FOUR
Two years before the Streamify contract
Maeve
I try to roll over in bed and nearly fall onto the floor. And then it hits me. Fuck. This is not my bed. I gather myself and with surgical precision extract myself from the bed without waking the man next to me. He’s some sort of Chad … or maybe it was Brad. Or Pete? I don’t know, but he works in investment banking and paid the tab for not just me but both of my roommates last night. And given the pounding headache I have, and the fact that I didn’t slink away to my own place last night, I’m guessing it must have been quite the tab.
Once I’ve gathered my clothes from the floor and am safely in the bathroom with the door locked, I pull out my phone. Five percent battery. Fuck. I knew this guy wasn’t a keeper. I always , no matter how intoxicated I am, plug my phone in. And when I got up, it was his that was attached to the cable on the nightstand. I use my last few percents of battery life to text Finn.
walk of shame and Jamie’s?
battery is dying so meet me there
Somehow sending those measly two texts have dropped me from five percent to one. I go through the bathroom drawers until I find a ten pack of toothbrushes and rip one out of the plastic. By the time I’ve freshened up and tried and failed to make my crop top and mini skirt look less … small, my phone dings with a text from Finn.
be there in twenty
And then my phone dies. I throw my shoulders back and walk into the bedroom, where the quasi-unidentified man is still snoring. I let the door slam behind me. He doesn’t flinch. I sigh heavily and poke him in the back firmly.
He rolls over. “Babe, get back in bed. I’ll Uber Eats us something.”
There is literally no way. “I actually need to head out …” I smile apologetically as I hand him his phone. “My phone is dead. Can you call me an Uber?”
He fumbles to unlock it then just hands it to me and rolls over. “Put your number in too,” he mutters.
I don’t do that. But I do spring for the Uber Black.
Fifteen minutes later I’m walking into the diner and dropping into a booth with Finn. We started this tradition not long after moving to New York, and I’m always pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoy it. Back in college we were definitely in the same friend group, but we weren’t the kind of friends that hung out one-on-one. But ever since we moved to the city and most of our friends dispersed elsewhere, we’ve gotten much closer. Finn did flashcards with me for my clinical psychologist licensure exam, and I bring him a homemade dinner when he works late into the night at Morgan Stanley. But our most consistent tradition is the walk of shame brunch.
Before I can say anything, the waitress is bringing over food. “I already ordered,” Finn explains as she sets everything down.
With someone else it might annoy me that they ordered for me. What if I wanted to change it up? But we have a strict diner tradition that holds firm regardless of the time of day. Milkshakes, two of the strangest dishes on the menu, and if we’re really hungover, one normal breakfast item.
Once everything is on the table, Finn begins narrating his choices. “Coffee, because duh. Chocolate shake for you, strawberry for me. Fruity Pebbles French toast, and veggie chicken and waffles but with reaper seasoning. I thought these were close enough to normal that we didn’t need more.”
“Definitely not,” I agree. “But honestly, if the waffles are too spicy from the chicken, I might throw up.”
Finn raises an eyebrow. “That bad? Let’s debrief.”
“Well, for starters, I really don’t remember his name. He had an amazing place, and if it’s all coming back to me correctly, he actually did go down on me. Like, really well. But rich, cocky, boring, and probably trying to overcome all his childhood insecurities by dropping a ton of money on women and nights out. We didn’t actually connect at all.”
Finn smirks, his tone teasing. “Well, what do you always say …”
“‘You’re never going to meet the one after ten p.m.,’” I recite dutifully. “Ugh. I wish I hadn’t stayed over. I passed out and didn’t wake up in time to leave.”
“No! You stayed over? I thought that was a third-date-only privilege.” He widens his eyes in mock horror before shoving a giant bite of the purple-crusted French toast into his mouth.
I nod woefully. “I know . And he unplugged my phone from the charger and plugged his in. The audacity! But I didn’t leave my number, so nothing too crazy.” I take a long sip of milkshake, then coffee, still skeptical about the chicken and waffles. “Your turn. You had a real date!”
“It didn’t exactly turn out that way … I bought her dinner, and everything was going well, so I was going to whip out one of your tricks and—”
“Tricks? I don’t have tricks. I have tips,” I correct primly. I cut the tiniest bite of wing and waffle and pop it in my mouth, only to be hit with a wave of spice so strong that I think I might have a heart attack. I immediately take such a giant sip of my milkshake that suddenly my grimace is due to both spice and brain freeze.
“Whatever. I was going to take her for a walk and get flowers from a street vendor. But she wanted to go to Marquee.”
“No!” I exclaim as tears run down my face from the spice. “Not Marquee. Anywhere but Marquee. Don’t tell me you went and ruined a perfectly nice date by clubbing. You’re horrible at clubbing.”
Finn nods grimly and cuts his own bite of the chicken and waffles. “I clubbed. Or I tried.” He starts to chew and winces, his eyes immediately turning red. Within a few seconds I can see his face sweating from every pore.
“Finn, you are amazing at dinner. You’re good at a speakeasy or cocktail bar, where you can talk, and charm, and use your knowledge of fancy drinks. But you dance like a broken marionette.”
Finn snorts into his milkshake, which he’s started chugging to try to assuage the spice of the chicken and waffles. “Please, like you’re any better,” he chokes out finally. “You faked food poisoning to get out of clubbing two weeks ago.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. “How’d you end the night? Did you kiss at least?”
Finn sighs and rolls his shoulders. “I think she got the ick. After like an hour and a half I got her an Uber. We didn’t even kiss goodbye. In bed before midnight, and I doubt I’m getting a second date.”
“Give me your phone. And what’s her name?”
“Kelsea.” He hands the phone over and begins to plow through the remainder of the French toast while I compose a text.
Hey Kelsea! I had a great time last night. I know my dance moves are horrible and I hope they didn’t scare you off. I’d love to take you out again and hear more about
“What is Kelsea’s passion? Or job? Hobby? I need something you learned about her.”
“Taylor Swift needlepoint,” Finn responds quickly.
Hey Kelsea! I had a great time last night. I’d love to take you out again and hear more about your Taylor inspired needlepoint and get to know you better. I know my dance moves are horrible, but I hope you can shake it off and give me a shot at a second date
I hand the phone back to him before hitting send and he reads it over. “Are you sure it’s not too much? Like, why bring up the dance moves, can’t we just leave the awkward in the past? And I don’t want to seem like her stalker with the needlepoint.”
“You need to show her that you care and pay more attention than the average guy she goes out with. And I made the dance move thing lighthearted with the Taylor pun. You can’t not say something; otherwise, the ick will be too strong. Just send it! You have literally nothing to lose.”
Finn shrugs and hits send.
Within five minutes she’s responded, agreeing to a second date, and sent a pink heart emoji. “I should do this for a living,” I exclaim.
“Um, Maeve, you literally do.”
“A living is a stretch. I need to find a private-practice job now that I’ve finished my supervision hours, because I am done making no money. The Columbia kids never take my advice anyway, and I don’t get to work with any one patient long enough to make a difference. In therapy I want to help them come to their own answers, but I can’t do that if I don’t have the time to actually work with them week after week. With you I just get to tell you how I really feel about all of it, help you fix the problem, and then you learn from it for next time. It’s giving advice not therapy, but honestly, I love it. And you know I’m good! I should have a podcast.” I take the French toast plate away from Finn and try the last bite. Who knew Fruity Pebbles could be so … delicious?
When I look at Finn, his eyes are wide and he’s gone still. “Maeve. That’s it. You actually do need a podcast. And you need to call it Tell Me How You Really Feel .”
I laugh. But something about that title sends a chill down my spine. It’s actually not bad. “Don’t be ridiculous. Podcasts are for, like, true crime detectives, which, I mean, we love. And middle-aged white guys who have nothing to say, which, like, we hate. But I’m nobody. I’m not the kind of person who starts a podcast.”
Finn shakes his head adamantly. “No, no, no. This is your future. I’m so serious. Podcasts are huge now, and you would be so good at it. And you love podcasts! You send me clips of that crime one literally daily. Every block we walk down, you’ve listened to a podcast episode about a murder on it. You could have a show where you’d give relationship advice, but ‘real talk’ style like this. And it’s actually smart advice because you’re a real therapist.”
I take a huge gulp of coffee. This is suddenly sounding like too good of an idea, and I need my hangover headache gone so I can think about it properly. “Who would I even have on the show? I don’t know enough people.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you could just tell our stories. Or people can write in with questions.”
I drain the rest of my coffee cup, so energized by this idea that my hangover feels like a distant memory. “Do it with me,” I say. “Let’s record just like this. We can literally record our morning-after debriefs, and then put it out on Sunday afternoons.”
Finn’s face breaks into a huge grin. “Let’s do it. Tell Me How You Really Feel starts now.”