It started the way these things always start—with a simple, innocent mistake.
It was 2023. I was just trying to put myself out there. You know how it is in your twenties; everyone is swiping, texting, trying to find a connection in a city that feels way too big. I agreed to go on a date with Bruce Gerald. Looking back, I should have trusted my gut the second he walked into the restaurant. He was older. A lot older. Old enough to be my father, honestly. But I was raised to be polite. I was raised to smile, make conversation, and not make a scene. So, I sat through the dinner. I listened to him talk about his life, his opinions, the way he viewed the world—a view that felt heavy and suffocating even across a table.
When the check came, I split it. I made sure of that. I didn’t want to owe him anything. We walked out to the parking lot, the humid Houston air wrapping around us, and when he leaned in, I took a step back.
