Finally having a name for my app takes the branding of it to the next level and gets me one step closer to actually merchandising this thing. I set my phone down and stare into space. I go on to imagine all the fonts and color schemes that will go best with my future company’s newly appointed moniker. Truly, there could be no better name for a product that is designed to drill down into the people who use it and spit them back out with a ring on their finger—The Ringer. I freaking love it.

“So will you run him through it or not?”

“In exchange for complete ownership of the naming rights, sure. I’ll do it.” I zone back in and wait for her to agree.

“In exchange for the naming rights? God, you’re so fucking weird, Rosen. But fine. I just sent it, FYI.”

“Who is this guy anyway?” I ask, going back to lining my lips like it’s a paint-by-numbers project. My phone dings, confirming receipt of Casey’s hella on-it cyber stalking.

“His name is Justin. I met him last night at a Web-Toes Anonymous meet-up deep in The Valley. Supercute librarian during the day, drummer in a band by night, looks like Pete Wentz, and... I just so happened to spend the night at his house. So, can you just run him already and tell me how many babies we’ll be having?”

I’ve never run my app for anyone but myself. But I suppose if I plan to make The Ringer a universal product, Warren was right—I need beta testers. And there’s no reason that Casey and Justin can’t be my first guinea pigs. I will just need to swap her info in for mine and then plug in his profile attributes. All in all, this should take me far less time than it takes for curlers to set my hair.

“Yes, I’ll do it right after I finish getting ready,” I concede. “You know better than I do—these lips won’t line themselves.”

“Pro-tip,” Casey says, grabbing the pencil away from me. “Line just above your natural lip line for that Kylie Jenner look. There. All set.”

As Casey trots off to her room to change for the cruise, I get an incoming text from Brian. He’s at my place. I remember now that I hadn’t really responded to him yesterday when he’d offered to come over, but I guess he assumed it was fine. I call down to the doorman and tell him to let him up.

Moments later, I can hear Leno’s toenails clicking against the hard surfaces as he goes to greet his favorite long-lost friend.

“Knock, knock?” his voice says from around the hall.

“I’m in here!” I shout from the bathroom.

“Well, aren’t you just a vision,” Brian says from the doorway.

“Thanks. You’ll have to excuse the whole Medusa thing I’ve got going on right now,” I say in regards to the curlers.

For the record, he looks good, too. In his golf polo and plaid shorts, he looks like he’s just finished walking the Topman runway at Fashion Week.