Epilogue
I lost my virginity in my childhood bedroom, on top of my old collection of romance novels, when I was thirty years old.
I had the whole week off work for Thanksgiving break, and wanted to spend as much of it as I could holed up with Matthew in his apartment.
But since we’d be splitting up to spend Thanksgiving Day with our respective families, Mom insisted on having the two of us over to the house for dinner the night before.
By the time we finished dessert, it was late, we were tired, and the idea of making the trek back to Matthew’s in Brooklyn seemed too daunting. We decided to stay over in my old room.
“I hate long-distance,” I lamented while we were curled up in my full-size bed. I was playing with his ring. “Every time we’re together, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that one of us is about to leave.”
“I know,” he agreed. “It sucks. Big-time.”
It felt like the right moment to ask the question that’d been sitting in the back of my mind ever since our first date.
“Would you…” I hesitated, scared that I was coming on too strong.
“I know we haven’t been together that long and I’m not talking about right now, but eventually…
” I propped myself up on my elbow to look down at him.
“Would you ever move to LA?” I had thought about what it would look like to move back to New York, but the thought of leaving my friends and my job made the idea less than appealing.
I started panicking the second I asked the question. The past few months with him had been so perfect, and the last thing I wanted to do was scare him off by moving too fast.
“Sorry,” I apologized before he had a second to respond. “Too soon. Forget I said anything.”
“I don’t think it’s too soon.” He sat up so we were eye to eye. “I’ve been thinking about it, too.”
“Really?” I asked, trying to keep my excitement contained.
“Yeah.” He nodded and smiled softly. “I have.”
“And?”
“I would consider it,” he confessed. “I can do my job anywhere.”
“You’ve been thinking about moving across the country for a girl who hasn’t even had sex with you yet?” I didn’t get it. He had been so patient and understanding, and I was just waiting for the day when he finally had enough. But it didn’t seem like it was ever coming.
He didn’t skip a beat before answering. “Yes.”
“Why?”
His brows knit together in a way that implied the answer to my question was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because I’m in love with you.”
“Oh,” I had answered.
When I pulled Matthew on top of me that night, my heartbeat had never been so steady and my hands had never been surer of themselves.
“Are you sure this is okay?”
“It’s more than okay.” I shut him up with a kiss. “Now stop asking and show me what all the fuss is about.”
He did. And once we finally got started, I never wanted to stop.
“I don’t think I can go again,” Matthew confessed, breathlessly, three hours and four times later.
“Just try,” I pleaded.
“It doesn’t work like that.” He huffed a laugh, looking at me sympathetically. “No matter how badly I may want it to.”
I couldn’t fall asleep that night. I was too in love.
Oops.
I shook Matthew awake.
“Mm-hmm,” he groaned.
“I’m in love with you, too.”
Of course I was in love with him.
He pulled me into him and fell back to sleep with his face buried in my hair.
—
Getting on the plane back to LA that Sunday was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do. I spent the following weeks in a frenzy that had me turning to Google every few minutes:
What is a normal amount to think about sex?
Sex addiction
Burning pee
How to know if you’re a sex addict quiz
Anna Brooklyn New York Matthew Baxter relationship
Cheap flights from LAX to JFK
Does cranberry juice actually work for UTIs?
Cheap flights from JFK to LAX
Sex addicts anonymous Los Angeles
Is it possible to love someone too much?
Sandy promised that everything I was feeling was normal, especially for someone prone to obsessive thinking. We’ve spent the past month working on strategies to cope with something called “relationship OCD.” I’ve even been inspired to start a new project:
Phoebe’s Guide to Managing Her OCD
A Checklist
This list has no end date and no timeline. It’s a work in progress.
“So, am I just going to come down with a different mental illness for every stage of my life?” I had asked Sandy.
“It’s all pretty much the same one.” Sandy smiled. “It just changes as you do.”
“Oh,” I said, flatly. “Great.”
Sandy smiled at that. And then I did, too.
—
I used to hate the way my brain worked. Sometimes I still do. But I’ve learned to stop beating myself up over it. If the past few months have taught me anything, it’s that everyone has their own hang-ups—their own virginities to lose, so to speak.
There’s nothing wrong with that. And there’s nothing wrong with me.
There never was.