This is part of Breakup Week. We just can’t do this anymore.
A few years ago, I was single, but not particularly desperate to mingle. I was doing fine on my own until one day, a co-worker at my company caught my eye. He had dimples when he smiled, which was often, and kind, blue eyes. His name was Sam.
Sam was smart, unassuming, and liked a lot of the same geeky things that I did. We seemed to have a lot in common, which gave us an excuse to talk. Standing by the communal coffee machine, we’d gab about our favorite ’90s TV shows and the punk bands we still listened to. He’d tell me funny stories about his dog while handing me cookies to dip into my coffee. One morning after a meeting, I returned to my desk to find a pop figurine of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Beside it was a note that read, “Keep slaying. Sam.” I felt my cheeks turn red. I was smitten.
But was he? Trying to gauge his interest was impossible. His signals were always mixed: He would flirt, but never take an actionable step. He would invite me to have coffee with him—and remember all the minor details of previous conversations—then stop responding to me for days. As my infatuation grew, so did my frustration. I had a full-blown crush, but had no idea how he felt.
Then, finally, he took a leap. It was Super Bowl season, and we made a bet: Whoever’s team won would get to ring in a favor. This was his favorite type of flirtation—indirect, playful, and completely deniable. I was relieved when the team I rooted for lost, which meant it wasn’t up to me to figure out what sort of “favor” he meant. The next day, Sam wrote to me cashing in. He asked me to go out with him.
He made a reservation at a cute wine bar and showed up on time. We had chemistry and spark. As he walked me home through a moonlit park, we laughed a ton. At my doorstep, he kissed me softly, then left. We started to date secretly, meeting far away from the office where we were unlikely to be spotted. We’d text often and meet sporadically. For about three weeks, it was going well—then he abruptly cut things off. He went about it respectfully, but I got the picture: He just wasn’t that into me. I was bummed, but at least I knew. Oh well. Next.
For the next few months, we barely interacted at work. I was sore about it at first, but the disappointment soon wore off—he had been honest, and our fling was short. Soon we became friendly again. I was no longer emotionally invested, so I didn’t mind occasional small talk over coffee. We stayed like that for a long time: just two acquaintances who happened to try dating for half a second and now occasionally drank coffee together when they needed a break.
Then one night, I saw him on a dating app.
Since we were friends, I decided to swipe right, just for fun. To my surprise, we matched. I messaged him with a bunch of laughing emojis. “I guess that profile swipe you did stayed in the app all this time,” I wrote.
“Who said it was a long time ago?” he replied. The flirting, apparently, was back on.
I was hesitant to restart something he’d already stepped out of, but this time around, he seemed more keen—almost determined. I found myself reluctantly excited. We bantered and teased each other for about a week. I waited for him to ask me out again, but once again, he vanished. It was weird, but I let it go. We went back to chastely greeting each other in the hallway at work. We drifted. I moved on.
That’s when things got really weird.
A few months after he ghosted me, I, and about 10 other people in the office, got an email from Sam. It was cryptic and bizarre: He asked us to come outside and warned that there would be cameras filming. Hesitant but curious, I headed out with the others. We found him sitting calmly at a table, surrounded by a film crew.
He waited until we gathered around and then announced that he was going on a reality dating show called Married at First Sight. He explained that for the next week, a camera crew would follow him around, leading up to a wedding with a woman he had not yet met and knew nothing about. After the wedding, they would live together for a month, and at the end of it, they would decide whether to continue their relationship.
As he spoke, it dawned on me: Sam had ghosted me to go on a reality dating show. I had been interested in a man who would be willing to marry—nay, was actively pursuing—a complete stranger. On TV! I was dumbfounded. Was I that bad of an option? Was marrying her really preferable to going on another date with me? I could feel the embarrassment and astonishment boiling up. I thought I knew him, but there, flanked by producers and boom operators, he was unrecognizable. I was so swept up in the absurdity of it all that I didn’t stop to consider the piece of paper a producer shoved in front of me. Following the lead of my co-workers, I absently added my signature to the pile of nondisclosure agreements. Then I turned around and went back into the office.
It was hard to process. My ego was hurt, and I resented his flippant decision to go all in on something so inane. How had I never clocked this impulsive, attention-hungry side of him? At the same time, I knew Sam was a good, caring man with a big heart. We were no longer romantic or even close friends, but he still deserved kindness. I tried to be happy for him, but it felt like rolling a boulder up a hill.
Worse, I couldn’t tell a soul what was happening. I couldn’t tell my co-workers because the few scandalous dates we’d gone on were a shared secret that I had no right or desire to reveal. I couldn’t tell my friends or family because the NDA prohibited me from naming him or the show until after it aired. Instead, I kept it all in, doling out terse, blank nods when people would ask if I was OK. I wondered if I could stomach his wedding.
A few days later, I got the invite.
I could have declined, but the lore was too appealing: It was like a trainwreck—disturbing, but you can’t look away. And besides, I still cared for him. He was the kind of guy who’d show up for his friends. Couldn’t I at least try to do the same?
The day before the wedding, I wrote Sam a text. I told him I was sure his nerves were going wild but not to worry because in the best-case scenario, he’d find love, and in the worst, the world would fall in love with him. On the day of the wedding, I donned a faux-leather strapless jumper and my signature red lip. Other than the Antarctic-sized bruise on my arm from a poorly executed vaccination that made me look like I had done loads of heroin, I was feeling myself. I was ready to go watch my secret ex-situationship get fake-married on reality TV.
I, like Sam, knew nothing about his bride-to-be. On the bus to the venue, my co-workers pondered what she’d be like. One colleague guessed that Mystery Woman would be a total nerd, to match that side of his personality. Another woman thought the bride would be cool, stylish, and laid back. This co-worker then looked me dead in the eye and said, “Someone like Ayala.” I froze. Did she know?
When we arrived, we had to surrender our phones for the evening. Camera crews prowled the venue, looking for sound bites and TV-worthy interviewees. Anyone willing to give embarrassing or funny information about the bride or groom was rewarded with more camera time. I sat on a far-off couch, watching the theatrics. All I could do was whisper to the co-worker sitting next to me, “What is happening?”
The ceremony began. Sam wore a dark navy suit and walked down the aisle with some pep in his step. At the altar, he waited awkwardly for production to bring out his bride. His parents had abstained from taking part in the show, but 20 of his friends and about the same of her family waited eagerly for her to arrive. They seemed genuinely joyful, just as they would be if this were a real wedding. If anyone else was as shocked as I was, they hid it well. Not a single person knew I was more than just a regular friend.
Then Mystery Woman came out, wearing a gorgeous white dress, her hair pinned up with pearls. I watched her walk down the aisle toward him, giggling. She was pretty and beaming. She looked so happy. For a moment, I actually thought she was walking toward the love of her life.
As she joined him at the altar, they clumsily took each other’s hands and sneaked glances as the hired officiant read off facts about each of them, in turn. When the ceremony concluded, they awkwardly turned toward each other and shared a quick peck. They, too, must have been in shock. For their first dance, the producers chose my favorite song. As Sam and his new bride swayed to Stand by Me, I sat there drinking a cocktail, laughing at the absurdity of it all.
They lived together for the contractually obligated month after the wedding, but when I checked in with him afterward, he texted me that their chemistry was sparse, and that there was no attraction between them. (I’m guessing it had more to do with the setting than her looks.) They didn’t last a day past shooting. According to him, they broke it off amicably, and neither party was surprised.
About a year later, the show came out. I only made it through a couple of episodes. I cringed watching it almost as much as I did experiencing it—turns out the secondhand embarrassment is way worse when one of the contestants ghosted you. When I was finally able to tell my friends about it, they, too, were dismayed, but assured me that his decision said less about me than my taste in men. We laughed at how ridiculous it all was.
In a weird twist of fate, the producers of the show decided to make Sam out to be the villain of the season, which, in his defense, was unwarranted. The edit suggested he was gaslighting her with affection while privately confessing his lack of attraction to cameras, leaving her oblivious. From what he told me during filming, their communication was honest and the disconnect mutual. But when the show aired, viewers only got the doctored story. Sam was berated on social media and in grocery stores. For months, the internet hated him.
I guess that text I sent him on his wedding night wasn’t so accurate, after all.
