“C’mon, Love, think about it,” he says in that adorable and sometimes impossible-to-comprehend British accent of his, “You can move in with me! Save loads of money, we’ll see each other every night…”

He looks at me with such certainty, such confidence in his proposition. I close my eyes and bury my face in his chest while I consider my options.

He has asked me this question four and a half times now. The first time, I could not suppress my dismissive laughter, as we had only just agreed to be exclusive, making the offer too impulsive to be taken seriously (the four vodka cocktails I’d consumed that night didn’t help, either).

The second and third time, I began to accept that he was serious and that I therefore needed to devote serious consideration to this prospect. I also separated from the Navy (and therefore gainful employment) around this point in the ongoing conversation. I had never experienced “broke” before, and the dwindling contents of my checking account (and slowly rising credit card debt) made the idea of rent reduction more and more alluring. But still, I had resisted in charming and sardonic ways, which he was clearly not accepting as my final answer.

Now, at the fourth mention, I am cognizant of the fact that I need to respond with seriousness, and that this will be a binding answer.

I imagine coming home, exhausted from a long day at my new job and the two-hours-each-way commute from Annapolis to Rockville, Maryland. I imagine slipping my shoes off at the door (his rule—to protect the white carpets in his spacious, two-bedroom apartment) and trotting over to him, cuddling in front of his flat-screen television in the adorable business casual ensemble I’d be able to afford, since I’d be living virtually rent-free. The amenities of his high-rise apartment building would make the now-daily headaches of finding a parking spot, doing my laundry, and maintaining my fitness regime virtually disappear. Staying with him every night without having to worry about whether I’d packed a comb and a toothbrush. . .

I can’t deny it. It’s a tempting offer.

I open my eyes and frown, looking at the duvet cover on his bed. It is a berry shade of red with white flowers latticing across it in elegant simplicity—clearly something his ex had picked out when they moved over here together from London. She had been his fourth live-in girlfriend (well, technically third, since the one he married back in the 90’s had evolved to “wife” rather than “girlfriend” status). But still, the prospect of cohabitating with someone he has only known for four months doesn’t seem that daunting to him. To me, 24 years old (11 years his junior) and far less experienced in relationships, this is a really big step.

He is stroking my hair. “What d’ya think, Sweetie?”

I hesitate. Am I really “that” girl? The one who jumps at the offer to be kept by an older, foreign man the minute my finances become even slightly unstable? Sure, I’m feeling the sting of two months of unemployment and the pay-cut that have accompanied my transition from the military to the “real” world. And my future is unstable—I’ve applied to graduate programs for the Fall of 2009 and although I’ve secured a position with a good company, the job I’ve just accepted is only a six-month contract, so I could easily be back in this position (read: broke) come the summer—but does that mean that I should sacrifice my domestic independence and potentially jeopardize this relationship in order to avoid fiscal responsibility?

Well, obviously I should not. But this would not be the first time I’ve proven myself capable of doing something I ought not to do.

I don’t even know his middle name! I still hesitate to send him a text message if he hasn’t texted me because of some abstract idea of “courtship” I carry with me from my Midwestern upbringing. Shouldn’t I feel like his girlfriend before I combine DVD collections with him?

I trace imaginary figures on his chest, and pause before speaking. I am definitely falling in love with this man.

“I want. . .” I begin. Why is this always so difficult to say?

He squeezes me a little tighter and looks at me expectantly while I use my fingers to comb my bangs out of my face.

“I think I’m not quite ready to be…a…well, quadruped,” I finally manage to complete my sentence. “I want to live with you eventually, but I need to stand on my own two feet right now.” I await his response, to see if I have convinced him of what I am having such a hard time accepting myself. I mentally wave goodbye to that new outfit. . .

He pats my behind and kisses my head, a gesture that would normally enrage me, but that I delight in nonetheless.

“Whatever you need, Sweetie. I just want to help.”

I smile and kiss his cheek. . .that, I can live with. For now.