It’s precisely 10:37 AM on the Saturday leading up to Valentine’s Day, a detail I remember as I glance at my phone, hoping the morning will hurry along. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

I find myself grappling with a classic first-world dilemma: juggling two very different romantic relationships. On one hand, there's Thomas, who showers me with affection and makes me feel like a celestial being. However, his reluctance to finalize his divorce and his meager income are pressing concerns I've touched on in previous pieces.

For this Valentine’s, he insisted that I needn't lift a finger; he wanted to devote the day to me, with my only task being to enjoy the attention. The latter half of this plan sounded fabulous—he promised to whip up an elaborate meal I haven't attempted in years.

Yet, the first part? Pure torture. His excitement was palpable, and I couldn't bring myself to admit I'd rather endure a migraine than embark on this adventure.

Thomas has an affinity for nature and an obsession with his Jeep, which is worth over $100,000 and presumably capable of conquering the apocalypse. Meanwhile, he rents a less-than-ideal beachside apartment—his standards are questionable, or perhaps I’m just being pretentious.

Our Valentine’s Day kicked off with a drive to the mountains, which was as dreadful as it sounds. As he filled my fridge with groceries, I schemed ways to escape the trip. My only directive was to wear a sundress because he had plans for spontaneous encounters along the way. Footwear? Irrelevant, as we wouldn’t be walking much.

I was savvy enough to choose a sundress that I wouldn’t mourn if it got ruined—after all, as Monica Lewinsky discovered, such stains are hard to eradicate. I opted for a black sundress that was a size too large and could be easily discarded if necessary.

Inside Thomas’s Jeep, the dashboard resembled something out of a sci-fi film, filled with switches and gauges that confounded me. We set off toward the mountains, a distant backdrop most people admire from afar.

Being a passenger in that vehicle was a nightmare. After previously insisting I’d never ride in it while wearing a dress, there I was, doing just that. The seats were too big for me, and the seatbelt did little to secure me. Thomas, who had a history of street racing, drove like a maniac. As we careened around corners, I clung to anything I could find to avoid being flung out.

As we climbed higher, my annoyance grew. The bumpy ride had my frustration boiling within minutes. Thomas stopped to adjust the tire pressure and shock settings, claiming it would reduce the bouncing. Spoiler: he was mistaken.

The higher we went, the more treacherous the terrain became, with obstacles that most drivers would evade. Yet, Thomas relished every bump and dip, making me feel like I was on a never-ending amusement park ride.

Finally, we arrived at a wooded area, which I soon realized was his chosen spot for a quick rendezvous. With little to lean against, I awkwardly braced myself against the dirt as he went to town. I could hear dirt bikes nearby, raising my anxiety about being discovered.

Thomas assured me his Jeep was blocking the path, but with engines revving close by, we quickly ceased our activity and returned to our journey—still only a third of the way up.

As we continued, my small talk dwindled. Thomas was preoccupied with his playlist, which frequently reset to alphabetize itself. The music blasted at full volume, and my ears throbbed from the bass. My attempts to lower the volume were futile as he cranked it back up, leaving my head pounding.

Physically, it felt like I was enduring an old, unrestrained roller coaster ride. I struggled to maintain my balance, using my feet against the door and gripping the seat and door handle for dear life. The lap belt did little to keep me from sliding around.

Despite the chaos, I remained stoically unimpressed, deliberately downplaying the wildness of the ride. I passed the time by observing other hikers and drivers who stroked Thomas's ego by complimenting his Jeep. Inside, I grumbled to myself, wishing for a partner with a more sensible vehicle and a stable home.

The cherry on this disastrous sundae? We lost cell service an hour into the trip. I had become that person, unable to function without constant connectivity. As we crawled behind other vehicles, Thomas took to scaling the side of the mountain in his reckless pursuit.

Finally, we reached our destination. I stepped out, overwhelmed by the wind and regretting my choice of heeled sandals. The view was merely a distant cityscape—nothing that couldn’t be seen from an airplane.

When he asked for my thoughts, I bluntly stated my indifference to the scenery. Thomas suggested we leave, but I insisted we make the most of the trip. He confessed that he was there for the drive, not the view.

And then, we drove on, navigating a series of precarious paths. Thomas asked if I was up for another public escapade, but I hesitated at the sight of families nearby; I wasn’t keen on exposing myself in front of children.

As we continued to bounce around, I mentally lamented the loud music and constant jolting. My head collided with the door and the roof repeatedly, and my water bottle rolled around my legs.

At last, we approached a steep, rocky incline that looked straight out of an action film. When Thomas suggested climbing it, I shrugged, treating it like a casual suggestion rather than a life-or-death decision.

With a cacophony of mechanical whirring, we slowly began our ascent. The Jeep creaked ominously as we traversed the jagged terrain. I was terrified, convinced we might tumble back down at any moment.

After what felt like an eternity, I checked my watch—it had been nearly three hours. I confessed that if we didn’t leave soon, my patience would wear thin.

As we began our descent, Thomas remarked on my calm demeanor throughout the ride. I reminded him that I had experienced far worse and that if he ever truly endangered me, I wouldn’t ride with him again. He laughed, acknowledging my point.

However, I knew the truth: there was no way I would repeat this ordeal.

My threshold for sensory overload had been reached. I tried to suppress my irritation at the loud music and constant jostling, reminiscent of a child’s birthday party at a bounce house—pure torture.

In a rare moment of frustration, I shouted my disdain for a cover of “Under Pressure” that blared from his playlist, the only time I showed any emotion during the ride. I was grateful when we paused to resume our earlier escapades.

Eventually, we found a spot near the bottom to refill his tires. It took longer than expected, so I stepped outside to escape the noise of the compressor.

As I glanced at Thomas, now covered in grease and dirt from working on his tires, I felt an unexpected surge of attraction. Despite my earlier discomfort, I still found him appealing and enjoyed his company.

And then it hit me: I might have developed feelings for this man who was still married and driving a vehicle I considered obnoxious.

As we resumed our journey, I quipped about my ridiculous attire on a mountain. He replied, “You look like a woman who doesn’t need to lift a finger because a man will take care of everything.” While I admired his confidence, I couldn’t help but wish for a partner who earned a respectable income.

Finally back on the road, my ears still ringing from the music, I repeated to myself, “I’m not in love. I’m not in love.” After all, I had a date with Sean tomorrow—surely, I couldn’t possibly have fallen for Thomas, could I?

This Valentine’s Day had certainly taken an unexpected turn.