@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!

13OLIVER

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.

“You see . . .” I begin.

“No, allow me to explain,” Geneva says, sharper now, her voice like a knife. “I just went through a terrible divorce. Public and horrible. My ex was a Casanova who made an utter mockery of our marriage, and frankly . . . this reminds me of it.”

What she described, what Twitter is saying, couldn’t be further from the truth. I just need to convey that to her.

“Twitter has twisted this all around. The woman who wrote that—I’ve known her my whole life. It was all . . .” I say, and then I’m about to tell her the true reason for the letter—that the woman who wrote it is, like, my best mate, that we have a long-running joke about terrible exes, that it’s a thing we do for each other, playing pretend, and that it all started way back in high school when my sister was sick. But as those words take shape in my mind, they sound ridiculous.

They sound like a bald-faced lie.

Geneva picks up where I trailed off. “If you were America’s best boyfriend, it would be one thing. But this? These things they are saying about you . . .”

My cell buzzes on my desk with a text from Summer. I lunge for it as Geneva goes on about all the brilliant comments on Twitter, including how I am the biggest twat of the internet.

Summer: I am so sorry. You are not America’s worst boyfriend. You are America’s best ex-boyfriend. That was supposed to be fun, a tongue-in-cheek way to celebrate us, and I never thought anyone would figure out it was you. I didn’t even know my essay was going to be posted online—at least not right away, not to mention go viral—and I feel like such an utter idiot. The absolute worst friend ever. You probably hate me, and if you do, I deserve it, but I will do anything to make this right for you. What can I do?

Immediately, I know the answer.

I won’t lose this client for my firm. I won’t lose this deal. And I will fight this battle for her. It’ll take me three weeks to ink the new partnership for her agency, and in the meantime, there’s only one choice.

I flash back to a few years ago when my cousin Christian faced a somewhat similar predicament. To save his company in Paris, he had to marry straightaway.

A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

Sliding in when Geneva pauses, I go for it. Leave it all on the field. Well, not exactly marriage. But the same idea. “Here’s the thing. Summer didn’t mean the letter that way. The truth is, I am America’s best boyfriend. Because . . .” I draw on my best store of humility, such as it is. “Summer and I . . . well, we’re engaged. It happened quite recently. So, you see, what she meant with the letter is that she’s saying goodbye to me as her ex-boyfriend because now I’m going to be her forever one.”

And the response from my client is all I could ever want.

It’s one word.

Oh.

Her tone is surprise mixed with delight, and then it finishes on a happy squeal.

“That’s so lovely, Ollie.” She laughs, sounding almost embarrassed, and I don’t even care that she called me Ollie. “I got it all wrong. I am so sorry I got it so completely inside out.”

“Everyone did, obviously.” I push out a chuckle. “We weren’t going to announce it yet, but Summer? Well, she’s Summer. She likes to present things in unconventional ways, which is one of the things I love about her. You’ll see when you meet her. We should all have dinner this Saturday.”

“Perhaps Jane can come along too. I wanted to invite her to my wine tasting tomorrow night. Why don’t we all go to that, and then we can have dinner with some of the other partners in the firm this weekend? It’s important to me to fully know and trust the people I work with.”

“I’m sure she’d love that—the wine and the dinner.” I breathe a lifetime’s worth of sighs of relief, even though Summer hates wine.

But I bet she can fake it for me.

Geneva seems relieved too. “I can’t wait to meet her, and of course, I won’t back out of our deal. I’m so glad that it was a misunderstanding. Thank you for setting things straight.”

I wave a hand airily. “Everything gets out of hand on the internet, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does. I should have known better,” she says with so much contrition that I almost feel bad for my fib.