Chapter 14
14
HUNTER
The wine bar where my date has asked to meet is the kind of place I imagine corporate types frequent. Sleek, modern, with an air of sophistication that’s a little too forced. I spot Ethan sitting at a table by the window. He’s even more striking than his profile picture, with his perfectly styled sandy hair and impeccable suit.
As I approach, he stands up, flashing a polished smile and extending his hand. “Hunter, it’s great to meet you in person.”
“Likewise,” I reply, matching his level of formality. We sit down, and I barely have time to peek at the menu before Ethan launches into his first question.
“What’s your five-year plan?” His hazel eyes bore into mine, giving me the impression I’m in a job interview rather than on a date.
I blink, taken aback. “My five-year plan? Well, I haven’t thought about it…” I trail off, unsure how to respond. Does he mean in my personal life? Or professionally?
Ethan raises an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. “But how do you expect to move forward without a roadmap?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I prefer to stay flexible?”
He frowns, clearly not satisfied with my answer. “Flexibility is important, but if it’s not paired with a solid plan, you’re drifting.” Ethan leans forward, his expression serious. “How about short-term goals, then, how do you structure them?”
I laugh awkwardly, hoping he’s joking. But the intensity in his gaze tells me otherwise. “How about we start with something a little lighter?” I suggest, desperate to steer the conversation in a different direction. “What do you like to do for fun? Any hobbies or travel plans?”
But Ethan seems uninterested in casual chatting. And after a while, he smoothly transitions back to the topic of productivity. “What’s your biggest time-management challenge?” He takes a precise bite of his avocado toast, waiting for an answer.
I fidget with my untouched glass of wine. Right now, having wasted an evening on this date is quickly becoming my biggest time-management challenge. As Ethan drones on about his morning-routine app, I draft a polite “thanks, but no thanks” text to send later.
After splitting the bill, Ethan walks me out, shaking my hand once more. “You seem like you’re on top of things, Hunter. It’s been great meeting you.”
I wonder if he’s going to follow up with a performance-review email.
As I make my way home, I sigh, vowing to swear off corporate types for the foreseeable future. Even if Dylan, theoretically, is a corporate type. But with his easy-going nature and goofball attitude, it’s so easy to forget. If only all investment bankers were more like him… I wouldn’t like them, anyway. Because they’re not Dylan.
What I should wish for is a version of him who’s single and into me.
I stare up at the night sky, searching for a sign. But no stars shoot across the firmament to offer me hope, so I walk my sorry ass home.
* * *
Wednesday evening rolls around, and despite a terrible first experience, I’m getting ready for another date. Last night with Ethan was a total disaster, but I’m positive the guy I’m meeting tonight, Malik, can’t be any worse. And as Clara keeps reminding me, it’s a numbers game. The more dates I go on, the higher the chances of finding someone I click with.
At the front door, I nearly collide with Dylan again. He’s the spitting image of the hot guys on the covers of billionaire romance novels. Dark suit, white shirt, blue tie. Hair sleeked back for once instead of tousled in that endearing way of his. Move over, Christian Grey.
The sight is as unsettling as ever. But at least this time, I manage to keep my mouth shut and only wave him goodbye.
A short cab ride later, I step into an understated Italian bistro. The place smells of garlic and bread with twinkling lights hanging from the ceiling that cast a warm glow over the checkered tablecloths. It’s the perfect setting for a cozy evening.
Malik is at a table near the back. He’s tall and lean, with smooth, dark skin and an impeccably groomed, short beard. His broad smile drew me to his profile on the app. But the body that goes with that smile isn’t bad at all. His fitted charcoal T-shirt and black jeans make him look like he stepped out of an upscale magazine ad for casual summer fashion.
We settle into a booth, and the conversation flows easily. Malik talks about his job as a graphic designer, his favorite indie bands, and the best spots in the city to get coffee. I relax, thinking that maybe first dates don’t have to be grueling.
But halfway through dinner, something shifts. Malik’s smile falters, and he gets this distant look in his eyes. “My ex, Samantha, loved this place.”
I freeze, my fork hovering in mid-air. Uh-oh. Mentions of the ex on a first date can’t be good.
“We were together for three years. She was… amazing.” Malik’s staring into his plate of spaghetti as if it were a portal to the past where he could see himself and Samantha sharing a noodle with the same demure sweetness of Lady and the Tramp .
As Malik lists everything he misses about Samantha—how she made spaghetti with meatballs like the ones we’re eating, how they used to spend Sundays binge-watching shows, how he still sometimes texts her even if she hasn’t replied in months—I shift in my seat.
I fix my gaze on the flickering candle on the table, racking my brain for a way to steer the discussion away from his ex. But it’s no use. Malik has disappeared down a rabbit hole in memory lane and is not coming back. His eyes mist over as he continues to reminisce, and I pat his hand while he sniffles, unsure if I should offer him more bread or a tissue.
When our server approaches, asking if we’re interested in dessert, I decline even if the chocolate cake sounded promising. I’m ready to leave.
“I guess this wasn’t what you signed up for,” Malik says once the server returns with the check.
I shrug. “We’ve all been there. Break-ups aren’t easy.”
He nods, blowing his nose loudly—turned out tissues were the way to go. “You’re right. Sorry for dumping all this on you. I thought I was ready to date again, but clearly, I’m not.”
I give him a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay. Healing takes time. Focus on taking care of yourself, and the rest will fall into place.”
Ahha, how collected I am when advising others. I’m a pot calling the kettle black.
I wish Malik a good life, and, as I wait for my cab, I wonder if I’m a magnet for walking red flags.
My car arrives, and I climb into the back seat, scoffing. Two dates, two disasters. At this rate, I’m wondering if the dating app gives out loyalty points for not-so-meet-cutes. Five points: a pint of ice cream (it’s better to spoon something that won’t talk back). Ten points: a bottle of moonshine (only a borderline illegal drink could blur your memory enough). Twenty points: a coupon for therapy (because, let’s be honest, you need it at this stage). Fifty points: a plush pillow embroidered with At Least You Tried (soft enough to cry into). And the grand prize at one hundred points: a lifetime subscription to streaming services (because sometimes, the only commitment you need is to continue watching).
I’ve only accumulated two points so far, but I might still indulge in a carton of ice cream.
* * *
Despite my resolution to give dating apps a fair chance and win at the numbers game, tonight, I’m putting zero effort into it, already bracing myself for disappointment. I throw on a pair of jeans and don’t even bother showering again before heading out. I’m meeting guy number three, Tyler, at a casual burger joint—no need to get all dolled up.
At 8p.m. sharp, I walk into the upscale pub. The walls are covered in chalkboard menus listing craft beers and specialty burgers with quirky names. The atmosphere is lively and loud with chatter and clinking glasses.
Tyler is easy to find. He’s leaning against the bar, arms crossed over his chest, looking every bit the fitness junkie from his photos. I can’t tell his hair color since it’s shaved in a short buzz cut. His snug black T-shirt shows off his lean, muscular frame. If I had to assign him a vibe, I’d say ex-military. I try to remember what his bio said, but can’t.
We grab a table in the corner, and small talk rears its awkward head. Tyler asks me about work, hobbies, and we joke about our mutual dislike for people who think the entire subway car needs to hear their call.
I’m still laughing when Tyler freezes, eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. “Did you see that?”
I turn, following his gaze. “What?” I ask, scanning the bar for anything unusual.
Tyler nods toward the ceiling, where a small security camera sits tucked into the corner. “The camera,” he hisses. “They’re watching us. All of us, all the time.”
I laugh, thinking he’s joking, but he leans in, lowering his voice. “They’ve been hiding things from us for decades. Take the moon landing, for instance…” His eyes widen with a sort of feverish excitement.
I blink as a nervous laugh escapes my lips. “The w—what?”
Turns out, Tyler’s dead serious. He explains in great detail how the government staged the first man walking on the moon. That NASA is part of a global conspiracy. And how the media have brainwashed everyone. His hands wave as he describes hidden truths and shadow organizations.
I take a big bite of my burger, chewing slowly to buy myself time. I don’t know how to reply. “Um, that’s… an interesting perspective. But I’m pretty sure Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.”
Tyler’s eyes narrow. “That’s what they want you to think.” He’s not having any of my “facts.” He’s too deep into his rant now, explaining how he’s been researching “the truth” for years and how I need to wake up.
His burger sits untouched, while he launches into a full-on tirade about how everything we’ve ever been told is a lie. I discreetly check my phone under the table, wondering how fast I can get out of Dodge as Tyler’s blue eyes dart around like he’s worried someone might overhear.
When he tells me vaccines are a cover for injecting tracking devices, I lean in, lowering my voice to match his intensity. “Is the guy in the blue cap watching us?”
Tyler’s head snaps toward the man, who’s just eating his burger in peace. He tenses, scanning the bar with practiced paranoia, his eyes narrowing on every person who glances our way.
“This place is crawling with them,” Tyler whispers, as though sharing state secrets.
I nod, throwing a cautious glance over my shoulder. “We should split up, throw them off.”
Tyler shoots me a look of admiration. “You’re right.”
I sit back on my stool, keeping quiet. There’s only so much bullshit I can spin before I laugh.
He slips two twenties onto the table. “I don’t use cards. Not safe. Too easy to track.”
“Wait.” I frown. “How come you’re on a dating app, then?”
“Tyler’s not my real name. I would’ve told you, eventually.”
Note to self: switch to an app with verified identities.
Not-Tyler gives me a regretful stare. “Sorry this didn’t work out. But I can’t be with you. You’re on their radar.”
“No, I understand.”
“I knew you would.” He stands up and adds, “Don’t follow me out for ten minutes.”
He gives me one last look, then slips out, disappearing into the night. I wait a bit before raising my beer bottle in a silent toast. Cheers to all the sane people who decided not to match with me and to the dating-app algorithm that thinks I deserve this.
* * *
By the time Friday evening rolls around, I’m dreading my last date. But it’s also the start of the weekend, which means the odds of Dylan and Olivia spending time together are high. Especially since Dylan, Tristan, Nina, and I are all having dinner at Adrian’s place tomorrow to meet Rowena’s fake fiancé. If Dylan can’t be with his girlfriend on Saturday night, he’ll want to see her tonight. Here or at her place, I don’t know. But I’m not taking the chance of being a third wheel again if they’re staying here. I’d rather be out meeting another weirdo than watching them get cozy on my couch.
I leave the house before Dylan is back—extra points for avoiding another mortification. A short walk later, I venture inside a fancy French bistro that has opened a couple of blocks away. I suggested this place to my date since I’ve been hearing great things about it and I was curious to try it out. Once, I would’ve come with Nina and Rowena for a girls’ night out. Sadly, those days are gone.
As the warm, inviting scent of fancy cheese and warm baguette wraps around me, a small pang of mourning for my youth tugs at my chest. Nina is living with her boyfriend and they’ll probably get engaged soon. Rowena is having a baby and getting married—okay, that situation isn’t by the book, but it’s still a big step. And me, I’m getting older but just never wiser.
My friends are moving on with their lives while I’m stuck meeting internet weirdos, hoping to overcome a teenage crush. Everyone else is boarding a train to somewhere exciting but I’m alone on the platform, clutching a ticket to nowhere. For years, I’ve pinned too much on the idea of Dylan. He’s been my “will happen one day”—the excuse I used to avoid taking risks or trying to build something real with anyone else. He was an imaginary safety net. But safety nets don’t catch you when you’re standing still. They’re for people brave enough to leap, and I’ve been too scared to jump.
Now everyone else’s lives are moving on without me. I’ve spent years letting this one-sided crush seep into everything, coloring how I live, how I love, and how I don’t. It has to stop. The thought of starting over terrifies me, but so does the idea of staying exactly where I am, trapped in a cycle of waiting for something that might never happen.
If online dating doesn’t work out, I’ll find something else. Maybe I’ll join obscure hobby clubs, like competitive origami. Or try a singles-only trivia night and dominate all the Taylor Swift categories. Or throw myself into singles hiking groups, pretending I love sweating uphill. I’m already pretending to be a happy early raiser; what’s one more layer of misery?
At least the restaurant I picked looks nice. The flickering candlelight and soft background noise of conversations create an intimate atmosphere. Still, as I ask the hostess for my table, I wonder if I should stop going on dinner dates and meet new guys for drinks. Give me a faster, easier escape. Assuming I’ll ever have the courage to set up new dates. If tonight’s another bust, I won’t have the fortitude—I’d rather join a bowling league.
As the hostess guides me through the maze of tables, my eyes land on Lucas, seated by the main window. He’s meticulously groomed, his short, gel-slicked hair sitting rigidly in place like it wouldn’t dare defy him. His broad shoulders strain against the seams of his too-tight button-up, the fabric pulled taut over a chest that seems more swollen than natural. The rolled-up sleeves reveal thick, veined forearms that look like they’ve seen more dumbbells than daylight. When he spots me, his brown eyes narrow briefly, scanning like I’m a cut of steak he’s deciding whether to throw on the grill. Did he look like that in his photo? He seemed much less… muscular? Inflated?
He stands to greet me, offering a warm smile that at least seems genuine. “Hunter, nice to meet you.” He pulls out my chair in a smooth, chivalrous motion.
So far so good on the attitude, but I can’t help being on edge, searching for red flags instead of concentrating on the positives. Should I ask him right away if he believes there are aliens hidden in Area 51 or when his last break-up was and if he still texts his ex?
The hostess hands us our menus, and we fall into the standard first-date script—where we’re from, how we ended up in New York, how we like the city.
Lucas’s answers are smooth, making me wonder how many first dates he’s been on. His responses have a rehearsed quality that leaves me wary. Still, I keep up with my lines, nodding at the right intervals, but there’s a part of me already wondering how much longer this will last. He suggests a wine from the list, and I go along, deciding to reserve judgment for later.
Just then, the hostess reappears, escorting a couple to the table next to ours. I glance over—and my stomach drops. Because, of course, the universe can’t resist throwing a pie in my face.
It’s Dylan and Olivia.