I went on my first date with a guy from a dating app, and I was determined to act like I belonged.
His name was Aaron. His pictures looked normal—smiling in a flannel shirt, holding a dog, hiking somewhere green. He suggested a trendy restaurant downtown with dim lights and menu items I couldn’t pronounce. I said yes, pretending I wasn’t nervous.
When I arrived, he stood up right away and pulled out my chair. “You look amazing,” he said, and my confidence shot up like a balloon.
So when the waiter came, I got bold.
I ordered the truffle fries. Then the crab cakes. Then a pasta dish that sounded like it had been invented by a poet. Aaron laughed and said, “Get whatever you want.”
I took that as a challenge.
By the time dessert arrived—a warm chocolate thing with ice cream—I was so full I felt like I might float away. Still, I smiled through it, determined to look relaxed and fun.
Aaron was charming, asking about my job, my family, my favorite movies. He told stories that made me laugh. For a while, I thought, Wow… maybe dating isn’t so terrifying.
Then the bill came.
Aaron glanced at it, then looked up with a polite smile. “Want to split it?”
My face flushed. I’d ordered most of the food. It was obvious. But my pride kicked in before my common sense could.
“No,” I said quickly, too sharply. “You invited me. You pay.”
His expression didn’t change, but his eyes went still. “Okay,” he said, and slid his card into the folder.
On the walk to my car, he was quiet. I told myself it was fine. I told myself men paid on dates all the time. I told myself I didn’t do anything wrong.
That night, I posted a photo of the dessert on my story with the caption: First date vibes 
like I hadn’t panicked over the bill.
The next morning, my phone buzzed.
A notification from my banking app:
Payment received: $68.40
I frowned, confused, and opened it.
The note read: “For your half :)”
My stomach dropped.
Then another notification popped up—from the restaurant’s app I’d used to join their waitlist.
Review posted from your number:
“Date expected me to pay for everything. Extremely rude. Would not recommend.”
I stared at the screen, heat rushing to my ears.
He’d used my number from the waitlist.
He didn’t just want to vent—he wanted to embarrass me.
I sat there for a long moment, then did something I’d never done before.
I didn’t spiral. I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg.
I opened the dating app and blocked him.
Then I called the restaurant. Calmly, I explained that the review wasn’t mine and that my number had been used without permission. The manager listened, apologized, removed the review, and flagged Aaron’s name.
Next, I sent Aaron the $68.40 back with one message:
“Keeping score isn’t the problem. Lying to punish someone is. Take care.”
Then I blocked his number too.
That evening, my best friend came over with tacos and a cheap bottle of wine. We ate on my couch, laughing until my stomach hurt again—but in a better way.
Because the satisfying ending wasn’t “winning” against him.
It was realizing I didn’t need his approval.
I just needed my self-respect back—and I finally had it.
