The Budget That Broke Us
The first time I saw James, he was holding the door open for an elderly woman at the coffee shop where I worked part-time during my senior year of college. He waited patiently as she slowly made her way through, then helped her to her table before ordering his drink. When he got to the counter, he had this warm smile and eyes that crinkled at the corners when he laughed at my joke about the morning rush being more like a morning crawl.
“You have a beautiful smile,” he said, completely unashamed, as I handed him his latte. “I’m James, by the way.”
“Rebecca,” I replied, feeling my cheeks warm. “And thank you.”
“Rebecca,” he repeated, like he was testing how it sounded. “Would you like to have dinner with me sometime, Rebecca?”
I was twenty-one, working three jobs to put myself through school, and hadn’t had a real date in over a year. James was twenty-seven, already working as a junior account manager at a marketing firm, and had this air of stability that I found incredibly attractive after years of dating college boys who survived on ramen and energy drinks.
Our first date was perfect. He took me to a nice restaurant—not fancy, but nicer than anywhere I’d been in months. He asked thoughtful questions about my studies, my dreams, my family. He talked about his work with genuine passion, about his plans to start his own firm someday, about the house he was saving up to buy.