It was his driver's license that gave Robert away. He'd just told me to pick out a movie on his iPad, with a casual "passcode is my birthday" from the other room. I knew his birth month, ofc, but didn't want to admit I'd blanked on the exact date, so I reached into his wallet.
And then there I stood, staring, mouth wide fucking open. I got out my phone's calculator to check the math I fooled myself into believing was my error. But nope: He was fully FORTY-FIVE years old—not already-pushing-our-age-gap 35, as he'd said.
When the two of us first locked eyes at a rooftop bar, I could tell Robert was slightly older (regular 20somethings don't wear watches that cost more than my rent), but I also didn't notice any deep wrinkles that looked like my dad's. And hey, at 23, I was all too eager to meet someone who didn't consider Chipotle a date-night spot. So I accepted his invitation to take me out for bucatini.
Robert impressed me with his knowledge of fine wines and classic cinema, and I leaned into his kiss at the end of the night, even after he shared that he was 12 years older than I am. How lucky I thought I was to have found this L.A. producer who seemed genuine (lol).
From that point on, we pretty much dated exclusively.
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