as the First Class Lounge. It was even more beautiful than I’d imagined it would be. A smiling woman greeted me at the front desk, confirming that yes, I belonged here, before handing me a complimentary glass of white wine. She directed me to a room filled with ambient music and plush seating, framed by glass walls overlooking the bustle of the runway. I loaded a plate up with munchies from the free snack bar, and settled into a comfy chair.

  This was the life.

  As I feasted on tomato basil flatbread crackers with a peppercorn parmesan spread, I connected my phone to the Sky Club’s WiFi. With the commotion going on all day, I’d barely had time to check in on social media. I started by loading my Twitter feed, where, to my delight and surprise, #JerkAlert was trending again.

  It took a minute to scroll through an interminable number of retweets and replies before I finally found the source of the drama: an article on BrosBeforeHos.com. At which point, my delight disappeared.

  JerkAlert: Where Trash Girls Talk Trash

  By Anony-bro

  Posted: Monday, April 23, 1:28 p.m.

  Fellas, we’ve all been there: you meet a chick on Fluttr, you hit it off, and you wind up banging. The next day, while you’re chilling at home trying to complete a mission in Mass Effect, she’s blowing up your pho
ne, asking to see you again. What gives?

  Everyone knows Fluttr is a hookup app. By design, it encourages superficial, split-second decision-making—not the smartest way to go about meeting the love of your life. Yet so many people (read: women) insist on treating it like a matchmaking service.

  Now these birdbrains have formed a support network in JerkAlert (that’s .biz, not .com...someone in marketing didn’t do their branding homework before coming up with that name), a crowdsourced directory of men whose Fluttr hookups expected a whole lot more than just a one-night stand—and when they didn’t get it, they got even.

  We get it. These girls are hurt. But, in some cases, the stuff they’re posting is downright cruel. So if you’ve ever swiped right and had it turn sour, you might wanna check out JerkAlert to see if you’re listed. Then change your name and move to a different neighborhood, pronto.

  With my heart in my throat, I texted the link to the girls:

  MEL:

  Whit, have you seen this?

  WHITNEY:

  Ugh, yes.

  DANI:

  WTF is BrosBeforeHos.com?

  WHITNEY:

  It sounds like some men’s rights activist bullshit.

  LIA:

  I’ve heard of it before. Jay subscribed to their newsletter.

  WHITNEY:

  That should’ve been your first clue that he was an asshole.

  LIA:

  MEL:

  Okay, but what about this article? I’m in the airport waiting for a flight to SF right now. What if Fluttr sees this? Should I be worried?

  WHITNEY:

  No. It’s publicity. You know how much traffic this’ll drive to your website?

  LIA:

  This article is garbage.

  DANI:

  Yeah, it’s garbage...but there’s some truth buried in there, too.

  WHITNEY:

  What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  DANI:

  Have you looked at the Reddit thread the author references?

  WHITNEY:

  Don’t have time. Running to SoulCycle. Give me the two-second summary.

  DANI:

  Basically, most of it’s a bunch of dudes whining and being sexist, but there were a few posts in there that gave me pause. JerkAlert was designed to out the most egregiously offensive Fluttr users, right? Cheaters, harassers, etc. But it seems to be turning into, for lack of a better term, a slam book.

  WHITNEY:

  Whatever.

  Dani sent permalinks to a few comments she felt exemplified her point. Like DJZellyZell, who said:

  Some girl I had a one-night stand with six months ago told everyone on JerkAlert I have a “teeny weenie.” But it’s not! It’s a fine size.

  Or SlimTheSlug, who said:

  Yeah, I made mistakes with my ex, I admit it. I was a bad boyfriend to her, but I was also a lot less mature than I am now. With this site, though, it’s like I’ll never be able to prove I’m a changed man. I’ll always be judged by my relationship with her, for the rest of my life. I can never just wipe the slate clean.

  I wasn’t sure why this comment made Dani second-guess the merit of JerkAlert. We all had to live with the choices we made for the rest of our lives. Who knew how SlimTheSlug had hurt his ex-girlfriend, or what he did to her? Maybe she was left with scars that would never heal.

  MEL:

  I’m not sure I agree with you.

  DANI:

  Fair enough. Take a look at this one, though.

  She sent one more comment, posted by Piquete92:

  I got dumped because of my JerkAlert profile. The stuff written there wasn’t even true, but she wouldn’t believe me. JerkAlert is terrible, Fluttr is terrible. The whole internet is terrible. It feeds our worst fears, incites paranoia, turns the past into the present, and ruins the magic of an unknown future. Sometimes I wish we would all unplug from it completely.

  There was hurt in those words. Pain, disappointment. At once, my thoughts went to Alex, the look on his face when I showed him his JerkAlert profile. His eyes were so sad. Like he couldn’t believe I’d betrayed him like that.

  But I hadn’t betrayed him. I was merely protecting myself, and I was right to do it. Maybe if he’d told me the truth from the very beginning, none of this would’ve happened. Maybe then, we might still be together.

  Or maybe not.

  Either way, now was not the time to play a game of what-if.It was time to get to work. So I put away my phone, took out my laptop, and started planning a kick-ass presentation.

  24

  If Vanessa was right, and Fluttr was trying to win me over, I’d say they succeeded in their endeavor.

  Nothing says “you’re special” quite like a trip in First Class. There’s no fighting for overhead space. Flight attendants are constantly smiling at you, offering hot towels and complimentary prosecco. You get a hot meal, and it actually tastes good. You can practically lie down.

  But the wooing didn’t end when the plane parked at the gate, because Fluttr sent a car to pick me up at the airport. As I descended the escalator to the lower concourse, I spotted a man standing there at the bottom, a placard in his hand reading M. STRICKLAND. He carried my bag to his Tesla Model S and delivered me comfortably to the Westin, where the seduction of the high life continued.

  The hotel suite was easily twice the size of my whole apartment. There were leather chairs, a Jacuzzi tub, a marble slab fireplace. On the dining table there was a bouquet of huge expensive-looking flowers, with a note:

  Looking forward to our meeting tomorrow. Hope you enjoy your stay.

  —The Fluttr Team

  With these views, how could I not enjoy my stay? From this vantage point, I could see Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge, the light of the full moon twinkling off the bay. Too bad I was in town for less than twenty-four hours; I would’ve liked the chance to tour around the city a bit. Maybe I could squeeze a little sightseeing in after my meeting and before my red-eye the next night. Although, if Fluttr hired me and I moved out here, I’d have all the time in the world to explore San Francisco.

  For now, I ordered up dinner—flat iron steak, a glass of merlot, a chocolate pot de crème, all on Fluttr’s dime—and reviewed my PowerPoint. I was more than ready for this. Tomorrow would be the first day of the next phase of my life.

  Which is why I turned in early, skipping that drink at the Clock Bar that Vanessa had recommended. When I showed up at Fluttr HQ, I didn’t want to be hungover. I wanted to be refreshed, and fortunately, sleep came easy on that luxurious California king. In the morning, I ate a light breakfast and dressed in one of my carefully curated outfits, cinching the belt around my dress exactly the way Vanessa had shown me, slipping into stack-heeled Mary Janes and a silver beaded statement necklace.

  I looked hot, I felt hot, and I was gonna take the tech world by storm.

  A Tesla pulled up to the curb of the Westin at 11:30, just as Sheila had promised. The drive from Union Square to Mid-Market was short, and in under ten minutes, I was standing in front of a seven-story art deco building, with relief sculptures and geometric columns and a gigantic Fluttr signboard hanging from the side. I pushed through the heavy glass doors and into the immense, echoing lobby, where a smiling security guard asked to see my ID before sending me up to the executive suite.

  Sheila met me at the elevator. “Hello, Ms. Strickland. How was your flight?”

  “It was great, thank you.”

  “Wonderful.” I followed her down a wood-paneled corridor with slate floors and antique sconces. “Can I get you anything to drink? Water, coffee?”

  “No, thank you. I’m good.” Nerves were starting to kick in. If I drank anything now, I’d have to interrupt my meeting with a bathroom break.

  She opened the door to a sunny space tha
t looked more like a lounge than a conference room. There was a massive sectional and matching tub chairs, a glass coffee table atop a color-block carpet. The high-definition TV mounted to the wall showed a steady scroll of Fluttr profiles, which were being swiped in real time. Across the top of the screen, the familiar slogan shouted: Don’t Let the One Get Away.

  “They’ll be with you in just a moment,” Sheila said, then closed the door, leaving me alone.

  With anxiety building inside of me, I focused outward, on the TV screen. It was almost meditative, watching Fluttr users fly by, the images so fleeting I could barely focus on one before it disappeared, replaced with a new one.

  Minutes passed that felt like hours, until eventually, the door popped open and in walked three men. Their outfits were almost identical: ripped jeans, sneakers, and Fluttr hoodies. I leaped out of my seat, feeling supremely stupid for spending so much time worrying about what to wear.

  “Melanie!” The guy in the lead held his arms out, like he wanted to give me a hug. Not wanting to make things awkward, I complied, holding my pelvis a good six inches away from him as our torsos embraced.

  Fortunately, the other two guys just shook my hand.

  “I’m Johnny,” he said, then pointed to his colleagues. “This is Will and Mitch.”

  “Hi, it’s so nice to meet you all. Thanks for bringing me out here.”

  “Oh, it was our pleasure.” He surveyed me from head to toe, then gestured toward the chair I’d been sitting in. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Did Sheila get you something to drink?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Good, good.” The three men sat in a line on the couch, directly across from me. Mitch and Will sat back, crossing their legs, while Johnny leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you. We’ve heard good things. Honestly, when I got your contact info, I was shocked to hear this was a solo project. You really don’t have any partners or anything?”

  “Nope, it’s just me.”