Ten years ago, I was 23. Margaret was 13.

I was still six months away from moving to Colorado, trying to find a job in New York City while staying with a family from the religious group I’d been a part of since 2008.

And there was a guy attending another religious weekly gathering who wanted to take me on a date.

He’d dated my friend first, a beautiful, talented woman who he’d dismissed because she had debt. She hadn’t been horribly devasted by it — he wasn’t her type, really, and his name was too easily twisted around to make a funny word. In fact, she asked me first before passing on my number. I had debt too, but I wanted the date. I wanted to see about this romantic possibility, just to experience one date, before I mentioned that I probably had the same amount of debt as she did.

At 23, I was horribly old already, had never had a boyfriend, had never been on a date. I just wanted some attention, and if he was willing to take me on a date, then by lord, I would go. But Margaret was visiting.

I took Margaret and Rachel to visit me as much as I could. Schlep had twisted around the courts and wrestled custody from our mother, forcing her to pay child support while she barely scraped by and he lived with his wealthy girlfriend. I wouldn’t know how badly they had it there for awhile, but I knew it wasn’t good. So they would come to visit, and we’d go on adventures. I don’t know why Margaret was the only one visiting on that trip, but I asked the guy if he minded that she came along.

He didn’t mind. We could go for ice cream.

We met at a train station, and he was carrying some theological books.

We had ice cream and I dripped some on my shirt. Then my jacket slipped and fall on the ground, right on top of a good old NYC sidewalk, covered in flat, dark pieces of gum.

He traveled on the train with us back to Brooklyn, said good bye. When he left, I asked Margaret what she thought. “He didn’t ask you any questions,” she said, unimpressed.

I couldn’t remember any of our conversation, either. I’d been too focused on myself, wanting to make a good impression, wanting to not look stupid, that I hadn’t been paying attention at all. And I certainly hadn’t realized that I’d barely spoken the entire time. But Margaret had noticed.

He texted me a day or so later, after Margaret had gone back to Pennsylvania. He wanted to see me again, and I didn’t have the words at 23 that I do now at 33, and after some embarrassment and not knowing what to say, I awkwardly let him know that I didn’t want to see him again.