And you’d deserve it, you said.

  You’d deserve it because we don’t always see eye to eye. Because we don’t agree on everything. Because we see the world differently.

  But you know what? I’ve learned something about who I am from you.

  Just like our choice of a last meal is insight into the life we led, right? Exes say something about a person. When I look back on mine, they tell the story of my heart and my goals and my dreams. They say I’m not ready yet to give my all to a relationship. I’m not ready to move into that phase of my life.

  There is a world out there and so much to see in it. I couldn’t travel the way I wanted to if my exes had been the kind to stick around.

  The kind I wanted to stick around.

  And especially if you’d been the kind of guy who wanted more.

  That was never in the cards for us.

  So I say, if you want to be Douchey Ex Number Four, I welcome that. I’ve got labels printed out. You can wear a sandwich board stating that you’re Douchey Ex Number Four—and proud of it.

  We’d grab a pint someday and probably even laugh about it, except we both prefer martinis.

  Because you and me? We know what we are to each other. We know that the world needs more sexy ex-boyfriends so we can achieve our dreams.

  May we learn lessons from all kinds of exes—from the jerks, from the timid, from the crazy, from the ones we just didn’t love enough, and from the ones who didn’t love us enough.

  They teach us about ourselves.

  And I’m still trying to achieve all my dreams.

  So I say thank you, Douchey Ex Number Four, for being the sexiest ex-boyfriend of all.

  My best,

  Summer

  I finish, feeling naked, exposed, but hopeful that it says everything I want to say, and that Stella will like it.

  Hopeful that The Dating Pool will love it, because winning this could tip me over the edge with my new venture.

  “It’s . . .” Stella begins, but doesn’t finish.

  “It’s terrible? That’s what you were going to say? Or it’s a brilliant scheme and a terrific chance to nab some extra money if I win. And if I win, I would use it to add a self-defense class to the roster, and that’s precisely what my gym needs.” My words are like froyo spilling out too fast and overflowing from the sample cup.

  She laughs sweetly. “I was going to say I think it’s a brilliant scheme and a lovely letter. And I actually think I get it now.”

  My brow knits. “Get what?”

  “You and Oliver. Your connection. I think I understand it in a whole new way.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I do. I kind of get why you’re not interested in testing my theory. I understand now why you always say nothing will happen.”

  “Thank you,” I say, warmth and happiness bubbling up in me. “It’s so easy to think because we’re good friends that a romance is inevitable. But that’s not in the cards.”

  “Yeah, I see that now,” she says, sounding introspective. “I guess it’s human nature to want to ship two pretty people who spend so much time together.”

  “And now you understand why there is no Sumiver Ship or Olimer Ship.”

  “More proof you’re right. Your names are horribly un-shippable.”

  “There you go.” I smile, thanking her, then hit submit.

  Even though, I suppose, a small part of me still wonders about the accuracy of her theories.

  But just a small part, I swear.

  11

  SUMMER

  On Monday, I watch as Loan Officer Electra nods thoughtfully, takes a beat, then smiles. “You present a very compelling argument. And honestly, I’m counting the days till your gym opens.”

  Must not crawl across the desk and tackle-hug the world’s coolest loan officer.

  Instead, I sit ramrod straight on the edge of the leather seat, beaming. “I’m so glad you feel that way. I’ve lined up my final teachers too, to make the classes amazing. Seniors have different needs than other age groups and want a gym where they feel comfortable and welcome. Providing that can increase health in the golden years. I found a Zumba teacher who specializes in catering to seniors. I have a spin-class instructor who’s the best in the biz. I even found someone to teach kickboxing to older adults.”

  I’m giddy, but professionally giddy. That’s a thing. “This is going to be so good for health and fitness and longevity. In time, we can reduce medical costs and reduce insurance needs. It’s going to be great,” I say, unable to stop giving my pitch to her on why fitness for life matters.

  But the curly-haired woman with the hawklike nose seems to need little convincing. “I know! I can’t wait to sign up my dad. He is going to love it. He’s jonesing to do kickboxing.”

  Just like Stella’s grandpa. Yes! This gym is filling an unserved need. And I am going to call my instructors the second the ink dries. They are going to flip.

  “Thank you, Electra. I’m glad you feel that way. I can’t wait to let my instructors know it’s a go,” I say, nerves winging through my body as I adjust the pencil skirt that feels like a costume, since I don’t usually wear navy skirts and silk blouses.

  Except when begging for money.

  But that ends today.

  Humming, Electra drums her fingers on her oak desk, flashing a cheery smile in my direction. “They are going to be ecstatic. And we simply can’t wait to hear how it goes.”

  I blink. What? She can’t wait to hear how it goes? “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, do keep in touch. And best of luck, Summer.”

  Ohhhhhhhhhh.

  My shoulders slide toward the floor in the slumpiest slump of all time. “You’re not granting the loan?” I ask in a dead tone.

  She shakes her head, still grinning, which seems kind of cruel. “No, but you’re one of our most regular and valuable customers, and we so appreciate you saving all that money with us.”

  “But I need more.” My voice cracks, and I swallow that awful splintering sound. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe she’s just messing around. “I’ve been a good customer for ten years, and now I need a loan to make this gym the best it can be. To be competitive.”

  Electra pumps a fist. “And we are fired up to see how it goes with all that you have saved here. You go get ’em, girl.”

  Girl.

  She just you go, girled me.

  She hasn’t even uttered any of the warning words that come before crushing your hopes and dreams. Words like however, but, with that said, or unfortunately.

  She’s turned me down with pep and vigor.

  “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “The risk is just too great.”

  With a deep sigh, I gather my purse, say a wooden thanks, and leave.

  A deep sadness cloaks me as I walk across the stone floor of the bank toward the ominous exit.

  Maybe I didn’t present a compelling enough pitch. Maybe I asked for too much. Maybe I asked for too little. But I need that extra money. Need it to get me over the hump. Need it to show I can do this on my own.

  All I’ve ever wanted is to do this on my own.

  And now I don’t have enough to open the doors.

  Now I’ll have to table my dreams for months while I save up the rest.

  As I trudge to the street, my phone rings—my mom is calling. I answer it half-heartedly, wishing I could muster my normal pep.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to sound cheery, trying to focus on her. “How’s everything going with you? Is it Book Club Monday? Do you have everyone hooked on the newest Nora Roberts?”

  “Of course I do. I’m a master at picking books. I should be running book clubs all over town. But that’s not why I’m calling. How did it go?” She sounds like she’s been holding her breath with anticipation.

  “Oh, you know. It went . . .” But I can’t even spin a tale. “They turned me down.” My throat catches.

  “Sweetie, let us help you.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. I’ll make this work.”

  “Summer, I want to help. We want to help,” she says, her tone upbeat. “I’m very good at helping, as you know. I’ve done it for years.”

  And that, right there, is why I don’t entirely want it.

  What if I take it and feel indebted? Annoyed? Resentful? She says she likes helping, but why does she always bring it up? Because she wishes she were still running her bookstore, I suspect.

  “I know, Mom. But this is just a little speed bump. I’ll figure it out.” I check my watch. I need to go to Sunshine Living in two hours, so I’ve got one-hundred-and-twenty minutes to process my disappointment. I refuse to bring it to work with me. “I have to go to work in a little bit. I’m going to go for a walk. But I’ll text you later.”

  “Do that. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I hang up, walking toward the park, trying to work through these obstacles before I clock in with Travis.

  The moment I hit Fifth Avenue, my phone trills again—my brother this time. I’m tempted, so damn tempted to ask him for a loan. The words are on the tip of my tongue. He has the money.

  He also has a six-year-old and the scars from a painful and expensive divorce.

  And if I won’t take it from anyone else, I won’t take it from him.

  I sigh so heavily it’ll send the Dow Jones plummeting. I’ll just wait a little longer, save a little more. It’s all I can do.

  “Hey, Logan, what’s going on?”

  My brother is cackling. “Sexy. Ex. Boyfriend. Dude, that is the funniest thing you’ve ever written.”

  My brow pinches. “What are you talking about?”

  But when I click on Twitter, I see I’ve made so much more than a grammatical error.

  12

  SUMMER

  I. Am. Trending.

  Or rather, “America’s Worst Boyfriend” is.

  It’s all over Twitter. The letter I wrote. The dissection of it. The whodunit. And there is little social media loves more than a good outing. How was it even published? But I don’t have time to figure that out because right now, I need to rubberneck at my own ten-car pileup.

  I scroll through a river of comments hashtagged #AmericasWorstBoyfriend as I walk, head bent, face buried in a mess of my own making.

  @NYer14: I bet he’s a celebrity.

  @GossipLover1andOnly: A reality show star.

  @SportsFan: An athlete.

  @Anglophile2200: Hello? You twits. He sounds British. English breakfast tea and all.

  @GossipLover1andOnly: No, she said he hated tea.

  @Anglophile2200: No, she said it would be cliché if he loved it. Learn to read, dimwit.

  @RoyalWatcher: Could it be one of the royals?

  @BTSLover: I bet he’s in a boy band.

  @HatesBoyBands: Yes, that has to be it. Guys in boy bands are royal douches.

  @TheThird: Wait. I know this guy.

  @SexyLady: No, I know him.

  @SexierLady: No, I dated him.

  I stomp like Rumpelstiltskin.

  No!

  My hair is on fire, my blood heats to a thousand degrees of fury. I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe this happened. I can’t believe . . . oh shit.

  I can’t believe the next comment.

  @TheThird: I’m pretty sure it’s Oliver Harris the twelfth. He came with Summer to my wedding. I gave out very nice pens. I’m not surprised they split though. He seemed like a bit of a playboy, truth be told. Also, my pens were cool.

  Screw one thousand degrees. I am an inferno, and I want to throw balls of fire at my very douchey ex Drew.

  Because his comment is all it takes.

  What started as the funniest thing I ever wrote speeds straight into an epic dumpster fire.

  @ManCandyFan: Oliver! Oh, he’s hawt.

  @LovesListsofMen: That British lawyer? The one who looks like Tom Ellis and Chris Hemsworth had a love child and Harry Styles donated his hair to their baby?

  @GossipLover1andOnly: Yes, the one on New York’s Most Eligible Bachelors list.

  @ManCandyFan: The one who dated that heiress? Chantal. And some TV actress. That dude gets around.

  @CheetahNoah: I hope he gets around! I’m doing a corporate scavenger hunt, and one of the things we have to find is a picture of an internet celebrity in the wild! If I can find HIM, I’m golden.

  @MenAreJerks: I bet you’ll find him being a douche.

  @PeopleAreJerks: He does look like a douche too. And I mean that in the best way possible.

  @ILoveJerks: Right? Jerks are sooo hot. Why are jerks so hot? I don’t even know. They just are.

  @ILoveCockyJackholes: OMG, yes. So much yes. There is just something about a jackass that I love.

  @DownwithDouches: And look at this picture of him. He’s posing like a freaking model, with his top button undone, his hand in his hair, like he thinks he’s the hottest thing ever.

  @ILoveJerks: Well, he is. I mean, my God. That jawline. That’s, like, the kind of jawline you use to measure hottest jawlines ever.

  @MenAreJerks: That’s not a thing—hottest jawline ever is so not a thing.

  @ILoveCockyJackholes: Well, it should be.

  @FanofNietzsche: Jerks always get the good genes. It’s the universe’s way of reminding us that nihilism is alive and well.

  @QuestionEverything22: So now this is a philosophical movement?

  @DownwithDouches: Let’s start a movement to stop assholes.

  @HZRedhead: Yes, I concur. I dated him once. I went to his apartment to bring him tea. Wasn’t that sweet of me? And he didn’t even have the courtesy to come downstairs and break my heart in person. I was in love with him. IN LOVE. MAD, CRAZY, BEAUTIFUL LOVE. Instead, he sent his new girlfriend to tell me. This man is the patron saint of asshole exes, and he must be stopped.

  My eyes bug out when I discover Hazel’s comment. She and Oliver dated for maybe two weeks. He ended it with her in person. And she stalked him. With tea.

  “You got it all wrong, crazy pants,” I mutter at the screen.

  Maybe I’m the crazy one, though, since I’m talking to my phone as I march uptown. Oh, wait. That just makes me a New Yorker. But the craziest thing of all is when I see the next email.

  From an editor at The Dating Pool. And it answers a big question.

  Congratulations, Summer! We loved your letter so much we published it this morning, as we planned to do with the top three finalists. If yours is selected as the winner, you’ll receive $5000 in prize money. Best of luck!

  13

  OLIVER

  This is not how my day was supposed to go. This is not how any day is supposed to go, ever.

  Dragging my hand through my hair—which looks nothing like Harry Styles’s, thank you very much—I pace in my office. With my work phone pressed to my ear, I do my very best to practice one of the three skills I pride myself on.

  Reassuring.

  “That’s not me. I swear that’s not who I am,” I tell Geneva, who’s beside herself thanks to Twitter doing what Twitter does best.

  Misinterpreting literally everything.

  “But all the posts say it’s you,” Geneva insists, a brand-new worry in her voice. “All the comments, all the blogs. Hashtag ‘America’s Worst Boyfriend.’ And frankly, I don’t know if I’m comfortable doing business with someone like that.”

  A knot of anxiety tightens in my chest, hard and unpleasant.

  I hate unhappy clients. It means I didn’t try hard enough, fight well enough. That’s not okay. I didn’t go into this field to lose. I went to law school to help those who need a lion in their corner, who want the king of the jungle fighting their battles.

  For all the lawyer jokes in the world, the reality is, when you need someone to go to battle for you—and everyone needs someone to go to battle for them at some point—that usually means you need an attorney who will be fierce for you.

  My sister needed it when she was young. Geneva needs it now. And I want to be that person for her. “I think there’s simply been a misunderstanding. Allow me to explain,” I say calmly, preparing to improvise the hell out of this shitshow.

  A shitshow that Summer started. Unwittingly, I’m sure. But one she started, nonetheless, with a funny, sweet, heartfelt insider’s joke of a letter that’s been twisted by the thing known as the internet. I bet in ten years, computers will come with a warning label. Caution: internet use may be hazardous to your sanity. Social media, in particular, has been known to cause stupidity and bad decisions, resulting in dumpster fires and absolute fuckery.