I Won’t Marry You, But I’ll Move In

by J. Courtney Sullivan

I think it’s vital to spend a long time getting to know someone before you commit to a life with him. But the constant analysis doesn’t leave a girl with much hope of walking into a room one day and being love-struck, the way my mother was. Or so I always thought.

Then, a little over a year ago, I met Colin. He came highly recommended by mutual friends. “He’s a Southern gentleman who holds doors open, and his mother is a feminist,” one of them gushed.

“He once listened to me cry about my ex all night long, and afterward he paid the check,” said another. “He has more hair on his head than 98 percent of the men in Manhattan,” whispered a third.

Usually, a guy so lauded—but not scooped up—by other women is either physically deformed or gay. But this one was actually quite handsome. And there was nothing even remotely metrosexual, let alone gay, about him. I later learned the following: He’s in multiple fantasy baseball leagues. He does not think shampoo is necessary. He owns only two bath towels, both stolen from hotels.

Five minutes into our first date, I knew that everything had changed.