9 Omaha

February 2023

Two weeks later, Ryan flies from Baltimore to Omaha. I greet him outside the terminal gate, and he greets me with a bouquet of flowers, holding them out like a man presenting evidence in court.

“If I don’t ever buy you flowers…” he begins, pausing dramatically, and the words fade like it will never happen.

It’s corny. It’s adorable. It’s very Ryan.

The challenge with making hotel arrangements for someone in my hometown is that I really don’t know the hotels. I’ve heard The Magnolia is chic, but I’ve only ever seen the lobby bar — which, to be fair, is lovely after two martinis. The room itself doesn’t quite meet Ryan’s expectations, although the arrival entertainment apparently did. Still, he heads back down to the lobby to speak to a manager.

After what feels like an hour‑long conversation about fishing, hospitality, and kids — because Ryan cannot simply speak to someone, he must befriend them — he returns with a grin and a new best friend named Johnathan. They’ve exchanged cell phone numbers.

“Ryan Smith‑Clancy,” he announces proudly, as if the name alone secured the upgrade.

Now we’re booked in the “best suite in the hotel,” according to his new friend. And honestly, the suite proves just as entertaining as the standard room — perhaps more so. Ryan has a way of turning any space into a playground, and if he keeps this up any longer, I won’t have much time to change into my gown for the opera.

I’ve assumed the role of Omaha Ambassador — my job is to dispel myths about my city. And tonight, I’m determined to show him the best of it. We dine at V. Mertz, where each course of the tasting menu is described with such detail, you’d think the chef had personally raised each ingredient from individual seed. Each bite is more delicious than the last, and Ryan’s reactions range from wide‑eyed awe to playful commentary whispered across the table.

He seems to be enjoying his meal and his dinner date, so much that his comfort has led to serious conversation. Ryan tells me he’s been looking for a relationship since his divorce. He was devastated by his ex-wife’s infidelity, and only saw himself in a long-term relationship which he hoped we were building together. He asks my goals, in which I shared that desire for an exlusive long-term relationship. However, unlike his declaration that he wants to be married again, I do not.

We leave dinner with this mutual understanding of seeing where this budding relationship could go. Although we’re surrounded by hundreds of people at the The Orpheum next, he’s leaning in close, whispering in my ear, saying all the right things — the kind of things that make your pulse skip and your thighs wet. This man knows romance. He knows timing. He knows how to make a woman feel like she’s the only person in the room even when surrounded by hundreds.

And he definitely knows his way around a suite.

Somewhere between the wine, the opera, and the way he looks at me like I’m the highlight of his trip, I start to wonder if maybe — just maybe — I should have gone looking for love outside of Omaha much sooner.

Because this?
This feels like something real.
Something fun.
Something that’s growing faster than either of us expected.

And I’m not sure I want it to slow down.