When Lexi dozed off I knew it was time to bail. The sex had been pretty good, but I knew she liked me way too much and that waking up together, having sex again, and then going to brunch, or at least coffee, would be super awkward and get her ever more attached. It would be way better for both of us if I just ghosted her now.
As I wriggled my sweaty body free from hers, she said groggily, “Hey, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I already had my boxer briefs on and I was feeling around on the floor for my pants. The only light in the room came from the scented candle she’d lit to help set the mood. “I just have an early morning tomorrow, unfortunately.”
I had just the right amount of disappointment in my tone to make this bullshit sound believable. Actually, I had nothing to do tomorrow, Sunday, except pick up my laundry, maybe hit the gym.
“Oh, okay,” she said skeptically.
The key to a successful ghosting is to leave on an upbeat note. You need the other person to believe that nothing is wrong and they’ll see you again soon.
“But I had an amazing time and it would be great to see you again. Sometime next week?”
“I’d love that.”
“Awesome.”
Did I feel bad for her? Not really. Online dating can be brutal, but I didn’t make up the rules, I just played the game.
That said, I usually didn’t ghost after first-time sex. I mean, hooking up takes a lot of time and energy and I wanted to get as much return on my investment as possible. Ordinarily I’d have sex with a woman at least a few more times before vanishing, but in this case I could tell that Lexi was into me, and was looking to be in a relationship, which complicated things. Since we’d only been out a few times, and had sex once, there were no deep feelings yet. She lived on the Lower East Side and I lived in Williamsburg, so we were unlikely to ever cross paths. The beauty of dating in a big city.
“Wait, come here.” She pulled me back onto the bed, on top of her. She had a great body, no doubt about that, and I figured, Why not? I mean, I’d brought two condoms anyway.
Afterward, I didn’t want to be a total asshole, so I snuggled with her for about ten minutes. Then I said, “I should really get going.”
I put on my clothes as quickly as I could without looking like I was rushing. I kissed her one last time on the lips, then said, “I’ll reach out tomorrow,” and took off.
* * *
Riding in a Via back to Williamsburg, I checked my dating apps. On Bumble, Emily who was currently three miles away, had sent me a short message: Hi would love to hear more!
She was twenty-eight, three years younger than me, and although she’d put ‘No HUs’—no hook-ups—on her profile, this wasn’t a deterrent to me. In fact, I’d found that I had a much higher close rate on No HU profiles, as opposed to the more casual sounding ones. My theory was that the sluttier profiles got more responses than the No HU profiles, so there was less competition.
I responded with one of my usual replies: Great meeting you here. Drink sometime soon?
I liked to keep it short and simple and take the conversation off-line ASAP.
On OK Cupid, three new women had liked me—one cute, one lived too far away, one had a kid. I deleted the one with the kid and the geographically undesirable one and sent the other one my usual first message: Wow, amazing profile! Let’s meet sometime!
None of my new matches on Hinge excited me, but on Plenty of Fish a very cute blonde whom I’d already matched with had agreed to meet for a drink at six in Midtown on Wednesday. It was a perfect time because I already had a date with a woman in the West Village on Wednesday at eight.
I responded: Awesome, excited to meet! and instructed Siri to add the new date to my calendar. Now Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were totally full, but I had an opening on Thursday and Friday early. Later Friday I had a third date in Park Slope that I was about eighty percent certain would lead to a hook-up and, as always, I had Saturday night open, keeping the time free for whomever seemed like the hottest prospect after my weekday dates.
The Via dropped me in front of my apartment, not far from the river. It was a walk-up, but it had “city charm”—the broker’s words, not mine—and it had a river view that scored a lot of points on dates. The apartment itself was small, but it had the two most important things—a couch and a bed. I spent a lot of time and money on decorating, not because I cared how it looked, but because I wanted to impress women. My apartment was always clean—I had a maid come twice a week—and smelled fresh. I had a big fish tank with exotic tropical fish because an article I read online about how women were attracted to guys with fish. I didn’t know if this was true or not but if it gave me an even slightly higher chance of getting laid, then hey, why not?
I wasn’t always a player. At high school in Livingston, New Jersey, I was awkward and didn’t date much, and in college at Michigan I had a couple of girlfriends, but I didn’t feel fully in control of my dating. I over-pursued women and was easily manipulated and controlled. Women jerked me around and ghosted me all the time. I was a decent looking guy—not ugly, but not hot either. I got by with my personality and sense of humor, but I often wasted time chasing, and spending money on, women who were out of my league and just using me for attention.
When I moved to New York after college, I had a few mediocre dating years. I worked as a coder for various startups and lived with roommates in shitty apartments in bad neighborhoods. Then one of the startups took off and went public. I got stock and a higher salary and money changed everything.
I moved to Williamsburg into my own digs. Although I still wasn’t in great shape, and had gained weight since college, I made up for it with confidence and game. I got a cooler haircut and a hip wardrobe, but most importantly I spent hours every day watching videos from dating coaches on YouTube. I utilized their strategies to create my own game plan, raising my SMV—Sexual Market Value. I began to see results—getting more dates and having more sex. I didn’t get attached to women the way I used to in college because now the dynamic had shifted, now I was in control, and it felt so much better to be the ghoster rather than the ghostee.
In bed, I was back on Hinge, when Lexi texted me:
Hope you got home safe, sexy.
Of course, I didn’t respond.
* * *
I wound up sleeping in and blowing off the gym. I spent the rest of the day watching Netflix and messaging women. I had a pretty full dating schedule next week, but I booked a couple of dates for the following week.
At around five, I hit the shower and started getting ready for the night’s action. I had a double header: drinks with Jessie from Bumble at six-thirty, and then back to my place with Sophia, the woman I’d been dating for a few weeks. I hadn’t ghosted Sophia yet because she seemed only into me for sex. She was a busy nurse with only one or two nights free every week, so she had no interest in a relationship.
The date with Jessie went well. We were making out at the bar and I probably could’ve hooked up with her if I didn’t already have the date with Sophia. I could’ve cancelled with Sophia last minute, but what was the point of that? I had a one hundred percent chance with Sophia, and maybe a fifty percent chance with Jessie. It was only my second date with Jesse, though, and I was confident I would score on date three.
Back at my apartment, I was chilling on my couch, listening to Pandora, waiting for Sophia to arrive, when I got a text from Lexi: Didn’t hear back from u How’s your day?
It was annoying that she’d sent me a second text. It was always cleaner when, after I didn’t respond to the first text, they got the message. The Didn’t hear back from u was obviously loaded with anger and resentment, which was also a pain.
Some people might block the person they’re trying to ghost: not me. Even when a woman blows me off, I don’t cut the cord fully. I figure that, if my schedule thins out, who knows? I might have to recycle them.
A few minutes later another message arrived from Lexi: Helloooo?
Two texts was annoying, but three was a total pain in the ass. She had definitely realized that I was ghosting her and wasn’t taking it well. At this point, I had two choices—respond or continue to ignore her.
Responding would be the nice, respectful thing to do. I could text her that although I think she’s a great person with so much to offer the right guy, I just don’t feel enough of a spark and we’re not the right long-term match. But if I sent her a thoughtful note, she would probably respond with a question or, worse, want to talk on the phone. Then I’d have to blow her off anyway, so wasn’t it best to remain silent? Besides, she was a big girl, thirty-two years old, and had done a lot of online dating. It wasn’t like I was the first guy who’d ghosted her, so it seemed unfair that she was even putting me in this situation.
I ignored her, hoping that my silence would be her answer.
Sophia arrived. We had drinks on the couch, then moved swiftly to the bedroom. After having sex twice, she left.
I never check my phone during dates, but when Sophia left I looked and saw that Lexi had sent me yet another text: You ghosted the wrong girl, bitch
I officially had a problem.
* * *
I debated it in my head and concluded that silence was still my best option. She was getting obsessed and with obsessive people, engaging was enabling. My best strategy was to continue to ignore her and hope she got distracted by someone else and forgot about me.
The next day was mellow. I only had one date planned—coffee with a woman in the neighborhood. We met at a place on Bedford, but I could tell right away that we had no connection. I still feigned interest. Even when a date didn’t work out, I liked to stay in control, so when we were saying goodbye I said, “Let’s do something soon,” even though I had no intention of ever seeing her again.
As I entered my apartment, turning my key in the door, I knew something was wrong. I usually locked the deadbolt as well as the latch, but only the latch was locked. Was it possible that I’d forgotten? It was unlikely, although I had taken out garbage and it was possible I’d been distracted, because I had OCD and forgetting to fully lock my apartment was unlike me.
When I entered, everything seemed normal. My TV was still on the wall, nothing seemed out of place and as far as I could tell nothing was missing. I felt silly for getting paranoid about the locks; I’d probably been distracted.
Then I heard something. It sounded like something shifting in the kitchen. Was the super in the apartment?
“Hello? Anyone here?”
Silence.
I was thinking about the door again, but maybe I was just driving myself crazy. The noise from the kitchen could’ve come from the upstairs apartment. The ceiling wasn’t thick and I often heard noise from up there.
Still, I entered the kitchen area cautiously. Nothing seemed off, and then it leapt in front of me. At first I thought it was a cat—a big, gray cat. Then, right about the time I screamed, I realized it was a large rat.
It dashed behind the table, slid on the floor and then came right toward me. I turned and dashed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind me, and fled down the stairs as fast as I could.
I was shaken. I’d never seen a rat or even a mouse in my apartment, and as far as I knew there was no rat infestation in the building.
I knocked on my super’s door. George was an older, scruffy, Greek-American guy. He was in sweat pants and a wifebeater and the TV was blaring in the background, some sitcom. I told him what had happened and he was surprised.
“A rat? In this building?”
“Can you do something?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get rid of it.”
“I can’t catch a rat. Gotta call the exterminator.”
I didn’t want to return to my apartment so I waited in front of my building for almost two hours until the exterminator—Latina, surprisingly good-looking—arrived. No rings, I noticed. If I were in a different mood I might’ve hit on her.
“What’s the issue?” she asked.
I explained about the rat.
“I can put down traps and poison, but I can’t catch it.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
She shrugged. “Wait till it dies?”
I didn’t want to stay in my apartment with an aggressive rat. I could probably have stayed with my friend Steve for a couple of days, but not having access to my apartment was going to be a big pain in the ass.
As the exterminator placed traps around my apartment, I asked her how she thought the rat might’ve gotten in. She examined the pipes in the kitchen, in the bathroom and the kitchen and around the radiators.
“Apartment looks tight,” she said.
“Have there been other rats in the building?”
“Been working here three years, never seen a rat. Mice, water bugs, and silverfish, yeah.”
“How do you think it got in?”
She looked toward the partially open window that looked out on the fire escape and said, “Coulda come in from there?”
“How?” I asked.
“They can scale walls.”
“You’ve seen that before?”
“Not really, but it’s possible. Otherwise, I don’t know. Maybe there’s some space somewhere I can’t see or somebody put it in here.” She smiled. “Got any enemies?”
I knew she was joking, or at least trying to joke, but my mind went right to Lexi, and the last text she’d sent me: You ghosted the wrong girl, bitch. The text certainly had a threatening tone, but to put a rat in my apartment she’d have to be full-blown insane. It wasn’t impossible, though. She, or someone else, could’ve gotten to the roof somehow, dropped down the fire escape and entered the apartment through the window. And what about my front door? What if I didn’t forget to lock it after all?
When the exterminator left, I knocked on the super’s door. He seemed annoyed to see me again, like I was ruining his Sunday with my stupid rat drama.
“Hey, just a quick question,” I said. “Earlier today, did you happen to see a woman trying to get into the building?”
“What?” he asked, not like he didn’t hear me, but like he didn’t understand me.
“A woman,” I said. “About thirty, thin, straight dark hair just below the shoulders.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, somebody was ringing buzzers this afternoon, but I didn’t see anybody.”
Sometimes delivery people buzzed every apartment in the building to try to leave a package in the vestibule, but there were rarely deliveries on Sundays.
“Thanks,” I said.
I packed a small suitcase and went to my friend Steve’s apartment. He also lived in Williamsburg about ten blocks away.
I told him about the rat and Lexi and my theory that she might’ve been responsible.
“It sounds possible,” he said. “Some women go crazy when you ghost them.”
I knew I should probably forget about the whole thing, continue to ignore her, but how did I know this wasn’t just the beginning? If she was crazy enough to put a rat in my apartment, who knew what she was capable of?
A couple of new women had written to me on Bumble, but I didn’t feel like responding. Freaking Lexi—she was throwing me off my game.
Finally I decided to text her, with a simple yet firm note: Please stop contacting me.
The message didn’t display as Delivered. It was possible she was on the subway, but after a couple of hours went by I still didn’t see a Delivered notification. I realized she’d blocked me.
Now my annoyance had turned into rage. She was blocking me? The act of blocking me seemed to confirm that my suspicions about her were correct.
I knew what I had to do now.
* * *
I got up before six and took a Via to Lexi’s building on the Lower East Side. I waited in front for her, figuring it would be best to run into her casually when she left for work.
At a little after eight she left her building. I followed her to the corner. “Hey, Lexi.”
She turned around, as if startled to see me.
“How are you?” I asked.
“What… What’re you doing here?” she asked, more concerned than confused.
“I was just seeing a friend nearby,” I said, although I knew this didn’t make much sense for so early in the morning. “I noticed you blocked my texts.”
“Maybe it’s because you weren’t responding to mine.”
“Yeah? Is that the real reason?”
She glared at me then said, “Leave me the fuck alone,” and walked ahead.
Rushing up alongside her, I said, “What about the rat?”
“Rat? What rat?”
“Yeah, like you don’t know.”
“I said go away.”
“You put a rat in my apartment yesterday, why don’t you just admit it.”
“Stay away from me!”
“Tell me the truth,” I said, accidently pushing against her a little.
“Stop it!” she screamed. “Somebody help me! Help me!”
A big, sweaty garbage man across the street heard her and rushed over.
“He just grabbed me,” she said to him.
“Hey, get the fuck away from her,” he said to me.
“I didn’t grab her, I just—”
I didn’t even see the punch coming. Just felt the impact as I fell onto the concrete. He kicked me hard a bunch of times, mainly in my ribs and face. I couldn’t catch my breath. I tasted blood.
“Fuck you,” he said, and finally left me alone.
People were passing by, but no one offered to help me. I managed to get up to my feet, but it hurt to walk. I called in late to work and went to a walk-in medical clinic. They didn’t think I had any broken ribs, but I needed stitches for my lip.
Back in Brooklyn, I stopped by my apartment and checked the traps. Sure enough, one of them had a nearly decapitated rat in it. I put it in a garbage bag and put the bag on the curb, then I got my stuff from Steve’s and returned to my apartment.
It was nice to be back in my own place again. My lip hurt and I had to keep icing it, but in a calmer mood I realized that I’d overreacted and might’ve gotten it all wrong. The rat could’ve scaled the building and I could’ve forgotten to lock the door. The more I thought about it, the worse I felt for confronting Lexi.
I cancelled my dates for the week and decided that maybe it was time to take a break from dating. I focused on work, which was much less stressful without the distraction of a complex dating schedule. Still, I felt bad about what had happened with Lexi, and couldn’t stop rehashing that morning in front of her building. I felt like I had to do something, at least let her know how remorseful I was.
I handwrote a note on a plain piece of paper:
I’m sorry for showing up at your building, that was my bad. I realize I jumped to a lot of conclusions and if you’d ever like to meet for coffee sometime, I’d love that, but if you never want to hear from me again, I get that too.
I knew that showing up at her apartment again would be a bad idea, so I mailed the note instead.
A couple of weeks went by and I didn’t hear anything.
Then she texted me: Okay. If you want to talk, let’s talk.
I texted her immediately and arranged to meet her at a coffee bar in Midtown, near where she worked. I was expecting awkwardness, but amazingly there was no tension at all. I apologized for going to her place and accusing her of putting the rat in my apartment, and she apologized for sending me the nasty text.
“I think what I did was much worse than anything you did,” I said.
“Touché,” she said.
We began talking about other things and hit it off. When we’d dated, I had no idea that she loved comics and anime as much as I did. We also both loved sci-fi and horror movies.
When we said goodbye in front of the coffee shop, we began making out. I didn’t plan it; it just seemed natural, organic.
We began dating again. I didn’t have any agenda this time. I wasn’t looking to score with her, nor was I trying to come up with an exit strategy. I actually liked her and wanted to spend time with her, and she felt the same way.
The sex was off the charts. We attacked each other like we couldn’t get enough. I’d finally, improbably, met the woman who made me want to delete all of the dating apps from my phone. We agreed to be exclusive and it was my suggestion, not hers.
The next several months were bliss. We laughed, dressed up at comic-cons, met each other’s parents and took a trip to Bermuda. I used to think that I could never be satisfied with just one woman, but my mindset had changed. I’d found my soulmate and I didn’t want to let her go.
On the anniversary of what we endearingly called ‘Rat Day’ we took a walk in Central Park where I kneeled down in front of Bethesda Fountain and asked her to marry me.
Trembling with happiness, she said, “Yes. Yes, of course.”
She didn’t have a lot of money in savings and wasn’t close with her family, so I footed the bill for our wedding at The River Café under the Brooklyn Bridge.
It was a perfect, cloud-free day. I mingled with our guests and then later waited at the altar, alongside my best man, Steve.
Lexi was supposed to walk down the aisle at 2:00pm, but by 2:15pm she hadn’t arrived. At three, I knew something was very wrong.
I thought the worst: Did something happen to her? Was she in an accident?
Then I heard a commotion near the entrance to the restaurant; my aunt Claudia even screamed. As I rushed over, I had no idea what could possibly be going on. In retrospect, I probably should have expected to see the large dead rat.
I imagined Lexi’s gleeful expression, pleased that she’d patiently and successfully played the long game, stringing me along for over a year, to finally get the ultimate revenge.
She was right.
I’d ghosted the wrong girl.