Before Ian, I dated a guy who kept a second phone in his glove box. Before that, a guy whose “cousin” turned out to be his fiancée. My early 20s had been, to put it politely, a masterclass in red flags.
Then Ian walked into my life four years ago and just refused to be a mess.
From the very beginning, our relationship was a breath of fresh air.
A masterclass in red flags.
“I don’t do secrets,” he told me on our third date, sliding his phone across the table with the passcode already typed in. “It’s exhausting. Let’s just not.”
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