Whit had a point. I thought about the comments I’d read on that BuzzFeed article. All those men posting garbage opinions like they were facts, when in reality, they had no clue what the hell they were talking about. Was JerkAlert nothing more than an elaborate comments section?
“If you can’t trust what you read on JerkAlert,” I said, “then isn’t it pretty much worthless?”
“Of course not,” Whit said. “Its value isn’t in the legitimacy of its reviews. It makes no promises of authenticity, or guarantees about finding a trustworthy partner. JerkAlert is valuable because it provides a safe, communal space where women can vent about their shitty interactions with men. It’s purely about catharsis.”
Catharsis. That’s what had driven me to create it in the first place, wasn’t it? I’d wanted so badly to tell the whole world about the guys who’d done me wrong. Brandon from Brooklyn. Joe from Murray Hill. Alex from FiDi.
Except it turned out I was wrong about that last one.
“For what it’s worth,” she continued, “I really liked Alex. And you know I don’t ever like anybody.”
“I liked him, too,” Lia said.
“So did I,” added Dani. “He really struck me as a straightforward kind of guy.”
“You could always talk to him about it,” Lia said. “Tell him how you’re feeling and ask him what’s going on.”
“I’m not going to tell him I found him on JerkAlert,” I said. “That’s just...weird, isn’t it? Like I was spying on him or something.”
No one answered. Which was an answer in itself.
Dani reached into her purse and dropped some cash onto the table. “Well, ladies, it’s been real, but unfortunately, I need to cut out a bit early.”
“What’re you up to?”
“I’ve got a date.”
“Ooh!” Whitney clapped her hands together. “With who?”
“Her name is Yvelise, she’s twenty-eight, she lives in Astoria, and she’s getting her PhD in Neural Science at NYU.”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven,” Lia said.
“Hopefully. We’ve been talking for a while now. I have high expectations for this one.”
“Did you meet her on Iris?” I asked.
“Nope. Iris shut down.”
“Oh, no. What happened?”
“Who knows,” Dani said, shrugging one shoulder. “You know how it is with these start-ups—here today, gone tomorrow. So I’m back on Fluttr.”
Of course.
“Wish me luck,” she called, before heading out the door.
We crossed our fingers and said, “Good luck!” As soon as she was gone, our waiter materialized. “Are you ladies leaving already?”
“Not just yet.” Whit looked at us. “Want another round?”
“Sure. And maybe one more plate of those beef sliders?”
“You got it.” He winked, a gesture I usually find cheesy and repulsive. Whitney didn’t mind, though. She returned the wink and wiggled her fingers at him as he walked away.
The three of us lingered awhile, enjoying the cheap eats and the conversation. Soon, Whitney’s flirtation started paying off; the waiter brought us warm chocolate donuts, free of charge, and when he finally brought our check at the end of the night, he’d slashed at least half the drinks from the bill.
We placed our cards in the leather folder, and as he swung by to pick it up, the waiter knelt down next to Whitney and murmured, “My shift ends in ten minutes. What’re you up to tonight?”
“Actually,” she said, “I might hang around until you get off.”
“Cool,” he said. “And then, hopefully, I can return the favor.”
Barf.
With a quick hug and a promise to text us when she got home to make sure this waiter didn’t do something shady, we said our goodbyes. Lia and I walked down Stanton Street, lamenting how early we had to wake up in the morning, and cursing ourselves for agreeing to that last round of drinks.
At the corner of Delancey and Essex, we parted ways; I was heading underground to catch the F train, while she was going to walk the rest of the way toward her apartment in Chinatown.
“I’ll see you on Thursday,” I said. “What are we doing this week?”
“Krav Maga. It looks intense.”
“Why do we only ever pick intense workouts?”
“Because they’re cheap.”
We laughed and hugged, and before I ducked into the subway station, Lia said, “Mel, I really think you should talk to Alex. You don’t have to tell him you found him on JerkAlert, but at least let him know what you’re thinking. He has no idea what’s going on. And honestly, you have no idea what’s going on, either. This review could be a total fake. And even if it isn’t, people do change.”
“I know,” I said. “You’re probably right.”
“I’m definitely right. He really seems like such a great guy. Let him at least give you a chance to prove himself.”
The whole ride home, I mulled over Lia’s words. I was giving far too much credence to the words of an anonymous stranger. Which was crazy, considering I already knew you should never trust anything you read on the internet. Why was I ignoring this tried-and-true advice, simply because the words appeared on JerkAlert?
When I emerged from the train station in Brooklyn, I sent Alex a text:
Hey. I know you’re probably working right now, or maybe you’re sleeping, but I wanted to tell you something. So whenever you have a sec, let me know.
Almost instantly, he responded: I’m free now.
Oh, no. It was too soon. I hadn’t had enough time to compose my thoughts. I typed out a text, then deleted it and tried again. Over and over, trying to find the perfect words to camouflage the real question I needed to ask: Can I trust you?
Then I realized, this wasn’t the time for pretense, or for perfectly worded questions. It was the time for honest, raw connection.
My finger slid to the call button.
“Hey.” His voice was warm and thick like honey.
“Hey.” Take a deep breath. Don’t think so hard. Just say what you’re feeling. “I’m sorry I was so...weird today.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry I didn’t text you last night. I know how it must look, especially after you caught me trying to sneak out in the morning without saying goodbye. I’m completely preoccupied with work right now. But I promise, it doesn’t mean that I don’t really like you. Because I do.”