I was frantically searching for a parking spot when Riley texted me, letting me know he had made it to his suggested destination: Mockingbird, a new-to-me restaurant in downtown Oakland. It was our second date, I was running late, and I swore aloud when I read the message. I sent him a response:
Me: Hey I’m struggling to find parking! Sorry
He replied graciously, and I finally parked my car and climbed out, grabbing my keys, and my jacket, and… And where was my wallet? I scrambled around in my car before coming to terms with reality: I had left my wallet, with my cash and ID and credit cards, on my dresser at home. I felt like crying. I sent Riley another text, with a tiny lie, because who forgets their entire wallet on a second date?
Me: Omg I also forgot my credit card and ID. I had them in the pocket of my jeans and then changed before leaving. I can either run back for them OR you HAVE to let me Venmo you. And/or I can give them the number because I have it memorized. Just parked
Riley: Lol I can pay for it, don’t go back
I was on the hot mess express when I finally walked through the doors of the restaurant. Mortified and frazzled. I think I blacked out as I went to hug Riley and began rambling incoherent thoughts. I tried to participate in the conversation, but my socially anxious and overstimulated brain kept returning to my embarrassment.
And, listen, I understood intellectually that, in the big scheme of things, forgetting my wallet and showing up late for the date and telling a white lie were minor events. At the moment, though, they felt major. And the stakes were higher than typical, given that my cousin, Julia, worked closely with Riley. We did not meet through Julia, but the mutual connection was discovered prior to our first date. Would Riley report to Julia that I had shown up for a date and expected him to pay for it? And, whether or not he would tell her, is that what he was thinking?
I passed on alcohol, as I didn’t think I could endure the shame of denial for lack of ID. But I probably could have used the sedative. We devoured plates of pasta and chatted, but I felt detached from the present, thrown off by earlier events. I excused myself to use the restroom and, on the way back, asked our server if I could please pay by credit card and handle it quietly; I had the number memorized. But, of course, the server got the manager involved, and the manager got the owner involved, and Riley saw me pleading my case to various staff at the bar. He pulled his card from his wallet and slid it across the counter next to me.
Dejected, I walked back to our table. I asked Riley for his Venmo account information and sent him the amount of the dinner—his and mine. He protested, saying that we should split the hefty tab, but I felt obliged to prove a point.
I drove him home on that cold, December evening, gave him an awkward hug across the front seat, and flew to Seattle for the holidays two days later. Riley was in Oakland only through the spring, and I sometimes wonder if we might have spent more time together over the following months, had I not botched the date. I’m not sure the connection was totally there, but still.
Riley, was this date as terrible for you as it was for me? Was my humiliation palpable? Thanks for showing me I could fuck up a date and still not die.
