Page 16 of Sunny Side Up

I went into my PR spiel. It was always hard to explain PR to someone who wasn’t familiar with it.

That’s because the thing about publicity is that it works best when you don’t notice it.

It should be subtle, natural, taking a beautiful product and putting it everywhere.

You can invent the most incredible tool or company, but it doesn’t matter if no one ever hears about it.

(A tree falling in the forest is pretty much equivalent to a new lipstick line that’s never seen on your favorite and most-relatable celebrity, etc.) PR is the most important investment, which is what I always tell new clients who scoff at my fee.

Sure, I charge a lot, but I always deliver on what I do.

Not unlike the postal service, I told Dennis.

I was grateful to him for giving me an excuse to settle into the comfort of my work, to be acting so normal and polite despite my breakdown.

“Maybe you can consult with the USPS. Give us a new ‘do.’” He sent an elbow to my rib.

He obviously didn’t get my job entirely this time around, but it took my parents several years to understand what I do, so I couldn’t judge.

“How long have you been on the block, Sunny?” He asked, steering the conversation away from work.

“Only a few months, actually,” I said. “Moved here after my divorce.”

Dennis cocked his head. “Divorce? But you’re so young?”

“Divorce.” I said, with jazz hands, for literally no reason. I had no other possible response in my head. I was horrified as I did it, but he laughed.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “But selfishly? It’s worth it if it brought you here.” His cheeks started to flush a little, so he added, “You’re in, objectively, by mailman standards, the best building in the hood.”

“Oh, am I?” I said with a grin. “Lucky me.”

“Lucky you.” He echoed. “Well, here we are.” In what felt like no time had passed at all, we’d made it to my apartment.

“Thanks for the walk. I’m going to get the Golden Girls upstairs,” I said, pointing to the dogs. “I know I’d hate going into the office on my day off, so no need to get any closer to the lobby than you are right now.”

He laughed. “Thanks, I’ll stand back then.” His eyes were shining, on full display. He gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Sunny. I’ll see you around.”

With that, he turned and headed in the direction of the subway. And not a second too soon, because I could sense that a blush had coated my face, and I was nervous it was more of a rash-blush than an adorable-blush given the state of my morning-after face.

As he walked off, something in me wanted to yell out after him and ask if he wanted to come over and watch a movie.

He’d pulled me out of my downward spiral so effortlessly.

He was just so funny and easy to talk to.

He also looked like a grade A couch cuddler.

Oh god, what am I doing? Hitting on my mailman?

Talk about don’t shit where you eat. Ugh, what a disgusting saying.

I couldn’t get my anxious internal monologue to slow down.

But also, I needed my mail, you know? Although…

did I really? Kind of low-risk. Everything is paperless these days.

I stood there watching Dennis until he was out of sight.

There was something so easy about his energy.

I appreciated his calmness, his ease, especially juxtaposed with TJ’s horrible bravado.

Walking by his side, talking about dogs and coffee, it felt like coming home.

It was refreshing. Maybe I should ask for his number.

But then, the anxious internal monologue popped back in: Imagine the look on Zack’s face if he realized my rebounds were first a construction worker, then a fetishizing asshole, then a mailman. He was so judgmental, so snobby about everyone who wasn’t already in his elite circle.

Really? The mailman, Sunny?

As I rode the elevator with a Golden Girl leaning against each leg, I could hear him. His voice, his sarcasm. His inherent rich-kid elitism, always percolating right below the surface.

Stumbling into my apartment, I felt a memory rise to the surface of my mind.

A flashback of that same sort of needing-to-please insecurity, that half-kidding-but-not-kidding-at-all tone of embarrassment I used whenever I tried to win Zack’s favor.

I tried to ignore it, but there was no stopping the memory from flooding me, scratching to break free.

I catapulted back to right around the time we moved in together. Zack had surprised me after work with a stern look on his face, a serious request for a serious talk. I’d so rarely seen him like that.

“What’s up?” I’d asked. “Is everything okay?”

Zack’s face flushed with color as he winced slightly. “I hate bringing this up. I wish I didn’t have to. But we have to talk about your newsletter.”

What followed was a confession and a plea: His coworkers were making fun of him because I’d included pictures of us in Sunny Side Up .

His manager’s girlfriend subscribed, and she’d recognized Zack’s face from a work event.

Someone else from work confirmed we were together; they’d seen the few photos of us together on his Instagram.

( Few being the operative word, and a source of tension that always made me feel particularly dumb and vain: He had a photo of us together from a black-tie event early on in our relationship, and two pictures of us together on vacation, including a solo shot of me where I’d forgotten to rub in sunscreen, the caption referencing There’s Something About Mary .

That was it. It used to drive me insane .

It felt like he was hiding me, but he’d assured me multiple times that his Instagram was really a business thing for him, and he wanted to keep his private life private.) It didn’t take long for it to circulate through their GroupMe chain.

“They’re making fat jokes about you, Sun.

” He squeezed my hand. “It’s getting embarrassing.

I told them to fuck off, but I don’t want you to get hurt over some silly internet thing. ”

I remembered swallowing his words, trying not to let the daggers cut my throat on their way down to my core.

Embarrassing . Of course, I didn’t want him to be embarrassed about me.

I even convinced myself he was looking out for me .

Protecting me from those outside voices.

And besides, I didn’t want my side project to get in the way of his career.

Le Ballon Rouge was growing. I was professionally fulfilled.

I was in love. I didn’t need some newsletter to keep me busy or internet friends to keep me company. Life was good.

I hadn’t thought about the newsletter again until Avery brought it up her first day.

Now, the reminder filled me with shame.

You’re starting up that newsletter again? Sunny…

I shook my head like a wet dog trying to toss the memory out of my brain. Would I ever stop hearing his fucking voice tearing me down on repeat?

Glancing at my hallway mirror (perfectly hung by Cillian, by the way—you think I wasn’t going to take advantage of having a handyman in the house?), I nearly did a spit-take.

I looked worse than I thought. My hair was askew on top of my head, my date-night jumpsuit was creased and wrinkled, mascara made my cheeks look like a newspaper printer gone wrong—inky and streaky in all the wrong places. I gaped at myself.

I desperately needed a shower.

Despite Dennis being the salve to an otherwise horrific morning, I still felt the sting. I still wanted to wallow. Hadn’t the world taught me to avoid any situation where I’d be judged on my appearance?

“You’re okay,” I reminded myself, face-up into the downpour of the showerhead.

“You are healthy, successful, you have people in your life who love you no matter what. You have an exceptionally sized shower for New York City. Your dogs are perfect angels. You’re a newfound sex goddess.

” Then I scrubbed, buffed, and polished until the water turned cold on my pity party.

Afterward, I put on my most comforting pajamas (the Rachel Antonoff ones with the cookies printed all over them) and fell into my bed, ready to reward myself with reality TV trash, takeout, and an early bedtime, until I could wake up Monday and throw myself into work.

At least there, I knew I excelled. Then my cell phone vibrated on my nightstand, nearly knocking over my glass of water.

The screen glowed with a text from Avery, speaking of. That’s weird , I thought. I hope everything’s okay .

Avery: Sunny! So sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I thought you might want to check out the comments on your Sunny Side Up comeback post. It’s pretty phenomenal. So glad Sunny Side Up is back. So is everyone else. See you tomorrow:)

I swiped over to my Substack account, the new home of my newsletter, and then sat straight up in bed.

It had over two thousand comments, almost all of them saying something along the lines of “I needed to hear this today”; “This is the first genuinely helpful advice I’ve read about online dating”; and “Wow. Finally. Someone with my body type wearing the kinds of outfits that I’d actually want to wear, too.

Not a corporate blazer or ugly floral in sight! ”

I had thousands of new subscribers, too. I slumped back into my pillows in disbelief.

This was exactly what I needed. I should have held onto this community. I should have seen how special it was. I took a throw pillow and yelled into it, overwhelmed with emotion. The good kind, finally.

I would have sworn that my body’s supply would be fresh out of tears, considering the day I had, but after reading the endless stream of kind, encouraging, thankful, and enthusiastic words in my com ment section, my eyes began to water. Sunny Side Up was helping people.

I was helping people.

Even if I wanted to give up on myself, I knew at that moment that I couldn’t give up on them.

This time, I would see where true vulnerability would take me.

I knew what I had to do. I went to my bag, grabbed my laptop, and plopped back into bed.

Using my green-and-white gingham pillow as a desk, I started to type.

At least my shitty day would be great for Sunny Side Up .

And there had to be something cathartic in all this writing.