Partially to put the idea of a collaboration in people’s minds, specifically Dr. Bernie’s, but mostly because we want to measure the reaction across social media. To make sure Dr. Bernie is the right person to bet a huge amount of currently nonexistent money on. Because sure, both Cecily and I practically kiss the ground she walks on, but we can’t guarantee our audience and users feel the same without a temperature check.
Cecily posts that Wyst is attending the event, snapping a quick picture of Dr. Bernie onstage with her signature power suit, pussy-bow blouse, and long silver hair flowing to one side.
“Initial reactions are good,” she says, flicking her finger across the screen to scroll through the Instagram story replies. “I also put out a poll asking who has listened to her podcast. 57percent yes so far.”
The community Cecily has built across social channels is agodsend for decision-making. Sure, I have to be firm and decisive, but to have your first-ever business venture include a built-in audience-testing platform is something I find so valuable. The announcement of Dr. Bernie as one of the major faces of Wyst would be a huge deal. A headline-grabbing event we’ve never experienced before.
“Guess who else I’ve been stalking.” Cecily grins, still staring at her phone.
“Who?”
“Yourlover...” she says, seductively rolling thel.
She turns her phone toward me, my brow furrowing as she reveals Oliver Kavanagh’s Instagram profile and username @olkav96. My stomach muscles constrict as I immediately feel the phantom press of Oliver’s hand slipping up my bare waist before dissolving into thin air.
My eyes widen in both embarrassment and excitement. “Wait, how did you get access? Isn’t his profile set to private?”
“Now who’s the stalker?” she teases. “I created a fake guy who works at Odericco Investments and requested to follow him.”
I scoff a laugh. “Oh my god, you’re insane.”
“Sorry, here’s me thinkingeveryonewas lying about their identity nowadays.” Her grin transforms into a devilish smirk. “You are a bad best friend by the way.”
“How?”
“You failed to tell me that this guy looks like a leading man. An investor’s assistant namedOliver?” Cecily crinkles her nose. “I was imagining a five-foot-seven scrawny guy with glasses and a bad haircut.” She clicks on his profile picture, expanding the photo. It’s Oliver, candid and smiling with sunglasses on top of tousled brown hair in a pub garden. The sun shines across him, emphasizing his broad shoulders and taut jawline.
I’m briefly overwhelmed by a sense of longing for my own ignorance. To be back at the bar in Rome, the feeling of recklessness, when pursuing what I wanted had no negative consequences.
I laugh. “Yeah, you were waaaay off with that one.” I scroll through the three most recent pictures, feeling at once like an obsessed stalker but also an intrepid explorer.
Cecily nods. “Maybe it’s the minimal social media footprint too—that’s hot.”
She’s right. Oliver hasn’t posted much, making him even more intriguing. The most recent is the view from what I assume to be the Odericco Investments office, the sprawling London skyline slightly muted and blurred from being taken through a window. The second is a picture taken of him cooking, his back to the camera, a towel thrown lazily over his shoulder as he holds himself over a steaming saucepan. The final post is from over three years ago, a picture of him smiling and rosy-cheeked among a group of friends at a bar tagged in New York.
I’m sure if I wasn’t faking my name and my job title, I would have added him, and he would have accepted the follow. So this doesn’t feel like it’s crossing too many lines. Even so, it feels like a violation of privacy.
“I’m not pursuing anything with him, so it’s for the best. You’ve seen him, you’ve got your ya-yas out, so you should delete the profile.”
She huffs and taps at her phone screen before slipping it intoher pocket. “I just don’t get why this has to be such a big deal.” She crosses her arms. “If you like him, then just tell him the truth; it’s not too late.”
“In what world do you envision that conversation going well?” I ask, imagining the fallout. Firstly, he’ll think I’m insane and won’t want anything to do with me after that. Secondly, he’d probably go running to his boss, and we’d immediately be disqualified from the competition. My only hope would be that it wouldn’t get picked up by journalists and become an international headline, damaging the reputation of all women trying to survive in the tech industry.
She shrugs. “I just feel like if he likes you, then maybe you could trust him to keep it on the down-low.”
I shoot her a look. “Because trusting men I’m interested in has gone so well for me in the past.” Even trying to talk about it casually feels weird, my cheeks still flushing from shame.
“I saw that little smile on your face when you were telling me what happened—you do like him; you’re just too scared to go for it. Aftereverything”—she holds a hand out, referring to what I just mentioned—“you deserve some fun.”
“It was indulging in that sentiment that got me into this situation in the first place!” I can feel the blush creeping over my face.
Cecily smiles at me. “I wonder what Dr. Bernie would say about this.” Then she stands up, jumping up and down until the bemused event coordinator hands her the microphone.
“Oh, hello,” Dr. Bernie says with a flicker of recognition and a smile.
“Hi, Dr. Bernie!” she says as excitedly as the day we first spoke to her. “I have a question about romantic relationships.”
Dr. Bernie holds her hand out. “Okay, go ahead.”
