I didn't always have a rulebook.
In fact, if you had met me two years ago, I would have said I was "open-minded" in the dating world. Which is just a nice way of saying: I had no boundaries and a talent for selecting human red flags disguised as potential boyfriends.
Let's take Exhibit A: Ryan. My college boyfriend. He once forgot my birthday because he was "busy leveling up" in a video game. I continued to date him for six more months because "he meant well." Spoiler: he didn't.
Exhibit B: Marcus. Smooth talker, designer watch, texted me goodnight with heart emojis. Was texting three other women the same thing. Only found out because one of them DM'd me on Instagram with screenshots.
Exhibit C: Daniel. Seemed perfect good-looking, ambitious, made a killer lasagna. Then casually dropped that he "wasn't really into monogamy." After we'd been exclusive for four months.
So yes, I had a pattern.
And somewhere between Ryan's video game addiction, Marcus's group-texted heart eyes, and Daniel's lasagna betrayal, I thought maybe the problem wasn't entirely them. Maybe it was me.
Because the thing is: I was always trying to make it work. Forcing myself into relationships the way I forced myself into uncomfortable shoes, hoping that if I just smiled enough, changed enough, ignored the blisters long enough eventually they'd fit.
Spoiler again: they never did.
Which is why, after last night's date with Adrian the Walking Hair Gel Commercial, I finally snapped.
So, the rulebook.
No more stilettos. No more bad men. No more me attempting to convince myself that pain is a sign of possibility.
Jenna, of course, found the whole thing amusing.
"You're turning your love life into a science experiment," she said the morning after over coffee. "I'm eagerly anticipating the peer-reviewed journal article.".
"It's not an experiment," I said, stirring my latte. "It's a strategy. A lifestyle change. A… survival guide."
She smiled. "Uh-huh. And how long before you break one of your own rules?"
"Never," I said, sipping with confidence I didn't feel. "This time, I mean it."
Which is the precise moment the universe decided to set me up.
Because no more than an hour later, I left the aforementioned coffee shop, nearly tripped on a sidewalk crack, and met the gaze of a stranger who had no business being that infuriatingly handsome.
And worse he was holding motorcycle keys.
Jenna thinks my dating disasters are funny, but she also thinks my job is "cute," which tells you everything you need to know about her.
I work in marketing. The kind of marketing where you spend six hours arguing with a client over whether or not "fresh" should be in italics or bold. My office is an open-plan jungle of pricey ergonomic chairs, motivational posters, and the faint smell of printer ink.
Technically, I'm good at it. I can churn out a slogan faster than most people can microwave leftovers. But the real truth? It's not exactly my passion. I didn't grow up dreaming of crafting snack-food slogans.
However, it pays the rent, and rent in this city is more ruthless than stilettos.
Which brings me to another part of my pattern: I play it safe.
• Safe job.
• Safe apartment in a neighborhood that vaguely smells of takeout and ambition.
• Safe routines same latte order, same Sunday grocery run, same call-my-mom-and-promise-I'm-doing-okay ritual every Thursday.
Jenna calls me "predictable." I prefer "consistent."
But consistency has a way of turning into a rut when you're not looking. And I'd been in one for a while dating disasters on one side, career treadmill on the other.
That's why the rulebook felt so. momentous. It wasn't really about shoes or men. It was about me finally drawing a line in the sand.
"No more wrong choices," I told Jenna on the way out of the coffee shop that morning.
She raised an eyebrow. "And how exactly are you defining 'wrong'?"
"You know," I said, clutching my notebook like a bible. "The kind of guy who makes your heart sink for all the wrong reasons. The kind of heels that leave you hobbling home. The kind of career that drains the life from you instead of energizes it. I'm done with all of it."
Jenna laughed. "So you're renouncing stilettos, men, and capitalism in one swoop? Ambitious."
I grinned. "Bold is the new safe."
I did feel good. Grounded. Like perhaps, just perhaps, I was taking control of my own life for a change instead of bumbling through it.
And then, as if on cue, I stumbled.
Literally. My heel got caught in a crack in the sidewalk, and I pitched forward with all the grace of a giraffe on roller skates.
Someone caught me by the elbow before I faceplanted.
"Watch it," a low voice said.
I looked up into eyes the exact color of trouble.
And that fast, I knew: the universe hadn't read my rulebook.
I looked up into a face that should be in a cologne ad or a police lineup, depending on where the story went. Square jaw, subtle stubble, dark hair that had apparently given up all hope of being tamed. And the eyes. The kind that made you forget words existed.
"Thanks," I grunted, rising to my feet and brushing imaginary dust off my coat. "Sidewalks are dangerous, apparently."
He smiled, slow and crooked. "Especially in those shoes."
I glanced down. Block heels today no stilettos, thank God but still. "They're fine."
"Mm." He shook his head, clearly unconvinced. "You don't look fine."
I lifted an eyebrow. "Do you usually insult women you catch from faceplanting?"
Just when they look like they're about to battle the sidewalk," he said, slipping a ring of keys into his jacket pocket. Motorcycle keys. Silver, shiny, clinky little keys that screamed wrong guy in capital letters.
Rulebook violation: Never trust a man whose leisure activity requires a helmet.
"Anyway," I said, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. "Thanks for the rescue. I should—
But of course, Jenna decided then to reappear from the coffee shop, two muffins in hand and a smile that could kill.
"Well, hello," she said, eyeing him like he was a bargain on the clearance rack she was about to snatch up. "Who's this?"
"Nobody," I said, much too quickly.
His eyebrow rose. "Nobody, huh? Interesting name."
Jenna offered him a muffin. "I'm Jenna. And you are?"
He hesitated for a beat, then smirked. "Ethan."
Of course his name was Ethan. Smooth. Effortless. A name that belonged in every bad decision playlist I'd ever made.
"Nice to meet you, Ethan," Jenna said, practically vibrating with glee. She shot me a look that screamed this is fate, don't screw it up.
I tightened my grip on my notebook. This is Rule #4 waiting to happen.
"Anyway," Ethan said, nodding politely, "don't wrestle the sidewalk next time." Then he strode over to the curb, tossed a leg across the most stereotypically shiny black motorcycle I'd ever seen, and was gone before I could remember how to breathe.
Jenna watched him leave, then turned to me with both eyebrows raised so high they nearly reached her hairline.
"Well," she said, "there goes your rulebook."