Entenmann’s Donuts & Red Flags

Though we’d only been in contact for nine days, my connection with Bryan was fast and furious. We were both New York transplants living in Denver, familiar with the same bars, highways, and diners.

“You know what they’re really missing out here?” I said on our first phone call. “Entenmann’s.”

He lit up. “Entenmann’s crumb cake donuts! Yes! Reminds me of my grandma!”

I swooned.

We matched on Hinge on a Monday, started texting Tuesday, and talked on the phone for two hours Wednesday. By Thursday, we met in person—and it felt like meeting my twin flame.

I’m a redhead, and Bryan had a Prince Harry look with a ginger beard.

“You’re so cute,” I blurted when we met.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, reaching for my hand.

I’m 41. Bryan’s a year younger. We talked about kids, swapped photos of our nieces and nephews—nothing felt like an interview. After our date, he walked me to my car, and we took a selfie, both sensing this moment was worth remembering.

At my car, he kissed me on the cheek and asked if he could take me to dinner the next night.

I sent the selfie to my close circle with the rare announcement: “I met someone.” I don’t say that as often anymore. After a relationship that nearly led to marriage, I’ve become more particular about who I spend time with—and more cautious about declarations of love or even like.

But now this! Suddenly, I was giddy, hanging on every text ding.

He picked me up the next night, and we went downtown for what’s arguably the best pizza in Denver. We ordered two pies, one with clams, and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he didn’t flinch at my order. Another green flag.

After dinner, we went back to my place—talked, cuddled, watched Netflix—until he had to leave to walk his dog.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked.

We set a time for 3, and he showed up right on the dot. We walked downtown with coffees, stopped at the bookstore, held hands.

“Let’s play a game,” I said at one point, making sure I was positive of what I was getting into.  

“I’m going to ask you some questions to see if you can answer them correctly,” I teased.

“Who is the leader of the Ukraine?”  

“Volodymyr Zelenskyy.”  

“Who is the Governor of Florida?”  

“Ron DeSantis.”  

“Who is the Mayor of Chicago?”  

“Lori Lightfoot.”  

“Who played Jim Halpert in The Office?”  

“John Krazinski.”  

A+!

As we walked, we passed bars and restaurants we’d both been to on past dates. We traded stories about awkward encounters, and I admitted to canceling a date after he and I matched. I joked that he probably had a second date lined up for later, and he gave me a playful shove.

That evening, back at my place, we settled in to watch the Rangers vs. Devils while I made pasta. We ate at the table with the game on in the background, both cheering for New York. It was only our third date, but it already felt like a rhythm. I sent him home with leftovers and a kiss.

“Made it home!” he texted shortly after. Our rapid-fire exchange continued, and I jokingly said it was almost time for him to get ready for that second date—smiley face, winky face.

A twenty-minute lag before his reply.

“That was a weird thing to say.”

I sent a question mark. “What was?”

“To suggest I would have a second date.”

I called him right away—no answer.

“I’m so confused,” I texted. “Don’t you remember my joke from earlier today, when I said you were going on a second date tonight?”

He said he didn’t remember.

I called again. No answer.

His next text: “I don’t feel like talking. I’m half asleep.”

Panic set in. I sent one last message: “Bryan? Can you please pick up?”

He didn’t respond. We didn’t speak again that night.

The next morning, we had an awkward, clipped phone call where he said he was upset I didn’t respect his wish not to talk—and that he felt insulted I’d joked about a second date after he’d made such an effort to spend time with me over the past three days.

I apologized over and over—told him I was confused, called myself an idiot, said I really liked him, and wished him a good day. He brushed it off, said it “wasn’t a big deal,” and that he’d text me later. That evening, I flew to the East Coast for a funeral—oddly relieved to have a break from the whirlwind of sudden drama.

Monday brought tense, fake-nice texts from Bryan—the kind I immediately shared with my tight East Coast circle, the same friends I’d declared him perfect to just four days earlier. I sent the Saturday night blow-up too. The responses were unanimous:

“This is why we don’t fall in love with people too fast.”

“Gaslighting at its finest.”

“It was so clearly a joke! I don’t understand!”

“This has nothing to do with you.”

“He should have picked up.”

“I’m trying to see where he is coming from, but I really don’t get it.”

“Wait. Why did you apologize?? You did nothing wrong!”

“Ew.”

Still, I pushed back against my friends’ takes and decided I’d give it another shot when I got back to Colorado. I went to the local ShopRite in New Jersey, bought a box of Entenmann’s crumb cake donuts, and planned to bring them home—a peace offering to prove I wasn’t heartless or humorless, but kind, funny, and worth another chance.

The day of my friend’s mom’s funeral, Bryan texted: “How’d everything go today?” A for effort! Maybe there was still hope.

I replied honestly: “It was a hard day, but I’m so glad I was there for her. I hope your day was okay.”

The next day, I flew home with the Entenmann’s in my carry-on, but deep down, I knew it was over. I didn’t want to see him when I got back. That feeling of magical, fun, fairy dust spark was lost and I didn’t want to try to get it back. I was too old for this. Too smart. Too wise. Too tired.  

Bryan didn’t text at all the day I flew home and I knew it was done. The following day, I received a text first thing in the morning that read: “Hey, I had fun with you but have stuff I need to work on. Sorry I wasted your time.”

I screenshot it and sent it off to my clan of best friends.

“Bryan broke up with me. I’m so relieved!”

“Good riddance!”

“Psycho!”

“Um, yeah. Work on your stuff.”

“Oh honey, I’m sorry.”

“GOOD LUCK TO HIM!”

“Ew.”

That night, my good girlfriend came over with her six-year-old son. We drank wine, ate Entenmann’s and I felt deeply understood and deeply loved. Turns out, everyone loves Entenmann’s crumb cake donuts.