I meet her at The Wing, the ultra-chic, women-only coworking space. Carmen forks over a full month’s rent for annual membership, but she says the benefits—networking, events, amenities—are worth it. Carmen got her current job after loaning a laptop charger to the woman at the table next to her; she regularly goes to events with speakers like Hillary Clinton and a guru who helped her detox her chakras; the hand lotion in the bathroom is Chanel. Her pricey membership lets her bring guests, for which I am eternally grateful.

The airy space is oriented around a millennial pink couch in front of a bright, color-coded bookshelf. Famously, every title on the shelf is written by a woman. I find Carmen at her favorite table by the window, hunched over her laptop with her headphones in and surrounded by two coffee cups and a LaCroix. I have a sudden flashback to college. She looked just like this back then, too—only then, she was dressed in Forever 21 and H&M, not whatever was most recently stocked on Shopbop and The Outnet.

“Hiiiii,” she says, tugging out her headphones when she sees me.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

She exhales deeply. “Well, everything is happening at lightning speed. Fucking finally.”

I know she’s been pulling all-nighters, working her day job, then coming to The Wing to work on the early steps of her startup, then heading home once this place shuts down for the night to keep going. Venture capital firms are mostly run by old white dudes, so they haven’t been exactly receptive to her pitch. And without a serious influx of cash, her idea had no chance whatsoever. She deserves a morsel of good news.

“The main thing is that I landed a meeting with Pinnacle Ventures . . . and it’s tomorrow,” she explains.

I squeal and hug her. This is a huge deal. Pinnacle is helmed by a woman and they mostly invest in cool projects targeted at millennial women—The Wing included.

“Carmen! That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, but I’m feeling massively underprepared. Like, this could be it. But only if I’m on my A-game, you know?”

“Okay, I’m going to get a coffee, and we’re going to figure this out together. I’ll help you prep,” I offer.

“Love you. Seriously.”

I order a large coffee from a braless barista, pick up a muffin for us to split, and help Carmen clear away the cups she’s already drained.

“So, how can I help?”

She fills me in on the other recent developments. She selected a name after a few rounds of focus groups, Skindemand—“Like, skin in demand,” she intoned—and finalized a list of indie skincare brands that would be interested in signing contracts to put their products in her monthly boxes.