The first date with Mark was everything I’d hoped for and more. We met at a cozy little Italian place with dim lighting and checkered tablecloths, and the conversation flowed effortlessly. He was a landscape architect, passionate about sustainable design, and had a dry wit that perfectly matched mine. We talked about everything from our favorite travel destinations to our shared love for obscure indie films. He listened intently, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners when I made a joke, and his hand briefly, accidentally, brushed mine when he reached for the bread. It sent a ridiculous little thrill through me.
By the end of the evening, after lingering over tiramisu and promising to see each other again soon, I walked home with a lightness in my step I hadn’t felt in years. This felt different. This felt special. I went to bed that night with a hopeful smile, replaying our conversation in my head.
The next day, my phone buzzed with a text from him: “Had a wonderful time last night. Let’s do it again soon?” My heart fluttered. We exchanged a few more texts, setting up a second date for later that week. Everything seemed perfect.
Then, the next call came. It was the following afternoon, an unknown number. I almost didn’t answer, but something made me pick up.
“Hello?” I said, a little tentatively.
“Hi, is this Olivia?” a woman’s voice asked. It was calm, polite, but had an underlying tension.
“Yes, it is,” I replied, my brow furrowing. I didn’t recognize the voice.
“My name is Sarah,” she continued. “And I’m Mark’s wife.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My breath caught in my throat. Wife? He hadn’t mentioned a wife. Not a single word. My mind raced, trying to reconcile the charming, attentive man from last night with this sudden, shocking revelation.
“I… I don’t understand,” I stammered, my voice barely a whisper.
“I think you do,” Sarah said, her voice now laced with a weary sadness. “I found your number in his phone. You went out with him last night, didn’t you? At Giancarlo’s?”
My world spun. Giancarlo’s. The tiramisu. The hand brushing mine. It was all a lie. A sickening, elaborate lie. My initial flutter of hope evaporated, replaced by a cold, burning shame.
“He told me he was divorced,” I managed, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “He said he was single.”
Sarah sighed, a long, tired sound. “He tells a lot of women that. He’s been ‘dating’ on and off for the past year, always promising to leave me, always coming back. I finally reached my breaking point. I just wanted you to know what kind of man he is.”
A profound silence stretched between us, broken only by my own ragged breathing. The special connection I’d felt, the genuine spark, was now tainted, poisoned by deceit. It wasn’t just his betrayal, but the thought of another woman, his wife, being put through this, that truly twisted the knife.
“Thank you, Sarah,” I said, my voice heavy with a grief that felt disproportionate for a single date, but it was grief nonetheless – for the hope he had ignited, for the trust he had so casually shattered. “Thank you for telling me.”
I hung up the phone, my hand trembling. The world outside my window seemed to mock my earlier joy. The man I thought was special, who had seemed so genuine, was nothing but a liar. The second date was never going to happen. And the next call, the one from his wife, had changed absolutely everything.
