When my brother Marcus insisted he knew “the perfect guy” for me, I braced myself. After all, his last setup was a spoon collector who wore socks with sandals. But Marcus was persistent, swearing Andy was polite, smart, and mysteriously single.
Tired of dodging questions about my love life, I agreed—one date, just to prove I was “open.”
Andy surprised me. He showed up with wildflowers, opened doors, and made genuine conversation over dinner. He seemed attentive, kind, and refreshingly normal.
For the first time in ages, I felt seen and respected. When he offered to drive me home, I hesitated—first date rules say Uber only—but he was so sincere, I let it slide. He dropped me off like a true gentleman, waited until I got inside, and even waved from the car.
I went to bed thinking, Maybe I found one of the good ones. That illusion shattered the next morning at 7:13 a.m., when I received a PayPal request from Andy: $37.25 for gas, car depreciation, parking, and—no joke—a cleaning fee for puddle splash marks. I stared in disbelief before bursting into laughter.
Then I sent him $50 with a note: “$13 tip for opening the door. Cheers.” Blocked. Marcus was horrified—and amused.
Turns out, Andy bragged to his pickleball group about our “rom-com” date… until Marcus showed them the screenshots. The group voted him out. Weeks later, I saw a viral TikTok from another woman who’d dated Andy—and got the same bill.
Honestly? I’m grateful. Worst date ever.
Best story of my life.
