They Always Come Back

First dates. Second dates. And if you're lucky, maybe a third before the London Bridge comes crashing down, the pilot starts yelling "Mayday," and you're left staring at your phone wondering, How did we get here? Things were going so well.

Oh, you don't date?

Don't think you're exempt.

How many hookups do you think you have left before one of them quietly fizzles into another stranger you'll pretend not to recognize on the L train?

The older I get, the more I realize New York doesn't necessarily end relationships—it simply pauses them.

There I was one Tuesday evening, doing mental gymnastics trying to stretch my last two paychecks across rent, a summer getaway I probably couldn't afford, and one too many birthday dinners that realistically deserved a card instead of my presence. So when a man offers to take you to dinner in Manhattan...

You go.

Even if the butterflies aren't exactly butterfly-ing.

Especially if dinner happens to be at Tucci.

If you've ever tried convincing yourself to like someone over handmade pasta and a very expensive bottle of Barolo, you'll understand. The conversation was pleasant enough. He was kind. Attractive. Successful.

Yet somehow, I couldn't stop thinking about the restaurant itself.

There it sat, perfectly positioned in the middle of downtown.

A few blocks west...

Washington Square Park.

A few blocks east...

The Australian lawyer.

And somewhere in between...

The actor.

It had been months since either of them had crossed my mind.

Funny how Manhattan can erase someone until you're standing on the exact street where they once existed in your life.

After dinner, he invited me upstairs.

His apartment was breathtaking. The kind of place that makes you question every life decision that led you to your fifth-floor walk-up.

Before I had even admired the purple suede sofa, he gently pulled me closer.

"I'd love to see you again."

"Oh?" I smiled.

"What about Carbone?"

Now that...

That got my attention.

Hours later I found myself heading back uptown, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and wondering why I'd spent an entire evening thinking about two completely different men.

As I kicked off my shoes and changed into pajamas...

My phone buzzed.

Not the lingering buzz from two Cosmopolitans.

The other buzz.

His name appeared across my screen.

The actor.

The same actor who happened to live only a few blocks from where I'd just had dinner.

I actually laughed.

Sometimes New York feels less like a city and more like a screenwriter with an unhealthy obsession with irony.

There was only one problem.

My bank account.

It was 12:01 a.m., and I was having a full internal board meeting.

Do I politely say goodnight?

Or do I order the cab downtown and let curiosity win?

As if Manhattan itself had been listening...

Halfway through waiting for my Uber, another notification lit up my phone.

PAYCHECK RECEIVED.

I stared at the screen.

Of course.

Of course the money would hit now.

If Nora Ephron had written online banking, this is exactly how it would've happened.

The rest of the night unfolded exactly the way New York nights tend to.

Too late.

Too funny.

Too improbable to explain to anyone who doesn't live here.

The next morning, I didn't need GPS.

I already knew the walk.

Somehow his apartment no longer felt like a destination.

It felt familiar.

And that's when a dangerous little thought crept into my head.

Maybe this wasn't luck.

Maybe...

I was one of his "they always come back."

Which made me wonder...

In a city that constantly convinces us everyone is replaceable, why do certain people keep finding their way back into our lives?

Maybe timing isn't everything.

Maybe geography isn't either.

Or maybe New York has a funny habit of reminding us that some stories aren't finished the first time we walk away.

After all...

Second dates are nice.

But second chances?

Those are the ones worth writing about.