The Serial Groom

Picture it: Fresh divorce papers still warm from the printer. Her ex galloped away faster than a greased pig at a county fair. Meanwhile, my girl? She’s sittin’ on the edge of the bed like, “Am I supposed to download an app or an exorcist?”

She didn’t want to date. But life said, “Tag, you’re it.” Single mama, bills tap-dancin’ like the Rockettes. So she switched jobs, leveled up, and landed a solid gig downtown. Good pay. Good view. Good hair days.

And because the universe loves a plot twist, she matches with a fella who sounds perfect — steady job, charming messages, knows the difference between “your” and “you’re.” (I know. Rare.) First clue, right? If he sounds like he was assembled in a boyfriend factory, check for a recall notice.

Now before Mr. Perfect, she kissed a few frogs. And by frogs, I mean men who listed “gym” and “entrepreneur” in their bios but couldn’t spell either. One sent a selfie with the caption, “Guess the body part.” Sir, it’s Thursday afternoon. People are at work, and nobody wants to see that! Heifer, please.

Another invited her to a coffee shop where he “hosts a mastermind.” Girl, it was three dudes sharing one laptop and a dream. The dream was unpaid.

She persevered. Because that’s what women do. We persevere through bad coffee, worse dates, and men who think owning a surfboard at 37 is a personality.

Then there he was: Mr. Perfect. Witty banter, timely replies, emojis used responsibly. Spoke fluent “Good Morning Beautiful" without sounding like a cheesy Hallmark Card.

They get to talkin’ logistics — “Where do you work?” “Oh really? Downtown?” “Which building?”

She names hers. He names his. And darling, he’s right across the street. Across. The. Street. You could throw a stale donut and hit his window. (And believe me, later we wanted to.)

She asks the floor. He tells her. She wanders over to her own window, leans, squints, adjusts the blinds, and lo and behold, she can see straight into his office. The man was practically framed like a department store mannequin. It felt like fate. You know how we do; we start singin’ Carrie Underwood in the shower and plan the registry at Target.

Darling, nothing will make you think the Lord is hand-placing puzzle pieces like being able to make eye contact from across the street at 10:42 a.m. But fate? Fate is a nosy neighbor. The universe, however, has a wicked sense of humor and a taste for slapstick.

I told her, “If this is fate, tell fate to send an email with references.” Fate be out here freelancin’ with no portfolio.

And yes, we did consider poster boards like a rom-com. But the signs would’ve said, “Are you married?” “Blink twice.”

They finally meet. He’s cute. Smells like cedar and promises. He orders her favorite appetizer without being weird about it. They laugh, they stroll, they do that little shoulder graze that sends electricity through your skeleton. And yet, there’s that itch. A tiny chigger bite of doubt. Something just off. Now listen, that gut feeling? That’s your grandmama whisperin’ through your DNA. It’s your guardian angel pullin’ the fire alarm while you’re distracted by a charcuterie board.

She files the feeling away because, Lord help us, hope is stubborn and enjoys the evening. But the next day, instead of hearts and flowers, she picks up a shovel.

Y’all aren't women good at research? I don’t know why private investigators get paid so much when you can hand a woman a first name and a neck tattoo, and she’ll bring you a family tree, a mortgage rate, and his Yelp reviews. So she digs. Cross-checks LinkedIn and Instagram, and peeks at the tagged photos.

You know what she finds? Wife. Brand-new baby. Like, the baby still got that newborn yawn and the baby fist that looks like it’s judging you. She sits there blinking like an error message. Then she does what high-value women do. She ends it. Quick, clean, no crying in the driveway. “Respect to your family. I’m out.”

He says, “Oh, but can we still be friends?”

Sir. Friends is what you were supposed to be with your wife.

Still, my girl is kind. She says yes. (We’re all a little too kind sometimes; it’s a Southern default setting.)

He was asking for friendship like he was applying for a store credit card. “You’ll get points!” Points toward what, sir? A toaster and a concussion?

Now, friendship with men you were romantically interested in is not illegal; it’s just advanced-level origami. Pretty, but it takes patience, and you’ll cut yourself if you’re not careful.

She tried it. She set boundaries. She didn’t flirt. She wished his family well, emphasis on family, and kept it movin’.

Meanwhile, he kept doin’ the cha-cha slide between “single” and “ceremonial.” Every time he popped back up, there was fresh confetti in his hair. If he’s perfect on paper, find the paper trail. And if there’s a baby shower in the last quarter, back away slowly like you just saw a skunk in a sundress.

A couple of years roll by. My friend heals up like a sunflower in July. She dates again. Finds a sweet man who knows her coffee order and her favorite side of the bed. Life is, dare I say, calm.

Then who slides into her messages like butter on a hot biscuit? Mr. Perfect(ish). He says he’s divorced now. He wants to “catch up.” Here’s where the devil plays jazz. Curiosity. Nostalgia. The “maybe he changed” tango. She agrees to meet in daylight, in public, and in shoes she can run in. (Proud of her for that.)

They talk. He’s charming again. It’s almost like men don’t forget their lines; they forget their vows.

And that itch? It returns. Stronger this time. More like a full-body rash. She says, “Emsley, I can’t shake it.” I say, “Baby, follow it.”

She dusts off the digital magnifying glass. Takes a polite stroll through the socials. Shut my mouth, wedding photos!

Recent ones. And y’all, another baby!!!

At this point I’m convinced this man thinks a bassinet is a personality trait. He’s out here collectin’ wives like Costco samples, “Ooh, I’ll try that!” She does not confront. She does not explain. She does not send a paragraph that starts with “It’s funny how” Nope. She ghosted him like last year’s diet. Poof. Blocked, deleted, memory-holed.

Because closure is a luxury, but peace is a decision.