I went to brunch with a guy my coworker fixed me up with. He showed up holding lilies (not the plastic-wrapped grocery kind, real florist ones). The meal was spot on. He kept the door wide and slid my chair in. When the bill landed, I reached for my card. Big error. “No way,” he said, tossing his own down. “First date’s on the guy.” I walked out thinking it was the best first date I’d ever had.
That held until the next morning, when I saw that he’d sent me a
Text at 11:47 PM
Message. One message, sent forty minutes after I’d dropped off to sleep.
I sat up in bed with my phone. Coffee hadn’t happened yet. My hair was doing something embarrassing. I was still half in the dream I’d been having, which involved a parking garage and a missing shoe, and none of that mattered the second I saw the preview text sitting in my notifications.
I read it twice. Then I put my phone face-down on the mattress.
Then I picked it up and read it again.
Here’s the thing about Marcus, the thing my coworker Pam had told me when she’d floated his name: “He’s old-school. Like, genuinely.” Pam has been married to her husband Dave for eleven years and she thinks every man who doesn’t immediately propose is a red flag, so I’d adjusted her assessment accordingly. But she wasn’t wrong. He’d texted to confirm the day before, not the morning of. He’d asked if I had any food allergies. He’d shown up four minutes early, which I know because I was watching from the window like a complete weirdo.
The lilies were cream-colored. He’d said, “I didn’t know what you liked, so I went with something that wasn’t roses, because roses feel like a lot of pressure for a first date.” I’d laughed. He’d smiled like he’d hoped I would.
And now it was 7:14 in the morning and I was staring at his text with my mouth slightly open.
What He Actually Said
He’d written: “I had a really good time today. I’d like to see you again, if you’re up for it. No pressure. Sleep well.”
Then, below that, a second message sent three minutes later: “Also I just want to say – you have a great laugh. Okay. Goodnight.”
I put the phone down again.
I stared at the ceiling. There was a water stain up there I’d been meaning to get looked at for eight months. I stared at it for a while.
The problem, and I recognize this is a deeply stupid problem to have, is that I’d been ready for something bad. I’d been braced for it the entire drive home the night before. Because here’s what I know about first dates that feel perfect: they don’t. Not really. There’s always a moment, usually within 24 hours, where the other shoe drops. He’s still technically with someone. He’s looking for something casual and just didn’t mention it. He’s going to send something at midnight that reframes the whole afternoon in a worse light.
I’d been so ready.
And instead I got “you have a great laugh. Okay. Goodnight.”
The Pam Situation
I called her at 8:30.
“I knew it,” she said, before I’d gotten three words out.
“You don’t know anything yet.”
“I know that voice. That’s your flustered voice. That’s the voice you used when you got upgraded to first class that one time.”
“This is not the same as getting upgraded to first class.”
“How were the lilies?”
I told her about the lilies. I told her about the chair. I told her about the thing he’d said when I’d reached for my card, and the way he’d said it, not smug, just matter-of-fact, like it was obvious. I told her about the walk to the car after, how he’d asked what kind of music I actually listen to when nobody’s watching, and I’d said embarrassing pop stuff from the early 2000s, and he’d said “same” without a single beat of hesitation.
“Oh, he’s good,” Pam said.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I set you up with a good one and I want credit.”
“You’ll get credit when there’s something to give credit for.”
But I was smiling while I said it. She could probably hear that. She definitely could.
The Part I Didn’t Tell Pam
There was a moment during brunch, maybe forty minutes in, where the conversation had gone somewhere I didn’t expect.
We’d been talking about nothing, the way you do when you’re still figuring out what you can actually say to someone. He’d mentioned his dad. Not in a heavy way, just in passing, something about a fishing trip they’d taken when he was twelve. Then he’d stopped himself and said, “He passed a few years ago. Sorry, I don’t know why I brought that up.”
And I’d said, “Don’t apologize for that.”
He’d looked at me for a second. Not long. Then he’d said, “He would’ve liked this place,” and nodded at the room, the old wood paneling, the ceiling fans turning slow, the kind of place that’s been there since before either of us was born.
I didn’t say anything back. I just nodded.
It lasted maybe six seconds total. Then we moved on and talked about something else, I don’t even remember what. But that six seconds sat with me the whole drive home, and it was still sitting with me at 8:30 in the morning while Pam was asking about the lilies.
Some people, when they lose someone, they carry it like a wound they need you to see. And some people carry it quiet, and you only catch it for a second, and then it’s gone. I don’t know why that matters to me as much as it does. It just does.
What I Wrote Back
I’d been staring at his messages on and off for two hours before I replied.
Here’s the draft graveyard, in order:
“I had a great time too!” – No. The exclamation point. God.
“Same, it was really nice.” – Bland enough to be a rejection.
“I’d be up for round two if you are :)” – The emoji. Absolutely not.
“Thank you for the lilies and for paying and for being generally not terrible, which is a low bar but you cleared it by quite a bit.” – Too much. Way too much. Delete.
What I actually sent, at 9:52 AM: “I had a great time. And for the record, you have a good laugh too.”
Forty seconds later: “Does that make us even?”
He replied in under a minute. “Not even close. I’m still winning.”
I put my phone down on the kitchen counter and went to make coffee and stood there while it brewed with this dumb look on my face that I was glad nobody was around to see.
The Second Date Problem
Here’s where I’ll be honest with myself, since I’m being honest about everything else.
I’m 34. I’ve been on a lot of first dates. Some of them were fine, some of them were disasters I’ve since turned into stories I tell at parties, and a few of them were good enough that I thought maybe for a week or two before it fizzled. I know how this goes. I know the early momentum of a good first date and how it can carry you right up until the moment it doesn’t anymore.
So I’m not sitting here saying Marcus is the one or whatever. I’m not Pam. I don’t have an eleven-year marriage and a golden retriever and a strong opinion about which brunch spot has the best eggs Benedict.
But I will say this.
He texted to confirm. He showed up early. He brought real flowers and had a reason for choosing them. He talked about his dad for six seconds and didn’t make a production of it. He paid without making me feel like I owed him something for it. He went home and waited a reasonable amount of time and then sent two texts, the second one slightly more honest than the first, and then said goodnight.
And when I finally wrote back the next morning, nine hours later, he wasn’t weird about it. He just picked the thread back up like no time had passed at all.
I don’t know what any of that adds up to yet.
But the second date is Saturday. Italian place he knows, not too fancy. He asked if pasta was okay. I said pasta was more than okay.
The lilies are still on my kitchen table. I’ve been moving them from room to room so they stay in the light.
—
If this made you smile, send it to someone who could use a good brunch story right now.
For more tales of unexpected twists, check out what happened when He Paid for Lunch, Then Sent Me a Message That Made Me Put My Phone Down, or dive into these intense stories where My Booth of Bikers Went Dead Silent When a Little Boy Asked Us Something No Child Should Know to Ask and A Kid Walked Up to Our Bowling Table and Asked Us to K*ll His Stepdad.
