Wednesday afternoons have no inherent reason to be particularly memorable in any way. They’re just kind of, there. But a certain Wednesday afternoon last November had drastically different plans for me.

I had just gotten home after six incredibly grueling hours of sandwich artistry. Mind numb, I could do nothing more than open the shameful “dating” app on my phone to help swipe away the tears.

Left. Left. Nope. Left. Left. No. Left.

Oh.

Oh hello, Brooke B., 19, Syracuse University.

A quirky brunette with a million dollar smile and bright eyes to match, I decided to delve a little deeper. Common Interests include bowling, applesauce, and the QVC channel. Immediately I swiped right.

Much to my chagrin we matched before my thumb could even reset itself back to its prime swiping position. I wasted no time casting out my line and she swallowed it whole: hook, line, and sinker. Within the half hour Brooke and I had plans to hang out sometime. I clicked my phone off and tossed it on my desk. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes for what felt like a second.

Bling.

“I’ll be there in 10.”

Uh-oh.

Having not showered in two days like the true ruffian I am, I couldn’t help but feel a mild panic. My drawers were bare, so I ruffled through my hamper in hopes of finding the least crusty of clothes. I scratched some raised stains off a pit stained t-shirt and pulled it over my head. Slightly soiled outfit on point, I still needed to step up my game. I spent the next five and a half minutes bathing in deodorant and body spray. My roommate choked on the thick air and looked up at me with watery eyes. I knew I was good to go. You might call me filthy, I call me a very busy boy.

Two knocks.

I shut my laptop and rose from my desk.

“One second!”

I turned to the mirror behind me for a final once-over as my hand slid over to the door’s handle. It was cool to the touch.

It has oft been said that life distributes lemons, and what one does with these bitter fruits of human existence defines the very nature of one’s situation. So you either make lemonade, or swallow them in stride. And my mouth is just not big enough to swallow a whole lemon.

I coolly opened the door, finding a face I did not recognize.

“Err… hi?”

“I’m Trish B., Brooke’s mom.”

My eyes travelled up the delicate arm of the mature hand now extended towards me.

Glints of gold splashed into my field of vision off of professional looking wristlets. Her eyes were a piercing pond-scum green, enthralling to the point of hypnosis.

I had no choice but to reach for the outstretched hand.

This was no girl before me.

This was a woman.

“Uh… Where’s Brooke?”

“She’s my daughter. Can I come in?”

Now let’s get one thing straight here. I’m no fool. But when Trish explained that she had used her daughter’s pictures to play me like a well-strung violin how could I be anything less than intrigued? For a brief second I thought this could all just be an elaborate prank, but that inkling was quickly dismissed. Who would do something like this?

Trish insisted she take me out to eat, at least as recompense for her deceptive actions. Fair enough. My roommate looked up from his screen without taking out his headphones. In the moment that my glance met with his, he shook his head and went back to studying. Trish took my fingers in hers and together we left the room.

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If you’ve gotten to this point in my story, believe me that I understand everything you might be feeling.

“Are you kidding me Jeremy? You got catfished by a cougar and now you’re just a dirty dog. Where the hell are your morals?”

I hear you. Really I do. But give me a chance to let my train of thought rumble through your station: Who doesn’t love talking to moms? And to pass up a free meal from not the dining hall?? You’d be a fool. What’s the harm in letting a sophisticated lady take you out one time for elegant dinner and conversational pleasantries?

That’s how it started. Once we were seated at the restaurant, Trish didn’t even bat an eye when I shamelessly ordered the most expensive steak on the menu to spite her for bamboozling me. But my trepidations soon faded. Dinner was nothing short of delicious, and Trish and I got along swimmingly. She loved hearing about my college-aged exploits and I was thoroughly interested in hearing about hers. The bottles of pinot that flowed forth like water from a spring certainly aided our ardor.

Our second dinner a week later was no different. Third, fourth, no change. I was never expected to pay for anything, and I never did. Trish ran the show and I was just along for an enjoyable ride. We learned a lot from each other; I taught her about snapchat, she taught me how to balance a checkbook. We had officially become friends.

A few weeks later Trish invited me to her house.

Naïvely I expected a home tour and rousing round of monopoly.

She had other ideas. My world was rocked, hard.

Suddenly, I was in way too deep.

It was now the beginning of December, and winter break was soon approaching. I had made my decision that our relationship would be concluded before I went home for Christmas. Nothing was wrong, but I felt that I had had my fun and it was time to say goodbye.

And then one fateful night ahead of our winter break deadline she called me Honeybuns. In that moment it felt as though a 10 gallon bucket of water was dumped over my head as I was sleeping, startling me out of a dream-world fantasy.

I had only been called that by one other person, one other woman, in my entire life: my Mother. This was just too much.

I told Trish I wasn’t feeling well and needed to go home. I feigned a severe and violent bowel movement and stepped out the front door. I blocked her number, ignored her calls, and ultimately pushed Trish out of my head.

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My close friends who know about my experience ask me, do you regret it?

Honestly, I don’t.

Or I should say, I didn’t.

I returned to school in the Spring, where my past quickly caught up with me. It was Spanish 102, and we were going around the room playing the name game. I paid close attention as the game made its way past me. Juicy Jeremy. Groggy Greg. Avocado Annie. Bouncy Brooke. Deviant Dan.

Wait a second.

Three seats over from where I sat was the source of the voice that uttered, “Bouncy Brooke.” I slowly looked up and over to my right. My heart sank into the growth on my big toe as I recognized with a sigh that million dollar smile. And those bright, bright eyes.

Those same bright, piercing green eyes that had peered back at me so many times before, from the bedroom next to where she had slept as a baby.