The first red flag was the fact that he’d been married. Once would probably have been a warning—a yellow flag. But twice? To think he has two ex-wives somewhere out there. I wasn’t interested in being someone’s girl number three.
What was that line he spewed? ‘I haven't found the right woman yet.’ Oh, please, spare me. He had more than one chance to get it right.
The second red flag was that he was handsome—tall, dark hair, dark eyes, with a slender, athletic body. He had that sort of low-key, laid-back charm about him and was the outgoing type, maybe a little too much so. He had no problem attracting the ladies, young and old, with or without my presence. He appeared to fit the mold as most women's type.
The third red flag was that he traveled for his job—a lot. He stayed in four-star hotels when attending conventions. After work, I imagined his evening dinners with colleagues easily transitioning into drink-filled nights that conveniently included young, single women. I knew the story all too well. I had seen it play out many times at the hotel—married men and the hired ‘party girls’ to entertain them. Their poor, clueless wives back home. It was beyond disgraceful.
You’d think with three red flags, I would have deleted his number from my phone. He had sent me five texts while I was driving, which I didn’t reply to. But then he called me the minute I got home. When my cell phone rang, I accidentally hit the wrong button.
“I was worried about you,” he said. “You left in such a hurry. I wanted to make sure you made it home safely.”
Of course, it was the gentlemanly thing to do, considering I had just spent twelve out of twenty-four hours driving back and forth for a man I barely knew.
“I feel bad you drove all this way for one night. I’d like to make it up to you.”
I had sensed a hint of remorse in his voice.
“Was it something I said? Something I did?” he had asked on the phone that night. I didn't feel the need to tell him or bring up the situation. It wasn’t worth it, so I just let it go and kept to my story of not feeling well.
I had thought we were off to a good start. Throughout my life, I mostly dated men my age. Since he was a decade older than me, I thought it would be nice to be with someone a little older and a little wiser. Being an old soul myself, I thought I might have found my match.
“We were having such a great time,” he added. “We were supposed to hang out at the beach today and watch the sunset together.”
I thanked him for dinner, sharing my disappointment about missing the sunset on the beach.
“Maybe another time,” I said, quickly ending the call.
Who was I kidding? The moment my words hit the air, I planned on never seeing him again.
On Tuesday afternoon, at the hotel, I was on my way to the employee break room when I ran into Nicole, one of the cocktail servers.
“Lucky lady,” she said in passing, as she headed down the hallway.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll see,” she called out, disappearing around the corner.
Upon entering the room, there sat a large vase of red-tipped yellow roses. Someone had placed a sticky note on the vase with a smiley face and my name written on it. As I leaned over, inhaling the fragrance, I noticed a tiny envelope tied to the ribbon around the vase. Slipping the card out, I squinted to read the small print.
‘Let's start over, xo, David.’
I wasn't sure what to think but was thankful my supervisor wasn't around to play a game of fifty questions. I hoped Nicole would keep her big mouth shut and cover for me until I could take them out of there after my shift.
When I walked through the front door of my rental after midnight, Cindy was lying on the sofa watching TV.
“Ooh, pretty! Looks like someone has an admirer,” she trilled. Sitting up to reach for the remote, she turned the volume down. “Do tell.”
“They’re from David with a note that read, ‘let's start over.’” I set the vase on the dining table.
“Are you going to give him a second chance?” she asked, picking up her phone.
“I don't know. I'm too tired to think about it right now.” Kicking off my shoes, I flopped down on the sofa beside her.
“Hey, listen to this. Yellow means happiness, friendship, and new beginnings.”
“But these have red tips… so what does that mean?”
“Let’s see,” she said, tapping her fingernails on the screen. “According to this site, it says friendship deepening to love.” She looked over at me, making googly-eyes. “Maybe he’s falling in love?”
“Well, if he is, he's a little too late.”
“Oh, come on, Val, give the guy a chance. He can't be any worse than the string of losers you’ve dated. You know you’re never going to find a decent guy in this town. Not one that will live up to your standards,” she added.
“Are you saying I have high standards?” I huffed.
“No, you just did.”
She's right; I had set the bar high. I had pretty much given up on dating. The only time I had ever been in love was a decade ago.
My first boyfriend was my high school sweetheart, a seven year relationship that lasted six years too long. During those years, I must've worn the thickest pair of rose-colored glasses ever made.
All the girls loved Joey. He was one of a few, if not the cutest boy in school. Joey knew he was hot with his olive skin and mop of black hair. He had asked me
