Page 19 of Sunny Side Up

Sunny’s Swimsuit Hour was over. We spent the next one working through Noor’s complicated feelings about Sam and his relationship with his boyfriend, and her new relationship with both of them. But the buzz of excitement and opportunity continued to course through me.

Dinner that night was at The Landing, which was set up like someone’s fabulous house, with tables on the large wraparound porch and in a cozy living room, and personal photos hanging on the walls.

I felt great. The giddiness, the energy—it felt like spring break meets a bachelorette party meets monumental birthday trip. I hadn’t had this much fun in years.

All afternoon on the beach, between walks down the shore and more drinks and more snacks delivered straight to our chairs, I’d replayed my friends’ encouragement in my head.

I could hardly believe how good it felt to finally wear a swimsuit that felt so empowering.

I’d been waiting for this new energy, a new initiative to throw myself into, since my divorce, and I hadn’t even known it.

And after the high of my swimsuit today, I was ready to jump-start this new chapter of my life. It was scary and seemed messy and I had no idea what I was doing, but man did it feel better than throwing myself into the mindfuck of those dating apps.

After the waiter delivered our first round of dirty martinis, I raised my glass in a toast. “Brooke and Noor, thank you for planning this trip. And thank you for pushing me to get here. The past few months have been a shitshow.” I laughed at my understatement.

“But I feel so lucky that it brought me to you two. I will only say this word once in public, so enjoy it: Here’s to our divorcation. ”

“To divorcation!” My friends chimed in, clinking our glasses for the millionth time that day, and the first of many ahead.

“Speaking of ‘saying things in public,’” Noor said, “how the hell do you make sure all the guys you write about don’t find your newsletter?”

“Or do they like it?” said Brooke. “I bet they like it. Ezra would love it . He’s such an egomaniac that he’d take it personally if I had a newsletter and didn’t write about him.”

I’d developed a habit of scanning my new subscriber list—more out of curiosity than to look for the names of the guys I mentioned, or Zack’s.

My old dashboard said my audience had been 99 percent women.

My new one said it was 90 percent women—a combination of OG subscribers who’d followed me over to Substack and new readers who were just now signing up.

I worried about it a little bit, at first—and when I included photos of outfits, I had flashbacks to Zack telling me his coworkers were making fun of me.

But then I got so excited by all the positivity around it and was so charged up by all the women cheering me on, telling me to keep going, that my newsletter made their weeks better, that it was helping with their own varied hang-ups around their bodies, around feeling worthy, around relationships—a large part of me kind of didn’t care what the guys thought.

Screw TJ. I’d be happy to paste his picture all over the city, emblazoned with the words “Fat Fetishist Poster Freak,” honestly.

Dennis didn’t seem like an “internet guy,” and I don’t know, the rest of the men were thus far pretty…

insignificant? Like I mostly talked about my feelings around the dating experience, not the dates themselves. And furthermore:

“I don’t use anyone’s names,” I said. “And I change anything identifiable about them.”

“True,” Brooke said.

“Let us not forget the man who started it all, ‘Carhartt Cowboy,’” said Noor. My alias for Cillian.

Noor took a sip of her martini. “I mean, the thought of writing about my love life on the internet is my own personal nightmare, but Sunny, you’re very savvy about it.”

Dennis flashed across my mind. I’d given him a nickname, too…

Mr. Postman. “Post Malone,” according to a vocal group of his newfound fans.

I guess I could have made that less obvious, but for the story to make sense, I had to explain what he did for a living.

I also wrote about his kind smile. Those sparkling eyes.

That easy confidence that had made his dressed-in-the-dark outfit appear as intentional as any front-row showgoer at Paris Fashion Week.

But still, that could be anyone . There had to be a million charming, handsome postal workers across the five boroughs, style-incognito in their standardized uniforms.

“I have it under control,” I said.

“Yeah ya do,” Brooke said. Then she started lassoing the air over her head and let out a “YEE-HAW.” Oop, Brooke was drunk. We all were.

The waiter came by to let us know he was ending his shift, that another waiter was going to take over and take care of us, and was there anything else he could get us before he left for the evening?

Our conversation changed to whether we should order dessert and then go out-out after, or go home, change into our robes, get dessert and a bottle of rosé delivered to one of our rooms, and judge people’s choices on HGTV’s Love It or List It .

We went with the latter. Looking around my group of friends, the twinkling lights of the restaurant casting the room in a warm, gentle glow, I felt like the luckiest woman in the world. I wanted to bottle this feeling forever.