At her apartment, with a glass of wine in my hand, I found out why my Tinder date had invited me back. She wanted her ex to see me in a social media story. Apparently, the evening had an audience. I just wasn't the important one.
We'd matched the month before. I was 28, and her profile was funny enough to make me hopeful. Four days of easy, flirty messages followed. When she suggested Friday drinks, I said yes. There seemed to be enough mutual interest to justify putting on a jacket and leaving the house.
I arrived fifteen minutes early. She arrived twenty minutes late. Neither number seemed especially significant until she spent the next forty minutes talking about her ex. I had allowed a generous amount of time for meeting someone new. She had brought someone old.
According to her, he had been wonderful, except for the ways he'd been toxic, and she wasn't over him. She was also still checking his Instagram. I nodded, smiled and asked questions. The conversation was moving along nicely, provided the aim was for me to become thoroughly acquainted with a man who wasn't there.
About forty-five minutes in, she told me I was a good listener. Her ex, she added, had never listened. Then she reached across the table, took my hand and asked whether I wanted to go back to her place.
I knew how much of the date we'd spent discussing him. I also knew how I was choosing to read that invitation. I thought she might be attracted to me, and that going home together might lead to sex. Hope, loneliness and her hand in mine made a persuasive combination. I agreed.
At her apartment, she poured wine and put on music. Then she went to the bathroom and stayed there long enough for the wait to become its own part of the evening. When she returned, she was wearing an oversized hoodie that looked like it belonged to a man.
That was when she explained. She'd invited me over to make her ex jealous. He was in the group chat. Would I sit on the couch and look as though we were hanging out while she posted a story?
It took me about three seconds to understand that this wasn't an awkward detour on the way to a date. This was the purpose of the invitation. The wine and music had come with a role I hadn't agreed to play.
I stood up and got my jacket. Somehow, I managed a complete sentence: “I hope the algorithm is kinder to both of us.” Then I left.
She posted the story anyway. There I was in the background, holding a wine glass, contributing visual evidence to a breakup I hadn't been involved in. Leaving had removed me from the apartment, but apparently not from the evening's publicity.
I unmatched and unfollowed her on the walk home. I wasn't especially angry. Mostly, I felt embarrassed and sad. Back home, I ordered Thai food and watched two episodes of a show without taking much of it in. By the end of the second episode, I still wasn’t really watching.
