After months of emailing and already deeply in love, I knew I had to tell Matt that I’d never move back to New York City. This was potentially problematic because that’s where he lived and had for years. But I’d moved to L.A. and I wasn’t leaving. Not even for him.
Setting boundaries was new. My 20s in New York saw me dating many men for whom I’d eroded myself constantly, for whom I wasn’t pretty or successful enough, for whom I wasn’t the right weight, race or even religion. By the time Matt and I started talking, that younger me was gone, and in her place was a woman who wouldn’t compromise on important issues. So I needed to tell Matt I wouldn’t return.
Matt and I met during what I call my “study abroad” period. It was 2012; I was recovering from a devastating breakup, and without an inner compass to steer me, I moved to Guatemala under the guidance of a close friend who’d spent years there in her 20s and beyond. I lived at a homestay, learned Spanish, cooked with my homestay host, and played with her live-in grandchildren and chihuahuas.
I traveled, ate and drank, and I met kindred souls I felt I’d known for lifetimes. I wrote everything down, began to publish articles here and there, and found a niche writing for food, travel and lifestyle periodicals. After a year, I decided to attend a journalism program in Maine, but I needed a stopover in New York to make money. I freelanced at the company where I worked before my move, and that’s where I met Matt.
He was quietly confident, tall and kind. We instantly connected because we both grew up in the desert, and every time he came in (he also freelanced), I made sure to catch up with him. I felt butterflies just seeing him, but something held me back from pursuing things. New York wasn’t my home anymore. In fact, I was addressless, a nomad perfectly happy to remain such. I was dating, but casually. I didn’t want anything interfering with what I wanted to do or where I needed to be. So I left the city again, and Matt too.
He did reach out once, a few weeks after I’d left. My program was all-consuming, though, and I barely had time to eat and sleep, let alone correspond. Though I read his email several times, I never had the time to respond, despite very much wanting to do so.
Several months later, my program ended and I was left without a clear path forward. I returned home for a few weeks, then thought Guatemala would be the best place to plan my next move. But during a layover at Los Angeles International Airport, I was delayed by visa issues. Fortuitously, my best friend lived in L.A., and she graciously picked me up (on her birthday, no less) in the middle of the night, drove me to Bob’s Big Boy for a burger, and put me up at her apartment.
While I fixed my visa issues, I spent a cold, sunny January week in L.A. with nothing to do. I took hikes in the urban wilderness of Mulholland and brunched for hours. I visited museums, played arcade games at Santa Monica Pier and walked Venice Beach at sunset. I discovered many friends from New York had decamped to L.A., willing to put up with traffic for near-constant sunshine and a slower pace of life.
I eventually made it to Guatemala, and while I still loved it there, I knew my next step was back to L.A.
This is when Matt resurfaced.
A couple of months after my L.A. week, undeterred by my silence, Matt sent me a Facebook message. He’d recently visited L.A., had fallen just as in love with it as I had, and asked about my thoughts on the city. The next thing I knew, we were emailing about our childhoods in Arizona, our passions for travel, art and music, our career paths, our life goals and our values.
Eventually, we moved to texts and phone calls. It was the best date I’d ever been on, except that “date” spanned across hundreds of text and voice communications. Concurrently, I settled in L.A. and was ready to have an address again. I planned a trip to New York to retrieve the few belongings I’d left there, and when I told Matt, he asked whether he could take me out on a proper date. I knew it was time.
“You know,” I said cautiously during one of our now-nightly phone calls, “I don’t plan to live in New York again.”
“I know,” he said with the same quiet confidence I’d come to know him for.
“That doesn’t bother you,” I asked, “that we’d go on a presumably great date, but it wouldn’t work out because of the distance?”
“Who’s to say I wouldn’t come to you?” he replied, his smile evident in his tone of voice. “I liked L.A. a lot. I could work there. Plus, I know this great girl who lives there now.”
At that, I thought about the last few months I’d been talking to Matt. The distance had somehow made me feel safe to show him my whole, authentic self. There was no erosion because he accepted all of me and I accepted him. We’d built a foundation of trust because of our being apart, not despite it. He’d been patient while I figured out what I wanted, knowing he wanted to meet me where I was at. When I was ready to be with him.
“So what do you say?” he asked. “Is it a date?”
It was. A first, a second, and a third … A year later, Matt moved to L.A., and neither of us has ever looked back.
The author writes about food, identity and culture. She lives with her husband, Matt, and children in Studio City. Her work can be found at samenatalierose.com.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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