I went on a date with a guy from the gym, and everything felt perfect—until he suddenly couldn’t find his phone. I called it, and the waitress appeared, claiming she found it in the restroom. Later, while he was paying, she came to show me something on the screen that made my stomach drop.
His name was Dorian, and we’d been flirting over at the squat rack for a few weeks before he finally asked me out. He had this easy smile, the kind of confidence that made you feel safe. We went to this cozy little Italian place downtown, the kind where the lights are soft and the bread is warm enough to steam when you break it open.
The date was going so well I almost forgot we barely knew each other. We talked about travel, bad gym playlists, and our favorite cheat meals. Halfway through the pasta, he reached for his phone to show me a picture from his trip to Bali—then froze.
It wasn’t in his pocket. Not on the table. Not under the napkin.
He laughed it off, saying maybe it slipped out when he went to the restroom earlier. I offered to call it. The phone rang a few times before someone picked up—only it wasn’t him.
The voice on the other end was female. A minute later, our waitress appeared, holding his phone like it was a stray cat she’d found. She said she discovered it on the restroom counter.
Dorian seemed relieved, but I noticed his jaw tighten for just a second. When he took the phone, he pressed the lock button quickly, almost too quickly. We finished the meal without much fuss, but when the bill came, he excused himself to grab his wallet from the car, leaving the phone on the table.
That’s when the waitress came back, eyes darting toward the door. She held the phone out to me, unlocked this time. “I think you should see this,” she whispered.
On the screen was a chat app open to a thread labeled “Wifey ❤️.” The last message was from just fifteen minutes ago: “At dinner with the client. Will be home by 10. Save me some lasagna.”
I swear my heartbeat filled the entire restaurant.
Wifey. Client. Home by 10.
The words tangled in my head like a knot I didn’t want to pull. The waitress leaned in. “I didn’t mean to snoop, but it kept buzzing in my apron pocket when I found it.
Then I saw the messages…” She looked uncomfortable, like she’d just handed me a grenade. When Dorian came back, I handed him his phone with a smile so steady it almost scared me. He didn’t suspect a thing.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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