After I got promoted at work, I also got a new boss. She was great, tough, kind, and just nosy enough to be dangerous. One day, she asked if she could give her nephew my number.
"He's single," she said, "your age, great job, owns a house, really sweet with his nieces and nephews."
I said sure. Why not? I was newly single and open to meeting someone who didn't live in his mom's basement or exclusively communicate in memes.
Enter Alex.
Alex was a small-town country boy with a clean truck, a steady job, and a mortgage with his name on it. His sister had five kids, and from what I could tell, he was the favorite uncle. He seemed grounded, stable, kind. Honestly? It felt like a win.
Our first date was simple. Dinner at the local Mexican place. We were seated in a booth next to a family with toddlers throwing chips and one teenage waitress who clearly wanted to quit. Still, he made me laugh. Not in a forced, "I'm trying to impress you" kind of way, but in a natural, effortless way. The kind where your face softens and you start to forget how much you hate dating.
He told me about his work, his plans for renovating his kitchen, how much he adored his sister's kids. "I'm not ready for a family yet," he said, "but when I am, I wanna be the kind of dad who shows up. Even if it means glitter crafts and soccer practices."
We talked until the restaurant closed, right up until the moment the waitress passive-aggressively vacuumed under our table. He walked me to my car, then leaned against his truck, hands in his pockets, like something out of a Hallmark movie that might actually end well. We stood there for nearly two hours, just talking. About exes, awkward Tinder dates, our mutual love of old music and trashy reality shows. It wasn't fireworks. It was a warm campfire. Slow-burning. Safe.
I went home smiling.
Our second date?
That one was perfect.
He picked me up on a Saturday morning in his clean, freshly-waxed truck and drove us out to the river. He had packed a full picnic, sandwiches he made himself, chips, lemonade, even brownies he claimed were homemade (they weren't, but I appreciated the bold lie). He'd brought pillows and a blanket for the truck bed, and we parked beneath a huge old tree that cast shade over the entire gravel bank.
We ate and talked and laughed. I kicked off my shoes and dipped my toes in the river while he skipped rocks. Then we lay in the back of the truck, staring at the clouds and trading stories about our childhoods. He told me about the time he fell off a barn roof trying to impress a girl and broke both wrists. I told him about the time I lied to my parents about sneaking out and accidentally set off the church security alarm trying to get back in.
When I shivered from the breeze, he handed me his hoodie without a second thought.
When I teased him about not liking mustard, he dramatically faked betrayal and tried to smear some on my nose.
When I caught him staring at me while I talked, he didn't look away. He just smiled and said, "You're really easy to listen to."
It wasn't just cute. It felt safe. I didn't feel like I was performing. I didn't feel like I had to be more or less or "different." I felt wanted. Not just physically, emotionally.
I found myself leaning closer without meaning to. Laughing too hard at his jokes. Playing with the hem of his hoodie sleeves even after I wasn't cold anymore. By the time we packed up, I didn't want to leave.
We drove back into town with the windows down and the radio on low. He pulled into my driveway, killed the engine, and didn't rush the moment. We sat there for a bit, letting the quiet settle.
Then he leaned in.
I thought, Perfect ending to a perfect date.
And at first, it was. Gentle. Slow. A little hesitant. The kind of kiss that doesn't ask for anything. It just says, I like you. I see you.
But then.
It changed.
Suddenly, the kiss shifted from tender to torrential. One second I was floating on a river of soft sweetness, and the next? Hoover mode. The man went full vacuum seal on my mouth. Tongue suction like he was trying to extract it for testing. And it wasn't even rhythmic. It was intentional, like he was trying to siphon my soul out through my dental records.
I tried to adapt. Maybe slow things down. Ease off the gas pedal. But Alex? Oh no. He doubled down. Like a man who'd read exactly one article on French kissing written by a drunk frat boy.
Within seconds, it was painful. Physically painful. I had to shove him back, gasping like I'd been freed from a flesh-eating leech.
I wiped my mouth, stunned, and realized… I could taste blood.
Y'all. He kissed me so hard I bled. There was actual tongue trauma. I had to Google "Can you bruise your tongue from kissing?" because my mouth felt like it had been through a wood chipper.
And the wildest part? He looked so proud. Like he had nailed it.
I forced a smile. Thanked him for the night. And backed out of that truck like it was a hostage negotiation.
There was no third date.
No sweet follow-up. No post-date "had a great time" message.
Just me, nursing my tongue like a war wound and wondering how a man who could plan a perfect picnic could also attack my mouth like it owed him money.
To this day, I still think about him. Not because I miss him.
Because sometimes I taste blood and get a flashback.