Right. So. The third date.
Supposedly, this is the one that counts. The decider. Not the first—because that’s all pleasantries and pretending you don’t have deep-seated trauma. Not the second—that’s still polite, still reserved, still hovering over the ‘is this a mistake?’ button. No, no. The third date is the one where it either moves forward, or someone goes ‘hmm, actually, no’ and ghosts into the ether.
So, obviously, I was a mess.
The first two dates had been weirdly… good? Suspiciously good. No sudden confessions of ‘I never really liked dogs’ or ‘I’m in between jobs right now’ (translation: unemployed and hoping you’ll pay for dinner). No crimes against basic table manners. No creepy eye contact that lasts a fraction too long. Just normal, nice, dare I say enjoyable dates. Which meant one thing: something had to go wrong.
And oh boy, did the universe deliver.
First, my babysitter bailed. Classic. I tried not to panic. I suggested an earlier time, hoping I wouldn’t sound like a tragic single mother clinging to her shot at romance. Then, my child, bless him, decided this was the night for a full-blown existential meltdown. He whined. He wailed. He went through all five stages of grief over the injustice of bedtime. By the time he was settled, I had about four minutes to transform from ‘frazzled mother’ to ‘desirable woman’ before sprinting out the door.
The outfit? Poorly planned. The hair? Unresolved. The mental state? Somewhere between ‘this is fine’ and ‘let’s fake our own death and move to Peru.’
Then, the date itself.
I arrive only seven minutes late, which is basically early in mum-time. He’s waiting at the bar, looking annoyingly effortless, like someone who has never had to bribe a child with biscuits just to leave the house. He smiles. My brain turns into static.
We sit. We talk. It’s good. Suspiciously good. And that’s where the trouble starts, because my overthinking brain decides to sabotage me.
He mentions hiking. Hiking.
I should just nod. Agree. Move on. But no, my mouth says, ‘Oh yeah, I hike all the time.’
I do not hike. I once had to jog ten steps to catch a bus and nearly had a medical episode.
‘Nice! What’s your favorite hike?’ he asks, all casual.
My brain: ‘Say something reasonable.’
My mouth: ‘Uh… Everest?’
Everest. EVEREST.
There’s a pause. Then, thankfully, laughter. ‘Wow. Ambitious.’
Crisis averted. Just.
The rest of the evening? Weirdly perfect. He’s funny. He gets my sarcasm. He listens. And then, the moment arrives.
The ‘how does this end?’ moment. The make-or-break. The ‘do we awkwardly hug, high-five, or is this actually happening?’ moment.
We’re standing outside the bar. My heart is doing acrobatics.
He looks at me. I look at him. I forget how faces work.
‘So,’ he says, grinning. ‘Do you still have time, or do you have to get back to Everest?’
I snort. Full-on snort. And before I can overthink it, he kisses me.
And for the first time that night, my brain finally shuts up.
Maybe, just maybe, this isn’t where it all falls apart after all.