Zach was moving to New York during the last week in August to start graduate school at NYU. He dreamed of big buildings and loved the city like me. If I hadn't wanted to sleep with him, I would have resented his motivation. As he walked me down six flights of stairs, I wondered how he would kiss me goodnight. I imagined his rough hands running through my long, dark curls as I leaned against the rows of mailboxes in the lobby. But he put me a cab without a kiss or a phone number.

Over the next two weeks, I kept replaying that night. I searched Google and Facebook wanting to know more about this guy who'd rejected me. And then one miserable afternoon in the office, Zach sent me a witty but concise email. By the time he moved to New York just seven days before my twenty-second birthday, we'd exchanged a hundred.

With the men of my past, I'd consult my circle of elders: my mother, older cousin, high school friends, and my roommate. We'd analyze each interaction and consult on my look. I relied completely on their opinions. But when I had a question about Zach like "Was your ex-girlfriend a manipulative bitch?" or "Do you like me?" I asked him instead.

Yet free advice was rampant. Co-workers condescendingly advised us to take a break until we were old enough. My doorman revealed the intimate details of his early 20s to prove that I'd regret being tied down. When my friends criticized me for spending every night with Zach, I realized that my relationship had become socially unacceptable. So, when Zach asked me to move in with him—a year and a half into our relationship—I told him I wasn't comfortable because of our age. Zach didn't understand my hesitation because, despite being 23, he was sure.

"I want to marry you," he said. I wanted to marry him.

But as a modern working girl, I feared dependency on a man. I assumed my romantic affairs would verge on pathetic before the perfect match showed up to accept my neurotic tendencies. I'd also learned from my screen heroes, who all dated for sport, that I'd be searching until at least the next decade to find Mr. Big.

Even after I'd met Zach I refused to turn into Charlotte. Her goody two-shoes ways and lack of career ambition aggravated me, but I was no longer Samantha with a different guy every night. And that was OK. Just like the women in the upcoming Sex and the City movie, who developed throughout the six seasons we watched them, I had to balance my love of independence with my need for monogamy.

Saying no to Zach would have meant allowing my friends and the fantasy of picking up guys in Manolo Blahniks to usurp my ability to make adult choices. Instead, I said yes to his proposal and decided on forever.