Have you ever been the other woman but had absolutely no idea?

Here is a tale that is not as devastating as a physical cheating scandal, but discouraging enough to make you question who you’re going out with at all times. 

It was mid-summer season before my senior year of college, and I was sitting outside at the Bethlehem Starbucks, probably doing work for my internship or half-assing a French homework assignment due that very day (I hated summer school). 

Lonely, overheated, and itching for attention, I decided to Snapchat a 5’8, dirty blonde ex-lacrosse player (the sport choice should have been my first clue into his f-boyness).

We had a minute-and-a-half-long fling the summer after high school. He was a transfer student senior year, and funny enough, we met the night of graduation. 

He was cute and sweet, and we made out and partied together periodically over the summer. I think he liked me, but I was going through my “date them, then dump them” phase at the time that had sprung out of adolescent angst. 

He asked me to go to dinner, and before ordering, I half-jokingly told him that that was going to be my new go-to date spot once school started. Cruel, I know.

We parted ways, and since then, we’d text occasionally and go on dates between semesters. 

This July afternoon, I finally asked him out, wanting to give our story a shot. After all, he had been chasing me for years, right? And I was finally mentally balanced and mature enough to pursue a real relationship. 

So, the night comes, and he picks me up to go to a nice brewery spot that I’d dreamt of bringing a date to ever since turning 21. 

Cozy in a booth, we held conversation. I attempted to see a connection, to test the chemistry. It was pretty faulty. It almost felt like having a conversation with my male cousin. 

Had I just imagined the sizzle between us years ago? 

He went to the bathroom four times, checked his phone every 15 minutes like a crazy man, and on the way home, whipped out a pack of Bazooka bubble gum and asked if I wanted a piece. Um no, I prefer mint??

Back at my place, I tried even harder to ignite the sparks. Want some beer?

Two beers down, two more bathroom breaks for Bazooka, and he said he was going to head home.

I walked him to the door like the complete gentleman that I am, and he said, “This was fun; let me know if you would like to do it again sometime.” Mixed signals all around. 

Two days later, he liked a romantic TikTok I had reposted. It’s a little early to be reposting Tiktoks about me, don’t ya think? 

I went to his page, and his last three reposts were two-week-old videos of him looking pretty cozy with another blonde all the way in Washington D.C.

I ran to his Instagram to find that I had been blocked.  

Then, it dawned on me: maybe he was spending the whole night texting another woman. Maybe he was heading to the bathroom so frequently because he was talking to his poor girlfriend who was curled up at home wondering why it was taking so long for him to respond. 

He opened the doors, paid for my drinks, came over after the date, and then blocked me.

Maybe they broke up since the time those videos were posted, or maybe he wanted a girl in both zip codes. 

Most painfully, though, maybe I got a dose of what 18-year-old me served to him. (And a few others, regretfully). 

Maybe one day I’ll be lucky in love,

The Other Woman