A Real Story

I live in a town of about 12,000 people in central Pennsylvania, and for two years my dating app radius was set to 50 miles because I figured that’s just what you had to do in a small place. Every date meant an hour-plus drive each way, and I was exhausted before I even sat down. My sister finally told me to just set the thing to 8 miles and see what happened, even if it meant scraping the bottom of the barrel. So I did, half expecting three profiles and a tumbleweed.

One of the profiles that popped up looked oddly familiar, and it took me an embarrassingly long scroll through his photos to realize it was Dave, who’d replaced my alternator back in March and my brake pads in the fall. I’d tipped him twenty bucks both times and never once considered he might be single, because who thinks about that at the counter of a garage while you’re stressed about a $400 bill. We matched, and his first message was “your Civic doing okay?” which is either the least romantic or most practically romantic opening line I’ve ever gotten.

We met at the diner two doors down from his shop, the one with the pie case that never gets restocked fast enough. I brought up the brake pads within the first ten minutes because I genuinely wanted to know if he’d given me a good price, and he laughed so hard he had to put his coffee down. Nine months later he still teases me about it, and I still ask him to double-check my tire pressure before long drives, except now it’s an excuse to see him instead of an actual errand.