Sam called me darling the entire night.
Soft, Southern drawl. Gentle eyes. The kind of man who opens the door for you without making it feel like a performance.
He was recently divorced, or almost divorced. That part was still unfolding. His wife had cheated while he was deployed. Not just once. Repeatedly. And when he came home early to surprise her, he found her in bed with someone else.
She was pregnant.
He didn't know if the twins were his at first.
They were.
But she still left—with another man. She took the girls and ran.
Now he only saw his daughters through photos and missed calls. They were eleven months old. He carried their pictures like prayers in his phone, scrolling through them during dinner like he was trying to hold them with his eyes.
He told me all of it. Not in a calculated overshare, but in a quiet unraveling that neither of us could stop once it started.
He broke down crying halfway through dinner, apologized, wiped his face, called me darling again.
I don't think he meant to fall apart on a first date. He was kind. Respectful. He paid for our meal, walked me to my car, and hugged me like someone who didn't want to let go of the first soft moment he'd had in months.
Later, he texted me to say I was a good listener.
I told him he deserved happiness. That he deserved to be loved fully and without betrayal. But I also gently told him that he still had a lot of healing to do before he tried to love someone new.
It wasn't a bad date.
It was just too soon.
And sometimes, you meet someone not to fall in love, but to remind them that softness still exists in the world. Even if it's just for one night.
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His real name was Ethan Allen. I'm not kidding. I didn't even know that was his full name until halfway through dinner. I nearly choked on my drink.
I said, "Like the furniture store?"
He nodded.
I died.
And then we made like 30 furniture jokes.
"You sturdy?"
"Do you come with assembly instructions?"
"Because I could swear you were designed for comfort and style."
He laughed at all of them. I laughed at his. We were on fire, the kind of easy chemistry that just clicks right away.
He was cute. Like, Air Force-hot. Strong jaw, good smile, confident without being cocky. We had a few drinks over dinner and couldn't stop talking. Somewhere in the middle of it all, we started touching each other's arms, legs, shoulders, casual little things that quickly turned into a whole vibe.
After dinner, we went to this arcade with a huge outdoor section. They had all-you-can-play games for $20, which is honestly the best date deal I've ever had.
We rode go-karts and I smoked him. No mercy.
I whipped around corners and kept him behind me the entire race. We were laughing so hard by the end we could barely walk straight.
We played game after game, mostly just the two of us going head-to-head, winning back and forth. There was this one dumb race car game we got obsessed with, back and forth between first and second place, just us. It felt like we had known each other forever.
By the time we got back to his truck, it was 10 p.m. But the night wasn't over. He asked if I wanted to sit and talk for a while. So I did.
We ended up talking for four more hours.
Four hours of deep dives, dumb jokes, shared stories, and undeniable energy. We made out for at least half that time. And let me just say: he was a great kisser.
Everything about that night felt natural. Fun. Effortless.
No awkward pauses. No red flags. Just two people vibing like we were supposed to be there all along.
And for some reason, I didn't stay. I just… went home.
Not because I didn't want to. But because the night already felt perfect. Like it didn't need anything else to prove it was good. Sometimes you don't have to complete the moment for it to matter. Sometimes you leave smiling because you already got what you needed.
The week after our go-kart-and-arcade date, we kept texting. Still flirty. Still fun. So when he invited me to spend the weekend at his house, I said yes without hesitation.
Friday night, we went out to dinner with his roommates, three guys plus a couple of girls. Everyone was hilarious and warm and slightly chaotic in the best way. It felt like I'd walked into someone else's friend group and somehow just fit.
Back at the house, the drinks started flowing. Ethan insisted I try honey whiskey. I'm not a whiskey girl, but it was sweet and smooth and dangerously easy to drink. Too easy.
We played card games, then I taught everyone how to play a game my family calls "Peanut Butter." No idea what anyone else calls it, but it involves secret signals, four-of-a-kind, and shouting "peanut butter!" like you've just won the lottery. Ethan and I were unstoppable. We had a foolproof system: hold your cards in one hand when you've got it. Simple. Clean. Deadly. We crushed the competition.
Later, I pulled out my old party trick: the "relationship card reading." It's a made-up game, but I'm very good at pretending I know what I'm talking about. I flipped cards and read futures like a woman possessed. "You've never met your soulmate," I told one guy solemnly, "but she's currently with someone else. You've got two women vying for your attention. One's got a secret."
It was pure improv. But they ate it up.
Then Ethan asked me to do one for us.
I laid the cards down. Pretended to squint meaningfully. "We haven't met our soulmates," I said. "There's something between us, though… something getting in the way."
He looked at me and said softly, "I'm moving. After I retire. Back East."
I nodded. Tried to be cool about it. I was not cool about it.
I stayed the whole weekend. It was wonderful.
We laughed. Talked. Kissed. Slept tangled up in each other like we had more time than we did.
And then I went home.
Somewhere in the middle of unpacking, I realized I'd caught feelings. Real ones. And I had no idea what to do with them.
So I asked if he wanted to see me again the next weekend. I was already mentally picking out a white dress and learning how to love sports.
He said he didn't think he could. That it wasn't me, it was him.
And to be fair, now that I'm emotionally stable and hydrated, I get it. He knew he was leaving. He knew I felt more than I'd admit. He was trying to be kind.
But did I handle that with grace and maturity?
Absolutely not.
I panicked. Told him I left my necklace at his house.
Reader, I did not bring a necklace.
I don't even know what necklace I was talking about.
I imagined this poor man, crawling around his room, checking under couch cushions, asking roommates, flipping through his laundry basket like, "What the hell did this woman leave here??"
Eventually, I messaged him again and said, "It's fine. You can keep it."
Keep what?? The ghost of my romantic dignity??
It was so cringy I could feel my soul leave my body.
But hey, I felt something.
And sometimes that's the real takeaway.