The Starter Ex

Prologue

Vanessa

It started out as a joke. During my junior year of college.

My roommate at UPenn’s International House, Elena Fernández, a well-off Spaniard who was fluent in two languages but skilled at cussing in five, complained that she’d been unable to snag the attention of her latest boy crush.

He seemed mildly interested, she explained, and they’d gone on a few dates, but she couldn’t close the deal (her words, not mine).

What she wanted was a boyfriend. What he wanted wasn’t entirely clear.

One evening, Elena and I sat at the table in the living room of our two-bedroom campus-adjacent apartment, noshing on jamón, albóndigas, and patatas bravas.

Elena was an excellent cook; many of the international students were.

Indeed, the high probability that I could sponge off their scraps factored heavily into my decision to select International House as my top choice in the school’s emergency housing lottery.

Minutes into stuffing our faces, Elena ventured into uncommon territory: asking for someone else’s opinion. “What would you do if you were me, Vanessa?”

I took a sip of water before I spoke. “Honestly? I’d find another crush.”

I didn’t understand why this was such a big issue. Back then, college boys were as interchangeable and ubiquitous as off-brand iPhone chargers.

“But I like him,” she said, her eyes pleading with me to come up with a solution.

“The thing is,” I said between bites, “he needs a push in your direction.”

“Get him jealous, you mean?” she asked, her eyes wide and creepily unblinking.

“Nah, that’s not something you want to encourage.”

“So what do you suggest?”

I thought about it for a second and casually dropped this gem: “You know what would be downright Machiavellian? If you could manufacture the world’s worst girlfriend to date him for a while.

Then, when she’s made his life miserable and he’s hit rock bottom, you can swoop in and save the day.

Be the breath of fresh air he so desperately needs. ”

Blissfully unaware of the wheels turning in Elena’s brain, I chomped on fried potatoes while she picked at her food.

Suddenly she straightened in her chair and set her plate aside. “It’s a brilliant idea, actually.”

“What?” I asked, my eyebrows snapping together. “No, it isn’t. I was joking.”

“Joking or not, I think you’re absolutely right. And I want you to be the girlfriend.”

I cackled. I wheezed. My eyes welled up with tears. Until I realized Elena wasn’t joining in on my amusement. “Oh shit. You’re serious?”

“Very.”

I scoffed as I brought my dirty dish to the sink, the ratty sweatpants I adored sitting on my curvy hips. “Absolutely not.”

“I’ll pay you.”

Insert the proverbial record scratch.

I’m ashamed to admit that the prospect of getting paid made me pause.

After all, I was a scholarship student living off the wages from the work-study hours I’d been fitting into a jam-packed schedule of classes and frequent weekend trips to New York to help my overburdened parents run a bodega in East Harlem.

Not that Elena knew any of this.

Making sure to mask any eagerness in my voice, I asked, “How much are we talking about?”

She shrugged. “For two or three weeks of your time? Does a thousand dollars per week sound fair? We can see where we stand after that.”

My heart galloped in my chest. Three thousand dollars.

With the possibility of extra cash if the assignment proved to be more challenging than expected.

Damn, I could do so much with that money.

Buy books for next semester. Send most of it to my family.

Not kiss my roommate’s ass in order to eat a decent meal for a month or two. Which reminded me: “Kissing?”

She narrowed her eyes. “If you must. No fooling around, though, and definitely no sex.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.”

But teasing was fair game, it seemed. And hey, I could be coy. I certainly could be a bitch. Someone’s worst nightmare? Sin duda. These were my personality traits in a nutshell, so the assignment wouldn’t be a stretch by any means. In fact, this would be a cinch.

Well, that’s what my overconfident and underdeveloped twenty-year-old brain reasoned, at least. So Elena and I shook hands, and thus began my lucrative college side gig.

By the time I graduated from Wharton with a degree in business, I’d served as the starter ex for ten struggling-to-solidify relationships. Bonus? I never had to explain why I wasn’t interested in dating anyone—because I was dating. Sort of.

Yes, I should have kept this highly problematic venture firmly in my past. But I didn’t. And now I’m screwed. What follows is my pathetic story. You’re going to want to grab some popcorn for this one.

Sidenote (in case you were wondering): A few years ago, Elena and her boy crush got married in a lavish waterfront ceremony at Penn’s Landing. They didn’t invite me to the wedding.