You ever hear someone say, “I’ve got the perfect guy for you”? Yeah, well, that’s exactly how this disaster began. My brother Marcus wouldn’t stop talking about this guy Andy from his Saturday morning pickleball group.
Every time I saw him, he was like a broken record. “But he’s not just any guy,” Marcus said, smirking as he refilled his protein shake right at my kitchen counter. “He’s polite.
Smart. Has a good job. Still single, though, which makes no sense.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I swear they almost fell out.
“That’s what you said about Kevin last year. You know, the vintage spoon collector?” I teased. Marcus gave me a look like, “He’s different, I swear.” There was this mix of teasing and real hope in his voice that made me pause mid-chop as I was hacking away at some poor carrots.
Honestly, I was just taking out my dating frustrations on vegetables like any sane person would. Here’s the truth about brothers: they never give up. I’d been done with “nice guys” who came with hidden expiration dates, but Marcus’s hopeful tone wore me down.
Maybe it was because I was tired of being the single woman at every family dinner, or maybe it was the way he looked at me like he actually believed this time would be different. “Fine,” I said, throwing down my knife. “One date.
Just one. To prove I’m open to this whole thing.”
Famous last words. So, the next Saturday evening, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror adjusting my dress for the fifth time.
Why do we do this? Why try so hard to look perfect for someone who might end up being a belly-button lint collector or worse? Right at seven, my doorbell rang.
I took a deep breath, grabbed my purse, and opened the door. There he was — Andy. Tall, adorable, in a freshly pressed button-down shirt, holding a small bouquet of wildflowers wrapped in brown paper.
“I didn’t know your favorites,” he said, holding out the flowers. “But I thought these looked pretty.”
“They’re perfect,” I smiled, feeling my guard drop just a little. You know what made him stand out?
He waited patiently while I found a glass, filled it with water, and arranged the flowers on my dining table. No checking his phone, no tapping feet, no sighing. Just calm, respectful patience.
“Ready?” he asked, and then—he actually opened the car door for me. I know, I know, sounds old-fashioned. But when’s the last time anyone did that for you?
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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