How to Hack a Heartbreak

by Kristin Rockaway

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be—it’s for the best. Greg was the worst business partner I could’ve asked for. I’ll be happy to never see him again.”

  I looked around his apartment, a well-appointed studio in a luxury apartment building in the heart of Manhattan’s Financial District. There was no way he could continue to afford this rent without a salary.

  “What’s next?” I asked.

  With a shrug, he said, “I’ve got a bit of savings, thankfully. The old job may have been soul-crushing, but they gave good holiday bonuses. It’s enough to tide me over until I can find a new gig.”

  “Are you still looking to work with a start-up?”

  “Yeah, as long as the people aren’t total jerks, like they were at Hatch.” He shot me that dazzling smile. “Why, you got any leads?”

  “Unfortunately, there are no job openings at inPerson right now.”

  A look of genuine disappointment appeared on his face. “That’s too bad.”

  “But you could come to the next New York Techie Support Network meeting. I’m sure you’d find some totally un-jerklike people there to connect with.”

  “That’s a good idea. When is it?”

  “It hasn’t been scheduled yet. I’m too preoccupied planning the inPerson mixer right now.”

  “Oh, yeah. I read all about that. Are you excited?”

  I nodded. “Excited, yeah, but mostly nervous. There are so many moving pieces and lots of last-minute stuff to take care of.”

  “Well, I’ve got plenty of free time right now, so if you need an extra set of hands to help with coding or whatever, I’m your man.”

  “Thanks, but the code’s all done.” I looked at his hands: strong, capable, wholly on offer. “I could use some help the night of, though. How do you feel about tending bar?”

  “Never done it before, but I’ll give it a shot.”

  “Great. That’ll actually be a huge help.”

  “Great.”

  An awkward silence ensued, the kind where you’re not only unsure of what to say next, you’re unsure if there’s anything left to say at all. Maybe there wasn’t. Maybe there was nothing left for me to do now but go home.

  I got to my feet. Alex followed suit.

  “Listen, Mel, thanks for coming over. I’m really glad we cleared the air.”

  “Me, too.”

  The two of us stood there, staring, silently daring each other to move. Then I saw it, the flicker of hope in Alex’s eyes, and I knew it wasn’t too late.

  I flung my arms around his neck, pulling him close, pressing my hips to his hips, my chest to his chest. And we let our kiss do the rest of the talking.

  31

  As expected, Vanessa worked wonders on the rooftop.

  The fairy lights were back, as were the tin can lanterns. Instead of a fire pit, though, there was a cocktail table against the brick wall. It was a high-top, designed for standing. In fact, those high-top cocktail tables were scattered around the entire roof. There wasn’t a single seat to be seen.

  “Where are people supposed to sit?” I asked her.

  “Nowhere,” she said, as she arranged peonies in decorative pots. “This event isn’t meant for sitting around in one spot all night. It’s meant for standing and walking and mingling. It’s a singles mixer. People need to mix!”

  I still wasn’t convinced. “Maybe you should bring out some of those floor pillows from last time?”

  “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  “But what if—”

  “Stop right there.” She pointed a peony at me. “If you want to run a start-up, you’re going to have to learn to delegate. No one likes a micromanager.” Popping the peony in a pot, she smiled. “Just let me do this. I promise I won’t let you down.”

  Vanessa was right; making a business successful was a joint effort. I might’ve been in charge, but I still needed help from other people to get it off the ground. People like Priya, whose brilliant coding skills made it possible to launch the app ahead of schedule. She was here tonight, looking stunning in an embroidered minidress and gladiator sandals. If a guest so much as suggested to her that she didn’t look like a software developer, I’d eject him from the venue myself.

  Alex had pulled through, too. He looked like a natural behind the bar, stacking mason jars and popping wine corks like a pro. Every drink he poured, every lime he sliced, was handled with precision and care. Plus, his forearms looked particularly muscular peeking out from the rolled-up cuffs of that crisp button-down shirt.

  And, let’s be honest, inPerson never would’ve existed without the support of my girlfriends. If they hadn’t forced me out of my self-pitying squalor, I’d probably still be lying in bed right now, drowning in nacho cheese and regret.

  Whit was still busting her ass for me at this party, coordinating the media reps (media reps!) who were covering the event. There were reporters from Elite Daily and Refinery29, and of course, BuzzFeed, all clamoring for me to give them some sound bites.

  But I couldn’t do anything yet; I was too busy overseeing the guest list. As far as I could tell, the mapping software had worked perfectly, because people started trickling in through the roof access door forty-five minutes early. When they arrived, I scanned the QR code from their inPerson app to ensure their invitation was legit. Then, after they were confirmed, I held out my hand and asked them to hand over their phone.

  Most people complied without a problem. I simply showed them the safe in which the phones would be kept, dropped their phone in a baggie with their name and number on it, then handed them a claim check and locked it away. But some people had full-on panic attacks at the idea of being separated from their devices. One woman was actually on the verge of tears.

  “But how will I Gram it?” she whimpered.

  “There are several inPerson employees wandering the rooftop this evening with phones.” (By “employees,” I meant Lia, Dani, and Yvelise.) “They’ll be happy to snap your picture and tag you on Instagram to keep the memories of the evening alive.”

  For a moment, I thought she was going to turn around and leave. As soon as I waved two drink tickets in her face, though, she handed it over and made a beeline for the bar.

  Of course, this wasn’t some special concession. Everyone in attendance got two free drink tickets. I’d considered handing out wristbands and holding an open bar, but after talking it over with Vanessa, we both agreed it was too risky. We were trying to fly under the radar here on the rooftop to keep Ray out of trouble. The last thing we needed were a bunch of out-of-control drunks acting up and causing a scene.

  At 6:34, our last attendee rolled in the door.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, as he pulled up the QR code on his phone. “I’m always late.”

  “It’s no problem.” This guy was hot. If I wasn’t already committed to Alex, he’d be exactly my type: pouty lips, deep-set eyes, beautiful beard.

  Wait, that beard looked familiar.

  When I scanned his phone, his private inPerson profile came up on my screen, confirming my worst fears. His name was Brandon, and he was from Brooklyn, and this was the same guy that had stood me up all those weeks ago.

  I was overcome with the impulse to chuck his phone off the top of the building, then run to the edge and watch it smash into a billion tiny fragments on the sidewalk below. But then I took a deep breath, regrouped, and reminded myself that the night Brandon from Brooklyn stood me up, I was a different person. I was suspicious and bitter and paranoid. And while that didn’t erase the fact that what Brandon did was completely assholish, I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was a different person now, too.

  Or maybe he wasn’t. But the dating scene was definitely different, because I was making it different. And with any luck, his experiences with inPerson could inspire him to s
top being such a flaky piece of shit.

  “Welcome to the inPerson party,” I said, with a smile. “Here are your drink tickets. Enjoy!”

  “Thanks.” He took the tickets and walked away.

  Asshole.

  With our last guest checked in, I was free from my post at the door. I locked up the safe, tucked the key in my pocket, and went to join Whit with the media representatives.

  “Melanie, this party is amazing,” one woman said.

  “Where did you get those lanterns?” another asked.

  “Oh, thank you, but I can’t take credit for all of this. My roommate, Vanessa Pratt, is my event coordinator. She put this all together.”

  Their fingers tapped away at their phones, taking notes. As their eyes fixated on their screens, I casually scanned the room in search of Tisha.

  “There’s been a lot of buzz on the street with regard to first-round financing,” one of them said. “Is it true you’re in talks with Hatch to join their next incubation period?”

  Undoubtedly, Vijay had planted that little crumb. I laughed, loudly. “There is no way I would ever willingly go back to that office. Hatch is a terrible company run by terrible people.”

  I hoped they quoted me on that one.

  “Are you looking for funding from other sources?”

  Just as I opened my mouth to answer, I spotted Tisha. She was standing in the corner, studying the crowd, whispering to a man and a woman beside her.

  This was it. The moment I’d been waiting for.

  I’d better not screw it up.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  The three investors saw me approach and abruptly ended their conversation.

  “Ms. Cole, it’s nice to see you again.” I extended my hand and she shook it. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for inviting me. Ms. Strickland, I’d like to introduce you to two of my colleagues. This is Catherine Sokolov and Byron Yang.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Can I get you anything? Water or a glass of wine, maybe?”

  They all said, “No, thank you,” and I waited for them to say something else. To ask a question or pay a compliment or talk about how nice the weather was that night. Instead, I was met with stony silence as they exchanged uncomfortable glances. Like they were totally underwhelmed with what they saw, and wanted me to leave so they could ridicule me in private.

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve gotta get back to work here, so if there’s anything else I can do for you, please let me know.”

  My stomach twisted in painful knots. I walked to the bar and asked Alex for a glass of club soda.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, spooning ice cubes into a mason jar. “You look upset.”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Just nervous. I’m not sure this is going so well.”

  “What are you talking about?” He handed me a glass, then pointed over my shoulder. “Everyone’s having a blast.”

  I turned around to survey the space, and found a sea of smiling faces. People were talking and laughing and interacting. No one had their nose shoved in their phone. They were experiencing the night for what it was, in the moment. No hashtags or filters or swipes. Just pure human connection.

  “You’re right,” I said, but when I turned back to him, he was already busy fixing someone else’s drink.

  I wandered away, edging the perimeter of the crowd, watching people connect for a long while. It gave me a little thrill to think that people could be coupling up tonight—could potentially fall in love—because of something I’d created. Even if FirstBrand didn’t fund inPerson, at least I’d accomplished this much.

  “Mel.” Whit had me by the arm. She was wearing her no-nonsense, get-shit-done, businesswoman face. “I think it’s time for you to say a little something.”

  “What?”

  “Give a little speech.”

  “I don’t have a speech prepared.” Sweat beaded under my arms. “Why didn’t you tell me to prepare a speech?”

  “You don’t have to say anything big. Just, ‘Welcome, thanks for coming, blah blah blah.’” She cocked her head and lowered her voice. “It would look good to the investors.”

  My gaze slid to Tisha and company standing in the corner, still wearing their game faces. “Anything to please the investors, I guess.”

  Before I could change my mind, Whit said, “Great, I’ll introduce you,” and she was already pushing her way to the center of the roof.

  “Excuse me, everybody! May I have your attention, please?” A circle widened around her and the crowd grew silent. “Thank you all for participating in the first ever inPerson mixer!” Hooting and clapping broke out, then quickly quieted down.

  “We’re so pleased you decided to come. I hope you’re having a good time, drinking some good drinks, and hopefully, finding some good matches. I know I’ve already found a match of my own.” She winked at some guy, who made a kissy-face back at her. Man, Whitney worked fast.

  “But none of us would be here tonight if it weren’t for the brilliant brains behind inPerson. So, without further ado, allow me to introduce you to the woman who is bringing Fluttr to its knees and changing the dating landscape as we know it—Melanie Strickland.”

  Applause started again. On wobbly legs, I walked over to Whit, who greeted me with a hug and whispered in my ear, “You got this.” The clapping faded, and I cleared my throat, scanning the faces in the crowd. Everyone looked at me with eager eyes, as if I was someone with something important to say.

  Well, maybe I was.

  “Thank you, Whitney, and thanks to all of you. When I first came up with the idea for inPerson, I was at a very low point in my life. I’d lost my job. I’d lost a great guy. I’d lost hope. But what pulled me out of it was the power of human connection. And as I look around this roof right now, that’s what I’m seeing. Connections. Real, true...”

  I trailed off when the men in blue uniforms emerged from the roof access door. One of them bellowed, “Is there a Melanie Strickland here?”

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  Scandalized murmurs arose from the crowd. I glanced over at Tisha, who was grimacing with her colleagues. There went any chance of securing funding tonight.

  “I’m Melanie Strickland.” The crowd parted as I made my way toward the two police officers, standing at the door with their hands on their batons. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “We’ve received several noise complaints about your little shindig up here.” He scrutinized the gathering, scrunching up his nose like he smelled something foul. “Do you have permission to be on this rooftop, Ms. Strickland?”

  “I...uh...”

  “No, we don’t.” Vanessa was suddenly at my side.

  “And who are you?”

  “Vanessa Pratt. I’m the event coordinator for inPerson. This is all my fault. I told Melanie we were allowed to host the mixer up here.”

  “You knowingly trespassed?”

  “I wouldn’t call it trespassing,” she said. “No one ever actually told us we couldn’t be on this roof. The landlord has never provided us with any specific directions either way.”

  “How did you gain access to the roof, then?”

  “I jimmied the lock.”

  “You what?”

  “It’s not like it’s hard. All it takes is a butter knife and a bobby pin and boom! You’re in.”

  The cops both winced, horrified by Vanessa’s disclosure. At first, I didn’t understand why she’d taken it so far as to incriminate herself. Then I realized: she was protecting Ray. If she’d said the door was propped open or not properly locked, he’d have gotten in trouble. This way, the fault was all hers.

  The things we do for love.

  One of the cops released an irritated sigh, while the other whipped out his n
otebook and started writing. “Okay, look, it’s getting late and we’ve got more important things to do than deal with whatever it is you’ve got going on up here. We’ll release you with a summons for a noise complaint, but we’ll be contacting your landlord to follow up on this tomorrow.”

  “And,” the other one added, “this party is over. Get everyone outta here now.”

  Vanessa took the ticket with a muffled, “Whatever,” and the cops started escorting guests to the door. Whitney, Lia, Dani, and Yvelise quickly attended to the safe full of cell phones, exchanging claim checks for gadgets as people headed out. Despite the abrupt and troubling end to the evening, people were still laughing and smiling. A few people looked smitten.

  This would make a great story for a first date.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t in a smiling mood myself. Not with the way the investors were frowning. As they filed out the door, I shook each of their hands. “Thank you for coming. I’m sorry it turned out like this.”

  They looked at each other, then Tisha asked, “Was this party held illicitly?”

  I nodded, ashamed, afraid to look them in the eye.

  “Well,” Catherine said, “I can’t say I approve of that.”

  “However,” Tisha said, “we are always looking out for founders who are resourceful and driven. And if the measure of this evening’s success was whether human connections were made, I’d say it was a triumph.” She pointed to a couple holding hands as they walked out the door.

  “Let’s meet on Monday to discuss this a bit further,” Byron said. “I’ll send a meeting invite. Does that work for you, Ms. Strickland?”

  It was a struggle not to scream my answer. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “Excellent. Have a nice weekend,” Tisha said, and the three of them disappeared into the building.

  I’d done it. I’d coded an app, hosted a singles mixer, attracted investors, and narrowly avoided arrest. This was my big fat decadent hunk of the start-up pie. And, hopefully, it was only the beginning.

  After the bulk of the crowd dispersed, the cops left, as well, too distracted by a real life-or-death emergency to make sure the final stragglers had cleared off the roof. Soon it was just me, the girls, Vanessa, and Alex, who produced a bottle of Moët from beneath the bar.