Houston, We Have a Problem

If you read The Deli Dilemma, you know I spent weeks—fine, months—debating whether to make a move on Deli Dad. Would he reject me? Would he tell me he’d only been joking? Would I have to abandon my favorite market forever or, worse, learn how to cook?

Well, after a thousand pep talks, countless reenactments, and enough overthinking for a lifetime, I finally did something wildly out of character. I made the first move!

We were chatting about my hectic travel schedule, including my upcoming trip to Tulsa, a city he said he really enjoyed, when I stated matter-of-factly, “Should I give you my number so we can continue talking?”

He looked up. “What?”

Nothing humbles a person faster than having to repeat a sentence they already regretted saying. But I did it anyway.

His eyes widened. “Oh... yeah. Yes!” he stammered.

I tore the bottom off my grocery list, scribbled my number, handed it over, and speed-walked out of the store before I could leap over the counter and rescind the offer.

A few hours later, he texted to say he “appreciated that I gave him my number” before narrating his remarkably boring afternoon. Dogs to the sitter. Helping a friend. Maybe getting gas. CVS run. Making dinner.

Later that night, my phone buzzed again. Three separate photos. Two dogs and his darling daughter. In just eight text messages, not including the photos, he had already shared a surprising amount about his life, including that he’d spent the last several years living with the mother of his daughter.

Don’t worry. He was “supposedly” moving out in ten days.

Meanwhile, I was giving my friends a play-by-play. They were thrilled. “I’m so proud of you!” one texted. “That took guts!” wrote another. But as I filled them in on the increasingly bizarre messages and the rapid-fire oversharing about both his daughter and Baby Mama, I started wondering if something was a little... off. One friend immediately scolded, “Be nice, Nicole.” Another assured me our astrological signs were perfectly aligned. That the universe was speaking. I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t speaking, but rather laughing at me as a form of self-entertainment.

The next afternoon, my phone erupted again. Not one message. Not even two. It was a machine-gun burst of consciousness.

“Wow... the apartment is a lot.”

“The last guy completely trashed it.”

“Good news is I don’t have to pay the security deposit because it’s already so nasty.”

“Total bachelor pad.”

“I have a lot of cleaning to do but the other guys said they’ll help.”

“Got to paint too! But can’t afford it right now, so I will have to find some. Maybe in my daughter’s mom’s garage?”

“It’s a bad color though. Really dark.”

“If it isn’t ready, my daughter’s mom said I can stay with her a little longer.”

“But it’s all good. We get along.”

There was... a lot to unpack. Apparently, his new place was a communal living arrangement. He also proudly pointed out that he had his own bathroom, as though that was the luxury amenity that sealed the deal. All I could picture was a hovel serving as a temporary layover before he and his belongings slowly annexed my townhome.

Turns out, Deli Don Juan was not nearly as delicious as I’d been dreaming.

Then came the sentence that turned concern into clarity. And remember, I had orchestrated all of this. I gave him my number. I was the one who wanted him to ask me out.

“Hey, so for our first public event, I was thinking about seeing a band or dinner.”

Our first...

Public...

Event?

It sounded like he was taking me out for a showing, as if I’m a prized pig being unveiled at the county fair.

Whatever romantic curiosity I’d been clinging to vanished. Fast.

Ironically, this all unfolded only a few days after another relationship plot twist involving my quirky travel companion. (If you’d like to catch up on the saga, check out “Fashion Crimes and Camera Clicks: Surviving Days 2 and 4,” “The Great Buffet Debate on Day 5,” and “The Tip I Should’ve Given: Get It Together or Get Left on Day 6!” And yes, I know. I still haven’t finished the series. I will. Eventually!)

Now, before I continue, I need to say that my travel companion is genuinely one of the kindest people I know. He has a heart of gold and a wonderful sense of adventure, but the social filter of a thirteen-year-old boy. Our conversations are usually run-of-the-mill. He reports going to the gym, his latest alignment, and a great concert he attended. Completely harmless.

Then, in the middle of a Wednesday while at work, my phone vibrated.

“I wish I could give you a present for your birthday.”

I smiled. How sweet. But a tad strange, since my birthday isn’t until November.

I replied, “Well, you know I love presents!”

Several minutes later, another message arrived.

Let’s just say the birthday gift he had in mind wasn’t something that could be purchased, gift-wrapped, or shipped by Amazon. It was more of an experiential gift that required my full participation, cooperation, and an enthusiasm to explore territory I had absolutely no interest in visiting.

I stared at my phone. Read it again. Checked the sender. Read it a third time. Surely, he’d texted the wrong person.

Nope. This message was definitely intended for me.

Grossed out? Absolutely. Surprised? Not particularly. I declined his offer and told him I’d happily send him my actual birthday wish list.

Which brings me back to the beginning.

I’d been trying to take chances, just go for it, be brave, and speak my mind openly.

Well... Mission freaking accomplished.