Swipe Left, Regret Right - “Catfished, ghosted, and one margarita away from emotional bankruptcy—Sadie’s about to learn that the worst dates make the best stories.”

Chapter One: The Flannel, the Dog, and the Lie

— Where I realize the dog was the most honest part of the profile.

If I had a dollar for every time I got catfished, I could afford a therapist who doesn’t work out of the back of a vape shop.

His name—on the app—was Liam. His photos? Flannel shirt, wholesome golden retriever, an entire sourdough starter journey documented in a carousel. He looked like the kind of man who knew the difference between thyme and rosemary and would never use the phrase "emotional availability" sarcastically.

So, naturally, I showed up at the cozy Italian bistro in my I might run into my ex dress, expecting warm bread energy.

Instead, I got Leo.

Leo was not Liam.

My stomach dropped like I’d just opened a message from my ex. This was not the artisanal bread-making, dog-loving flannel guy I’d emotionally pre-gamed for. No. This was someone who looked like he sold protein powder in his DMs and called women 'females' unironically.

Leo was... imagine if a Wall Street bro and a human protein shake had a baby, and that baby grew up to hustle crypto and say "facts don't care about your feelings" at parties. He was wearing a blazer over a T-shirt that read “GRIND UNTIL THEY BEG YOU TO STOP.”

“Sadie?” he said, standing with open arms like we were reuniting after a six-month reality show separation.

I blinked. “Liam?”

He smirked. “I go by Leo now. Liam was my soft era. This is my power season.”

I immediately wanted to power-walk in the opposite direction.

But I was already here. I was hungry. And I’d worn heels, which meant I deserved wine and something covered in garlic butter.

So I stayed.

Big mistake.

Chapter Two: The Manifestation Window

— Where red flags wave themselves and I stay for the steak.

“So you’re a financial analyst?” I asked, trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the man in the profile who looked like he volunteered at animal shelters.

Leo chuckled. “I mean, yeah, if you count coaching people to unlock their fiscal vibrations through strategic coin diversification.”

That sentence alone gave me six new grey hairs.

He continued, “I’m big on crypto. Passive income. Mindset. Like, you have to own your energy, y’know?”

I did not know.

“I listen to The Wolf of Wall Street every morning while I ice my face,” he added casually, like that was a thing normal people did.

I took a large gulp of wine.

“Honestly,” he said, scooting closer, “you remind me of Margot Robbie in Wolf. Fierce. No-nonsense. Intimidating in a sexy way.”

“Because I have a resting bitch face?”

He grinned. “Exactly. Love that.”

I texted Bree under the table.

ME: I’ve been catfished by a motivational speaker who thinks quoting Jordan Belfort is flirting.

BREE: OMG is he wearing a necklace? I bet he’s a necklace guy.

ME: Gold chain. It’s happening.

BREE: HE IS THE VILLAIN IN YOUR ROMANTIC ORIGIN STORY.

ME: I already ordered the steak. We ride at dawn.

Meanwhile, Leo was monologuing.

“I think couples should be each other’s accountability partners. Like, if you’re not waking up at 5 a.m. to journal together, what are we even doing?”

“I usually wake up at 5 a.m. to pee and then hate myself,” I offered.

He didn’t laugh.

I took another sip of wine and considered whether I could legally marry a crème brûlée and live happily ever after. I stared at it longingly, like it had a 401(k), clear communication skills, no Instagram account, and would never ghost me after three good dates and a shared Spotify playlist.

Chapter Three: I've Said Too Much (And Also Not Enough)

— Where I walk away full of crème brûlée and emotional damage.

Dessert arrived. I cracked the sugar top with enough force to signal distress to any nearby government satellites.

“I feel like we’ve got something here,” Leo said, watching me like I was the next undervalued NFT drop.

“Do we?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re like my Naomi.”

“The one from Wolf of Wall Street who ends up divorced and takes the kids?”

“Exactly. Passion like that? Rare.”

I stared at him. My spoon hovered. My soul left my body.

“Leo,” I said slowly, standing up and folding my napkin like it was a legal document. I paused, gave him one last once-over, as if searching for even a glimmer of Liam hidden beneath the wolf quotes and protein bar energy. “This has been… an experience.”

He stood too, undeterred. “You’re overwhelmed. I get it. My energy can be intense.”

“No, Leo. What’s intense is the fact that you lied about your name, your job, and probably your relationship with that dog.”

“I didn’t mean that—I just didn’t expect you to, like, call me out so hard. I’m usually the one with the mic drop.”

“Oh, I’ve said too much,” I interrupted, holding up a hand. “And also, not nearly enough.”

I threw a twenty on the table and walked out, leaving him standing there like the final boss in a motivational speaking pyramid scheme.

Outside, I took a deep breath. Texted Bree.

ME: I deserve a medal. Or a margarita. Or a Netflix special.

BREE: I’m already screen-grabbing your texts. This is going in the wedding speech.

BREE: You’re not dating. You’re collecting content. Monetize that trauma, queen.

And as I walked toward the Uber that would take me home, heels in hand, I smiled to myself.

Because maybe love was a mess. Maybe dating was a graveyard of red flags and Jordan Belfort quotes.

But damn, did I have material.

Chapter Four: The Margarita Debrief

— Where Bree stages a post-date intervention with lime wedges and a whiteboard.

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who spiral quietly after a catastrophic date, and those who book a booth at their favorite Mexican bar and arrive with a whiteboard.

Bree is the latter. She burst in like a woman on a mission—chart in one hand, laminated rage in the other, already mid-sentence before her butt hit the booth.

“I made a chart,” she said, sliding into the booth like a woman with a vendetta and a happy hour coupon. “It's called ‘Sadie’s Dating Downward Spiral: A Timeline of Regret and Cautionary Tales.’”

I stared at her. “Please tell me it’s laminated.”

She looked almost offended. “Of course it is.”

A waiter appeared, looking like he’d seen some things. Bree ordered us two margaritas, extra salt, and an emergency guac. I slumped into the seat and muttered, “Do we need a timeline? Can’t we just light sage and burn my Hinge account?”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “There are lessons to be learned. Like: never trust a man in a motivational T-shirt.”

“To be fair, I should’ve known when he said he was in his ‘power season,’” I said, grabbing a chip and inhaling it like oxygen.

Bree held up the laminated chart. “Okay. Walk me through it again. Start from the first red flag.”

I sipped my margarita. “He said I had ‘Margot Robbie energy’ and meant it as a compliment… because of Wolf of Wall Street.”

She gasped. “He sees himself as Jordan Belfort, doesn’t he?”

“Worse. He thinks Jordan was misunderstood.”

Bree scribbled something on a napkin. “You are forbidden from dating anyone who quotes business movies unironically. That includes Boiler Room, American Psycho, and The Social Network.”

The waiter dropped off tacos and what appeared to be a panic bowl of queso.

I took a breath. “I told him I’d rather date a bowl of cold oatmeal than see him again.”

Bree’s eyes lit up. “That’s going in the speech. Maybe embroidered on a pillow.”

I laughed, but my stomach twisted. “Maybe I’m broken, B. Like… maybe all I attract are human disaster slideshows.”

“You’re not broken,” she said. “You’re hilarious. You’re hot. You’re just… dating in the apocalypse.”

I rested my head dramatically against the booth. “It’s giving end-of-days but make it flirty.”

She tilted her head. “Okay. Real talk. I dare you to go on one more date. One. But this time? No flannels. No dogs. No bios that mention ‘grindset.’ Just… swipe right on someone who doesn’t fit your usual chaos type.”

“I already have hives,” I said. “That idea makes me itchy.”

“Do it for the plot,” she said. “And if it’s terrible, I’ll bring cake and a taser.”

Chapter Five: Enter Jack (Soft Launch Chaos)

— Where a familiar face reappears and messes up the game plan.

Two days later, I was stood up by a man named Aaron, whose profile said he was “emotionally intelligent and open to vibes.”

Turns out, Aaron was also open to bailing fifteen minutes before the date with a text that read:

"My ex came back. Sorry. Universe stuff."

Bree offered to stage a revenge hex. I opted for solo fries and self-pity at the neighborhood bar.

I slid into a stool, told the bartender “Anything with tequila,” and mentally composed my next I give up text to Bree.

That’s when I heard a familiar voice.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the crème brûlée crusader.”

I turned—and there he was.

Jack.

Wearing a black T-shirt, leaning casually against the bar like it was a movie set, not a place that served tater tots in paper baskets. His hair was slightly messy, like he didn’t try but still looked hot, which frankly felt like a personal attack.

“You stalking me?” I asked, instantly regretting the way I looked. Messy bun. Mascara from two days ago. Emotional chips in front of me like edible therapy.

Jack smirked. “Please. You think you’re the only person who gets ghosted and ends up here?”

He sat on the stool next to mine, nodding at the bartender. “Usual.”

“You have a usual?”

He raised an eyebrow. “And yet I’m the one being judged by the woman drinking alone and side-eyeing her guac.”

“Touche,” I muttered. “The guy I was supposed to meet flaked.”

“What happened?”

“His ex came back. ‘Universe stuff.’”

Jack winced. “Oof. That’s not even a good lie.”

“It’s not. I almost respect it, though. Like… if you’re gonna ghost, at least blame something cosmic.”

“Right. Mercury in retrograde, Venus in vengeance.”

I laughed, surprising myself. When was the last time I laughed on a night out without silently plotting my escape route?

His drink arrived. Whiskey, neat. Of course.

We sat in companionable silence for a moment, and I realized it was… nice. No forced flirting. No crypto pitches. Just… calm.

“You know,” Jack said, looking at me sideways, “you’re not as scary as you look when you’re yelling about cold plunges.”

“You’re not as smug as you seem when you’re making fun of my dating life.”

He raised his glass. “Truce?”

I clinked mine. “Temporary.”

And as I sipped my drink and tried not to overthink the way he smiled at me when I laughed, I texted Bree under the table:

ME: I think I accidentally enjoyed a conversation with someone who didn’t try to sell me a pyramid scheme.

BREE: WHAT. NO. GET OUT NOW. YOU’RE IN TOO DEEP.

ME: It’s not a date. It’s a coincidence.

BREE: This is how it starts. You like his vibe, then boom—he’s your husband and your mom’s following him on Instagram.

I rolled my eyes but didn’t respond. Not because she was wrong—but because for the first time in a while, I didn’t totally hate the idea.

Because suddenly, I wasn’t sure if Bree was wrong.

To be continued...