I was also the one initiating any kind of serious conversations that could speed up our timeline. I brought up kids and he said he wanted two. I brought up locations and he said he’d like to stay on the Upper East Side. I brought up money and he said married couples should always have joint accounts. I had molded myself into the person he needed and I could be the person quickly. I’d make sure we didn’t need to date for long; that we could get this party started.

The thing I was the most nervous about—that could have eventually become the downfall of our relationship—was if he pushed me about my past. There were only so many lies my little brain could hold—common ones floated to the top: my name, my memorized elevator pitch of my history, my favorite shoe brand, my favorite restaurant in the city—but most were so deep I only brought them out if I was specifically asked. Those were the ones I got nervous about, the questions so uncommon I started to second-guess my own answers. The ones that only came up when you were talking to your partner, the person in it with you for life. I was sure when we started dating there were lies I hadn’t even realized I needed to tell yet.

However, after a few months I realized Graham was uninterested in learning about my past because he didn’t want to discuss his own. I knew all about it—his parents and brother and college escapades and Vermont upbringing—but he never shared any of it with me. It was from all of my research. It was like it was a fresh start for both of us—an opportunity to be the people we wanted, little baggage, little history.

One thing I did know about him, and confirmed with almost all of our dates, was that this hero concept he lauded—the prince on a white horse saving the damsel in distress—was his kryptonite. And once I learned that, I could get away with anything.

“Do you want to come look at an apartment with me?” I asked him one Sunday morning. I knew he’d never accept, but I scheduled a viewing under Lena’s name at a place I could never afford in TriBeCa. The problem with having a passive boyfriend was that it took forever to move things along, to hit the milestones that I needed to be hitting faster. When we were a year in and he still hadn’t asked me to move in with him, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

“Why are you looking at an apartment?” he asked.

“My lease is up. I can’t be homeless.”

He asked me to move in with him two hours later.