Chapter 3: Curveballs and Catfights

“My parents put me through school and college, not so I could serve a man. What era is this? Women should be independent. Don’t force your old-fashioned, patriarchal ideas on us.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, voice sharp enough to draw stares from the next table.

I nodded. “You’re right, independence is important. But if you want to be independent, why not work for your own house and car? Why expect men to have them? Why make that a requirement for a husband?”

I tried to keep it honest, not confrontational. Just laying out my thoughts, even if they weren’t what she wanted to hear.

She was stumped, glaring at me with big, resentful eyes. You could almost see the gears turning. I’d finally said something that didn’t fit her script.

Anyway, this date was going nowhere, so I saw no reason to play along. I leaned back, arms crossed, waiting for the check.

I continued, “I respect and admire women who are truly independent and strong. What worries me is when someone claims to be independent, but holds themselves and men to totally different standards.”

She bristled, eyes narrowing like a cat about to pounce. Her foot tapped a nervous rhythm under the table, the kind you notice when you’re waiting for a storm.

“What do you mean? Are you saying I have double standards?”

I waved to the waiter for the bill. He nodded, clearly grateful the tension at our table was almost over.

She pressed me to explain. Her voice was sharp, but there was a hint of curiosity—like she wanted to see if I’d dig myself in deeper.

The bill was almost $280. My credit card felt heavier as I slid it over. I didn’t even flinch—might as well end the night with some dignity.

I paid without batting an eye, but she wouldn’t drop it, even getting a bit heated. She leaned forward, voice rising. I could feel the heat from her words like the sting of wasabi.

I calmly said, “I’m not singling you out. It’s just something I’ve noticed. You like Instagram, right? You must’ve seen this: whenever there’s a post showing a boyfriend or husband doing something for a girl, the comments are all girls tagging their own boyfriends. But if it’s a post about a girl doing something for her boyfriend, the comments are all, ‘She’s just pandering,’ or ‘Serving a man,’ or ‘I’m not looking for a dad when I get a boyfriend.’”

She blinked, clearly caught off guard that I’d noticed the same online double standards she probably enjoyed. Her eyebrows shot up, and before she could explode, I said, “Let’s call it a day, I have things to do.”

I stood up, straightening my jacket, ready to escape. The sushi bar had never felt so claustrophobic.

She got up and walked out with me. No thank you for dinner, just followed me through the revolving door, heels clicking sharply on the sidewalk.

“No matter what you say, without a house or car, guys have no advantage in the dating market.”

She said it like she was reciting a scientific fact, not an opinion.

I didn’t bother arguing, just said, “Yep, you’re right.” I kept my tone breezy, but the words tasted bitter in my mouth. Sometimes you just have to let people be right in their own world.

And now, for the highlight of the evening. My car was parked right across from the restaurant. At the revolving door, I said goodbye and walked straight to my car.

I could feel her eyes on me as I pressed the fob, the headlights blinking twice. The parking meter flashed red, reminding me my time was up.

Before getting in, I looked back at her. She stood there, clutching her bag, lips parted in shock. I could almost hear the dramatic music swell, like the big reveal in a Netflix drama.

No exaggeration, the look on her face was pure Netflix drama—the classic gold-digger getting slapped with reality.

If there’d been a camera crew, I would’ve winked. For a split second, I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.