I Gave Up On Men, Then I Fell In Love With My Best Friend

I can tell within three minutes that Brad is going to be one of the ones I tell the group chat about. Not because he’s awful, exactly. Just because he’s a walking listicle.

“I dislike olives,” he says, reading off his mental cue cards while he wipes the condensation off his water glass with a square of napkin. “Like, passionately. Also, dogs that jump. And brunch. Overrated. The concept of brunch is a scam.”

I nod and make a noise that could mean anything. In my head, I’m laying out a red nine on a black ten. My phone is face down beside the bread basket, but the muscle memory is something I’ve trained like a pet. Flip card, move card, hold for a king. Solitaire has been my survival skill through a parade of dates who think “no cats” is a personality.

“I’m also not into musicals,” he continues. “Or birthdays. Or people who clap when the plane lands. That’s actually a dealbreaker.”

A black eight appears in my mind’s eye, and I drag a red seven onto it. I glance up, smile. He beams like he’s said something brave.

“What do you… like?” I ask, because I’m a generous person and because the deck needs a shuffle.

He leans back, stretching his arm across the empty chair as if to claim it. “Efficiency. Minimalist aesthetics. Fintech. Keto.”

I take a sip of my wine and resist the urge to text my friends under the table. Group chat: Brad dislikes clapping, dogs, and joy. I place a queen over a king in my mind and wonder if that’s legally binding somewhere.

It’s fine. I’ve met worse. There was the guy who thought “I don’t read” was a seductive confession. The guy who brought his mother, who was “just in the neighborhood.” The guy who thought he was a comedian and tested all his material on me like I was a tight five at a sad open mic. If dating is a deck, I’ve been dealt a lot of twos.

Brad watches the waiter set down our salads and immediately says, “Dressing on the side?” even though we didn’t discuss dressing. He looks relieved when it is, as if the universe has finally aligned with his standards.

“What do you do for fun?” I try again, fork poised.

He pauses, thoughtful. “I optimize my morning routine. Cold showers. Breathwork. I dislike naps.”

I spear a cherry tomato and imagine moving a black six onto a red seven. “I nap religiously,” I confess. “It’s my personality.”

He frowns slightly, like I’ve admitted to a felony. “I’m not judging,” he adds, which is generous, considering all the evidence.

Halfway through the main course, he launches into a detailed explanation of why he refuses to appreciate dessert. “Sugar is a scam,” he says. “Birthday cakes? Manipulation.” He delivers it like a TED Talk, and I nod along, stacking aces in my head. For a minute, I play the what-if game—what if I cared enough to argue, to charm, to sell myself? But the truth is, my energy is spent on not laughing. Not at him, really. More at the absurdity of it all.

The thing is, I’m not even sad anymore. The disappointment has been replaced by this weird amusement, like I’ve wandered into a long-running play where everyone knows their lines except me. I’ve been fumbling my way through these scenes for so long that I forgot there could be a different script.

Brad’s voice softens, unexpectedly. “I dislike people who settle,” he says, and I think we might finally agree on something, except I realize he means settling for imperfect. He means olives and birthdays.

When the check comes, I reach for my wallet out of habit. He puts a hand up. “I’ll get it,” he says. “I dislike Venmo requests.”

Outside, the night is wet and neon, the air smelling like rain and exhaust. He gives me a quick, dry hug and a reminder to try butter coffee. I promise to consider it. He strides away, purposeful, a man with nothing weighing him down.

I stand there a second longer, my phone warm in my palm. My thumb itches toward the solitaire app. I open it and start a new game, the digital cards shuffling and snapping into place. The first move presents itself, easy. Red seven on black eight. I smile, a little in spite of myself. Some nights, winning is just getting out the door with your humor intact. Some nights, that’s enough.

My feet take me three blocks west without consulting my brain. The red lantern in the window is a beacon. The 24-hour ramen place is humming like always—late shift nurses, a couple on a first date speaking in careful, bright voices, a man in a suit slurping alone while watching soccer highlights with subtitles. The air smells like pork broth and garlic. It smells like relief.

I slide onto my usual stool at the counter and nod at Kenji. He pretends he’s not offended I cheated on him with a kale Caesar earlier. “The usual?” he asks.

“Extra scallions. And can I get a water? I’ve been told I’m dehydrated because I don’t drink butter.”

He grins and thumps a glass of ice water in front of me. My shoulders drop a full inch. I close the solitaire app before I can deal a new hand and put the phone face down, like a contract with myself. Ten minutes to quiet, to broth, to reheating my sense of humor.

I’m halfway through untangling my chopsticks when there’s a sharp skid behind me, a gasp, and then cold hits my thighs so fast I yelp. The glass explodes into a bright tinkling choir as it bounces off the tile, and ice scatters into my lap like confetti from the world’s worst parade.

“Oh my god,” a voice says, horrified and breathless. “I—this was—gravity and I are in a toxic relationship.”

I’m frozen, water dripping down my knees, my napkin heroic but helpless. I look up at the source of the chaos. He’s tall, hair a little longer on top, dark and damp at the edges like the rain caught him. His mouth is open in a shocked O, like he can’t believe his own limbs betrayed him.

“I’m so sorry,” he rushes, hands lifted as if to show he’s not armed with any more liquids. “I tripped on absolutely nothing. Which is classic me. Hi, I’m Alex, and I’m here to ruin your pants.”

A laugh pops out of me before I can stop it. “Jing,” I say, because if I’m going to have soaked thighs, at least we can be on a first-name basis.

He winces, then launches into this frantic pantomime of what happened. He points at the stack of plastic trays by the water pitcher, mimes stepping, sliding, flailing. He recreates the back-and-forth arm windmill in slow motion, his face contorting like a cartoon character trying to avoid a banana peel. He makes a soft whoop noise under his breath for sound effects. It would be ridiculous if it weren’t so precise.

“And then,” he says, gesturing at my lap with sincere dread, “splashdown.”

“I’ve always wanted to feel like an ice luge,” I say. “Bucket list item, checked.”

Kenji appears with a stack of towels like a guardian angel, tossing a glare at Alex that promises banishment if he breathes wrong. Alex takes a towel and crouches, then thinks better of it and stands, shoving the towel toward me with both hands. “I will not attempt to dab you. That’s a line I will not cross without written consent and an OSHA certification.”

I blot at my jeans and shake my head, still smiling. The initial shock is fading into cool damp and the weird warmth of someone else’s embarrassment washing over me like a space heater. He’s mortified in this pure, unfiltered way that feels… earnest.

“I’ll pay for your ramen,” he blurts. “And your dry cleaning. And a new outfit. And your therapy copay for the trauma of this moment.”

“You can buy me a pair of those waterproof pants fishermen wear,” I say. “Just in case we run into each other again.”

He presses a hand to his chest, relieved I’m not angry. “Deal. Please let me make this right at least with hot broth.” He looks at Kenji. “Can I get another water? In a sippy cup? And one miso, extra scallions. And whatever she was having—on me.”

Kenji snorts but rings it up. Alex hovers like a contrite golden retriever, then gestures to the empty stool beside me. “Can I—sit? Or should I go stand in the corner and think about what I’ve done?”

“You can sit,” I say, sliding my purse out of the splash zone. “But if you knock over my chopsticks, we’re going to have words.”

He grins, sheepish. “I’ll keep my limbs in my lane.” He lowers himself with exaggerated care, hands folded in his lap like he’s at a job interview. Up close, his eyes are ridiculous. Warm and bright, the kind people write songs about. He smells like rain and detergent and a little like the soy sauce dispenser he almost collided with.

“I swear I’m not usually this,” he says, chopping a hand through the air to indicate chaos. “Okay, I am. But not at women who look like they just escaped a terrible date.”

My eyebrows go up. “How did you know it was terrible?”

“You have that post-battle look. Slightly shell-shocked, slightly amused, like someone tried to sell you on cryptocurrency as a personality trait.”

I lean into a laugh that loosens something in my chest. “Close. Keto and the abolition of birthdays.”

He groans in sympathy, dramatic. “Crimes against cake.”

“Exactly,” I say. The dampness is still there, but the embarrassment isn’t. It’s been replaced by this odd lightness that makes space in my ribcage. Kenji sets down our bowls, steam curling up, and Alex sits perfectly still, as if the ramen is a bomb and movement could jostle it.

“I’m going to eat this,” he whispers. “Very slowly. To rebuild trust.”

I shake my head, smiling into my chopsticks. The night, which was edging toward bleak, shifts a few degrees warmer. I blow on my noodles, and his shoulder bumps mine lightly as he adjusts. My heart does a small, surprised flip, as if I’ve turned over a card I didn’t expect.

We settle into an easy rhythm, the kind that doesn’t need planning. He eats with a reverence that makes me snort into my broth, and when a noodle slaps his chin, he pauses like he’s been assaulted. He catches it with the tip of his tongue, goes red, and then dives into a story before I can tease him.

“So, I went on a date last month,” he starts, resting his chopsticks on the edge of the bowl. “Wine bar. Exposed brick. Dim lighting. The kind of place where the napkins feel like they went to private school.” He takes a breath. “Three minutes in, a group of guys in button-ups waves at me. I wave back because I was raised to be pleasant. One of them mouths, ‘Cabernet?’ and holds up a bottle.”

“Oh no,” I say, already seeing it.

“Oh yes. I thought he was just… being friendly? So I nod. He pours. The table behind me claps. The woman I’m with looks stunned, which, fair. I hand them the bottle and the cork like I do this professionally. Then the table on the other side snaps their fingers—like, actually—and points at water glasses. And I—God help me—I refill them.” He drags a palm down his face. “I spent the first fifteen minutes of the date hydrating an entire room.”

I laugh so hard Kenji looks up, amused. “Did anyone tip you?”

“One guy tried to give me cash. I panicked and said, ‘Oh no, we actually add the gratuity automatically.’” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know where that came from. The best part? The actual waiter came over, and I instinctively stepped aside like we were passing the baton in a relay.”

“And the woman?” I ask.

“She was crying,” he says. “From laughter, thank God. We didn’t work out—she was moving to Portland to do something spiritual with bees—but she did send me a photo of a honey jar last week with the caption ‘service industry hero.’”

“Bees are lucky to have her,” I say.

“They really are,” he says, deadpan, then grins when I laugh again. It settles between us—this comfortable, unexpected clique of humor. Nothing to impress. No posturing. I feel my shoulders stay low.

We eat in companionable silence for a minute. He nudges the soy eggs toward me like an offering. “You a broth sipper or a bowl tilting renegade?” he asks.

“Renegade,” I admit. “I respect gravity in theory but not in practice.”

“Kindred spirits,” he says, and we both tilt at the same time. It’s messy and perfect.

He wipes his mouth and leans in a little. “Okay, this is a weird question, but your shirt has Godzilla in tiny print on the tag. Do you—are you into those old monster movies? Or did you buy it for the color and I’m outing myself as a nerd?”

I blink. “You can recognize the Godzilla font from a tag?”

“I have a very specific brain,” he says.

“I do, actually,” I say, surprised by how much I want to admit it. “Creature from the Black Lagoon is my comfort movie. It’s like… the practical effects, the sincerity, the way the creature is more misunderstood than evil.”

His eyes light. “Yes. The suit work? Those underwater shots? It’s art. And don’t even get me started on the original Mothra. The tiny singing twins? Peak cinema.”

I drop my chopsticks and put a hand to my chest. “People mock me when I bring up the twins.”

“Those people aren’t your people,” he says. “I once built a miniature of the Tokyo skyline out of cereal boxes so I could film my friend in a lizard costume stomping through it for a film class. It was… not good. But my professor gave me a B for ambition.”

I lean on the counter, grinning. “Do you have footage?”

“Absolutely not,” he says too fast, then softens. “Okay, yes. But you have to sign an NDA.”

“I’ll trade you for the photo of six-year-old me dressed as Gill-man. My dad made me webbed gloves out of dishwashing rubber.”

His smile falters into something warm. “That’s incredible. And very on brand.”

We fall into listing favorites like we’re comparing notes we’re both relieved to finally show someone. I tell him how the Bela Lugosi Dracula taught me that romance could be scary and tender. He confesses the original King Kong made him cry for days because of the ending. We argue over the best wolfman transformation like it matters, and somehow it does.

It feels easy. It feels like finding a rhythm we already knew. He asks questions and actually listens to my answers. I don’t perform or fill the silence with nervous jokes. When our knees bump, it’s just contact, not a negotiation.

Kenji refills our waters and gives us a look that means we’ve passed some unspoken test. Alex thanks him with an earnestness that makes my chest ache in a clean way. My phone stays face down. I don’t think about the exit, or the next move, or what I owe in charm. I just sit there with a man who uses words like “sincere” about monsters and laughs with his whole body.

I didn’t know I could feel this full without it being heavy. For the first time in a long time, there’s no pressure, no expectation to twist this into something else. Just connection, pure and uncomplicated, like turning over a card and finding exactly what you need.