How to Hack a Heartbreak

by Kristin Rockaway

  There was no turning back now.

  * * *

  Coding with Priya was an unprecedented pleasure. Starting on Friday, we sat side by side on my living room couch, methodically working our way through the list of inPerson bugs and features that needed to be fixed. I ordered takeout for lunch, and provided an endless supply of junk food to fuel our coding marathons. We’d work for eight-to-ten hour stretches, sipping Cokes and staring at our screens until our eyes became dry and bloodshot. Then she’d head home for the night and I’d turn in, and we’d start the process all over again the next morning.

  After so many years of sharing office space with people who talked down to me, doubted my intelligence, or told me to smile through a tirade, working with Priya was a breath of fresh air. We treated each other with respect, shared ideas openly and without fear, and handled disagreements in a mature and civil manner. It was unlike any working relationship I’d ever had.

  While this was going on, RSVPs started to roll in for the Thursday mixer. For every “No” received, the software selected another comparable person from the database and sent a replacement invite. I kept a close eye on responses, making sure it went according to plan. So far, so good. Eventually, we reached our fifty-person limit, with a shorter waitlist to account for any last-minute cancellations.

  Then, on Tuesday night, at exactly 5:53 p.m., Priya and I closed out our final bug. After running through all our test cases, we confidently uploaded the official stable release of inPerson to the app store.

  “We did it!” Priya squealed.

  “I know. With a whole day to spare. I kind of can’t believe it.”

  “I can. We worked our butts off.”

  I laughed. “Thanks for all your help.”

  “Oh, it was no problem.” She zipped up her laptop bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Honestly, it was an honor to be included.”

  “Hopefully, this is just the beginning of much bigger things to come. For both of us.” I led her to the front door, where we hugged our goodbyes. “I’ll see you on Thursday night, right?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  After Priya left, I returned to my room and collapsed into bed, hoping to get a little bit of rest before the lead-up to the big event. Every time I closed my eyes, though, lines of code danced behind my lids. I picked up my phone, eager for some mindless distraction to wind down and de-stress.

  Though I’m not quite sure why I thought I’d find respite in the blathering maelstrom that is Twitter. Particularly when I checked out the “Trends for You” section and decided to scroll through the #inPerson hashtag.

  Most of it was positive. People had received their invitations and were excited for the big event. Others were speculating on venues and wondering who else was invited. Still others lamented their lack of an invitation and offered money to anyone willing to sell theirs. (Which was against our rules, and given our identification requirements, wouldn’t have worked, anyway.)

  But then I came across a troubling tweet, posted by a user who went by the handle BlitzkriegBoss:

  Why r u all creaming ur pants over this shitty app? Everyone knows the bitch in charge stole #inPerson from an ex-coworker.

  I had to read the sentence a couple of times to understand it. Was this person really accusing me of stealing inPerson?

  Against my better judgment, I clicked on BlitzkriegBoss’s profile and discovered a litany of tweets aimed at discrediting me. He said I was a thief, and a liar, and a “thirsthound,” whatever that meant. There was even a link to a Reddit thread, in which BlitzkriegBoss posted a lengthy diatribe explaining his stance in greater detail.

  I used to work with this bitch at Hatch before she got fired for being incompetent. She wasn’t even a coder—she worked the help desk, and she sucked at it. You wanna know the reason she got fired? Because she installed keyloggers on everyone’s laptop, including mine. She stole the code for inPerson from a qualified Hatchling, and now she’s trying to make a buck off it. I hope she’s exposed for the scam artist she is!

  It was hard to read the words through the rage tears forming in my eyes. Clearly, BlitzkriegBoss was none other than Josh Brewster, the founder of that totally original fantasy football app, Blitz. I knew he was a liar and a scumbag, but if I told anyone the truth about why I’d really installed a keylogger on his machine, who would believe me? Obviously, I had a vested interest in protecting my reputation. And after the way things went down in my last days at Hatch, there’s no way anyone there would have my back.

  Especially Greg, aka FreakinFizz69, who had this charming anecdote to add to the thread:

  Don’t forget she was hungry for the d. My partner banged her but dumped her ass when she went psycho. Heard she hacked into his computer to steal his code.

  Oh, God. This just kept getting worse. The further I scrolled, the more horrid the accusations became, all of them generally boiling down to the same core message: girls are whores who can’t code for shit. Most of the posts didn’t even seem like they came from Hatchlings. They were simply random men who sniffed out a trollfest and jumped at the chance to pile on.

  The internet is truly a terrible place.

  Normally, I’d have tried to brush off these accusations. They were baseless and juvenile. Besides, it’s not like people hadn’t tried to slam me on the internet before.

  For some reason, though, this felt different. This felt intensely personal. Because despite it being a bunch of faceless semi-anonymous commenters typing from behind the safety of a Reddit thread, they had a goal in mind: to smear me so badly that investors would run screaming away from inPerson. They didn’t want my start-up to get funded. They wanted to bring my career to a standstill before it even got going.

  Well, fuck them.

  I clicked the comment icon to open the message box to post my own reply. This slander couldn’t live out there on the internet, uncontested. I had to at least try to defend myself.

  But as my thumbs hovered over the virtual keyboard, I struggled to find the right words. What could I possibly say to convince people I wasn’t a liar and a thief? And why would anyone believe me over any of these other guys? I’d already had one big start-up deal fall through because my ownership of the code had been called into question. There’s no way another investor would want to take a chance on me when I was surrounded by all of these rumors.

  It was pointless.

  This was the end of it: my career, my reputation, my future in tech.

  At least, that’s what I thought until I closed the message box, and found a new comment posted by Piquete92:

  This thread is filled with hateful garbage written by sad, jealous men. Melanie Strickland is a talented and intelligent woman, fully capable of developing her own kick-ass app. I’ve seen her in action, and trust me, she didn’t need to be stealing anybody’s code—especially not any of the mediocre coders pervading Hatch’s noxious, bro-filled hallways. She’s a good person, deep down, and she deserves all the success I hope inPerson brings her.

  (By the way, Greg, I didn’t “dump her when she went psycho,” as you so eloquently stated. Things between us just didn’t work out, and what happened is nobody’s business—certainly not yours, and definitely not the internet’s.)

  Alex.

  My heart swelled. He had jumped to my defense, publicly shaming his partner and bashing Hatch in the process. Words like this could put his job at risk. Why would he do that for me, when he didn’t even bother to reply to my last text?

  I pulled up our weeks-old message thread and typed: Thank you for defending me. But before I hit Send, I reread it. It looked so impersonal. Black letters on a white background, a bunch of lifeless pixels strung together. How could five disembodied words express everything I felt in that moment?

  They couldn’t.

  With a stroke of my thumb, I deleted the sentence. Then I dropped my pho
ne in my purse, slipped on my shoes, and ran for the door.

  It was time to take this conversation off the internet and into real life.

  30

  If you want to smooth things over with your ex, working yourself into a frenzy before showing up at his apartment unannounced is generally not the best approach to take. But in my case, I didn’t see another option. There was no way to properly convey my thoughts in a text message, and it’s not like he was responsive to those, anyway. Plus, if I waited until I was less emotional, odds were I’d chicken out completely.

  No. It was best to go now, while I was still flustered and verklempt.

  On the A train into the city, I tried to think of the right thing to say. Some elegant way of expressing my gratitude and regret for everything he’d said, everything I’d done. “Thanks” and “sorry” just didn’t seem to cut it. Not when what I really wanted to do was convince him to give me another chance. To give us another chance.

  When the doors opened at Fulton Street, I jetted out onto the platform and flew up the stairs, rushing down John Street toward his luxury apartment building. As I sailed through the lobby toward the elevator bank, the doorman smiled at me, with what I thought was a hint of recognition. He’d remembered my face, even though it had been several weeks since my last visit.

  Ugh. My last visit. I stepped into the elevator and memories of that evening flooded back to me: Tampons under the sink. Jenny’s pert pink nipples. The accusations I’d lobbed like grenades, hoping to hit any available target, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction once I had. On the thirtieth floor, the elevator dinged, and I walked slowly to apartment 3017, weighed down by guilt and shame.

  I raised my hand to knock on the door, then paused. It wasn’t too late to end this. To turn around and go back and forget what I was about to do here. Which was, essentially, putting myself at risk of major heart-crushing humiliation. Because there was a good chance Alex would reject me. He could open this door, take one look, and say, “No, thanks.” Sure, he may have wished me well on the internet, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wished to be with me in real life.

  But I’d come this far, and I couldn’t back out now. I wanted this too much. Like Whit said, every relationship involves risk. Sometimes, you just have to cross your fingers and hope everything works out.

  So, I knocked.

  And a beautiful woman answered the door.

  Not quite the specific humiliation I’d had in mind, but mortifying nonetheless.

  “Hi!” She seemed awfully chipper and undisturbed by my presence. “Are you here to see Alex?”

  “Um...yes?”

  “’Kay, give him one second—he’s in the bathroom.” She turned around, her flowing brown locks whipping a sensuous trail behind her as she sashayed into the living room. God, she was gorgeous. It made me wonder what Alex ever saw in me.

  When I didn’t follow her inside, she waved me over. “You can come in.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” She must’ve thought I was a housecleaner. Or perhaps a delivery person. Carefully, I stepped over the threshold, but left the door open behind me. It wasn’t too late to leave. All I had to do was take one step backward and I could make a run for it down the hallway. If I did it fast enough, maybe he’d never know—

  “Mel?”

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  Too late now. There he was, crossing the room toward me, his brow knotted in a question. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or confused or just plain angry.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come,” I said.

  “No, no. I’m glad you’re here.”

  In the background, the gorgeous woman scrolled through her phone, completely indifferent to our conversation. I nodded my head in her direction. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  He looked over his shoulder, then back at me, and his eyes twinkled with amusement. “No, you’re not. That’s Gabby. She’s my little sister. The one from the Fluttr photo, remember?”

  Gabby glanced at me from over her phone and gave a little wave. I waved back, suddenly recognizing her hazel eyes and her curly hair.

  “Also?” Alex leaned in, his lips so close to me I felt his breath on my neck. “Those are her tampons under the sink. I tried to tell you they were hers that night, but you wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”

  God, I was an idiot.

  “Come in,” he said, “sit down. Gabby’s staying with me for the night, but she’s about to head out. Where are you going again, Gabs?”

  “I’m meeting Ravi and Alana in the Village.” She tossed her purse over her shoulder, kissed her brother on the cheek, and headed for the door. “Don’t wait up. Nice to meet you, Mel.”

  The door closed behind her with a bang. Alex sauntered over to the couch and sat down. “Gabby goes to college upstate, but she’s got a lot of friends in the city, so I wind up being her crash pad whenever she’s down here. She just had her last final yesterday, so I’m sure she’s gonna go nuts tonight.”

  “Right.” I nodded, feeling like a fool.

  “So that’s why she keeps her tampons here, and the razor and shaving cream, and anything else you might’ve seen when you were poking around in my bathroom.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” I was still standing, unable to move my feet. “I’m sorry about a lot of things.”

  “I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I let my anger and pride get in the way of reaching out to you sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t stand up for you when Greg was being a dick. And I’m sorry I wasn’t up-front with you about Jenny. I never should’ve lied and said it was a first date when it wasn’t.”

  “That doesn’t mean I was right to contact her. I should’ve just asked you about it if I was concerned. And I shouldn’t have kept you in the dark about everything she posted on JerkAlert. Or about the fact that JerkAlert was mine.” I blinked back tears, refusing to garble this apology with sobs. “I made a mess of everything, and I’m sorry.”

  We looked at each other for a moment, speaking a silent language only our eyes could understand. A gaze could say so much, and with more honesty than the most perfectly crafted sentence. In Alex’s eyes I saw remorse, I saw fear, I saw anger. But I also saw forgiveness. And that gave me hope.

  He patted the seat cushion next to him, an invitation I gladly accepted. “So,” he said, “JerkAlert’s gone.”

  “JerkAlert’s gone. I sent you a text when I wiped the database but...” I trailed off. We both knew how the sentence would end, anyway.

  He took a deep breath and pressed his fingertips together, like he was thinking carefully about his next words. “I didn’t know what to say. I started to type a reply, but when I read it back, it sounded too angry. I thought I’d let myself calm down before I responded. But I never worked up the nerve to send another one. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You didn’t owe me a response.”

  “No, I didn’t owe you one, but I wanted to send you one, all the same.”

  In a bold move, I reached out to touch his hand. He didn’t brush me away.

  “Well, I’m here now,” I said. “What did you want to say to me?”

  He laughed a little, nervous to be put on the spot. It was a daunting prospect, to speak honestly from the heart without the benefit of time to come up with the ideal words, to reread them, revise them, and proofread. To second-guess them before putting them out into the world. There’s no deleting the things that you say out loud.

  But he said them, anyway.

  “I wish things could’ve been different.”

  “Different how?”

  “I wish we’d both been honest, right from the start.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But, to tell you the truth, even if you’d been a hundred percent honest about Jenny, I would’ve found some way to sabotage what we had going on. It was like I wanted to catch you in
a lie. Like you said, I’m paranoid.”

  “To be fair, you’re paranoid with good reason. Everything that happened with your dad—”

  “My dad was my dad,” I cut him off, so tired of letting my father’s past actions impede my present. “I can’t keep projecting his mistakes on to every man I meet. Some guys are shitty. Some guys aren’t. You aren’t. And I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance to prove that to me.”

  He interlaced his fingers with mine, rubbing the pad of his thumb gently back and forth across my knuckles. “It’s okay.”

  “Anyway,” I said, taking a deep breath, “the reason I came here tonight is because I saw what you wrote on Reddit.”

  “Oh.” His cheeks flushed and he stopped stroking my hand.

  “Thank you for defending me. You didn’t have to.”

  “It wasn’t about whether I had to. It was about setting the record straight. Those assholes at Hatch think they can get away with saying whatever they want. But I wasn’t going to let them talk shit about you all over the internet.”

  “And I appreciate that so much. But, honestly, you need to delete that comment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re putting your job at risk. Bad-mouthing the Hatchlings like that will get you kicked out of the program.”

  He huffed and raked his free hand through his hair. “I’m not exactly worried about getting kicked out of the program.”

  “You should be,” I said. “Vijay’s vindictive. I’ve seen it myself.”

  “I know he is.” Alex swallowed hard and looked at me. “But I’m no longer working with Hatch.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Fizz lost its funding.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Look, it’s not like I didn’t see this coming a mile away.”

  “What happened?”

  Alex sighed, resigned. “We met with Vijay this morning. He said we weren’t up to the task of presenting to investors on Demo Day, and he was stripping us of our Hatchling status effective immediately. So, as of a few hours ago, I am officially unemployed.”