EPILOGUE

The end of an era, a new beginning, and a very important question...

Dearest Nurse,

Today is a very important anniversary. One I almost missed entirely, what with work tumbling forward at both a thrilling and terrifying pace, coordinating the girls’ summer activities, and a family trip to New York City. It really and truly almost slipped my mind, waking up in the Iroquois hotel, wrapped in the warm arms of my lover, still sleeping, after a perfect summer evening of bourbon cocktails and Hulu in bed. I very nearly forgot, as the man I sincerely plan to spend the rest of my life with slipped beneath the sheets to give me another one of the open mouthed, leg-shaking, other-wordly, unreal orgasms we’d spent the past few months mastering. And I might have not remembered at all - after he and I jogged crosstown to Pier 82, made out in the grass by the Hudson River, professing our love for each other like we do every single day - except that I looked at my calendar yesterday and realized with a gasp that once again, it was August. And had it not been for last August… last August 4th to be exact - the day I finally gathered the guts to change my life - none of this would be happening.

So… back to March.

Something was off with Romeo.

I actually enjoyed our political banter. I did. Romeo is smart, he makes good arguments, and his mind is flexible enough to bend to the will of good points. Though it was a reality I had never planned on embracing, dating a Republican actually began to feel like an intriguing proposition. That is, until I realized… that was all he talked about.

Democrats this, and echo chamber that. CNN and MSNBC and how there’s no right wing media. He purposely left a book on my coffee table entitled, “Reasons to Vote Democrat” that consisted of 250 blank pages. He thought it was hilarious. I thought it was a predictable and egregious waste of natural resources. And also fucking rude.

But still, he adored me. Watched me using power tools around the house like he’d never seen anything more amazing. Touched me like he never wanted to stop, so I thought… Hey, maybe this isn’t such a big deal.

And then came the snoring.

It was his first time spending the night, and it was revolting. A wet, flappy rumble, made infinitely worse by his explanation upon waking:

“I have an elongated uvula.”

“A what….?”

“My uvula, the hangy thing in the back of my throat—“

“I know what a uvula is. But how…?”

“I don’t know. It just stretched out.”

Fucking barf, dude.

Maybe it was the fact that he professed his love for Donald Trump, but couldn’t name a single one of the policies he had enacted. Maybe it was the fact that he had chosen Rosaline over me back in September. Fuck, maybe it was just the combination of the words “elongated” and “uvula”, but I realized with a gut-wrenching jolt, that I was not attracted to Romeo anymore.

“I think I just need some time.” I had told him the next morning, but time for what, I didn’t know. Time to sort out why all of a sudden, after Little Italy, El Fotografo, PTSD Guy, and even Old Boss, the sex was suddenly average. Why the thought of him stirred nothing but dread. Why, like glaring red warning, alarm bells seemed to go off every time he texted, told me he loved me, or talked about the future. Or maybe it was just time to figure out how I was going to get the fuck out of this strange bind I had found myself in.

After all, it was hella confusing. I’m Juliet. That’s Romeo. We are literally supposed to be together, right? Maybe it was just me. Maybe after six months of playing the field and driving myself bonkers with dating apps, text etiquette, good sex, bad sex, weird sex, rejections, and the like, I simply couldn’t feel anymore. And so, I did what any romantically confused Xennial would, and got back on Tinder.

A few of the old dudes from the neighborhood greeted me, sorry-not-sorry to see me back on the app. That was nice, but the thought of actually meeting any of them in person - the blonde with the doughy nose who wanted to be a writer, the foreign artist who wrote in broken English, or the Venice bro who was playing nicey-nice, but I knew was just dying to get my number so he could send me a crotch-buldge pic - exhausted me. Until…

I’m recently separated, and I have a five-year-old son. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Probably nothing too serious at the moment, but I’m open.

Same post-marital situation as me. Same ambivalence. And a single dad. Someone who could, potentially, get me… maybe.

His pictures were… well, the word derpy comes to mind. And that’s strange, because how often does the word derpy come to anyone’s mind? But I had come to learn - ironically from El Fotografo - that most dudes do not know a good picture of them from one that makes them look like they have head trauma. But there was something about his mouth that I liked… or that I thought I might like, and so I gave him my number.

Hey… this is admittedly last minute, but my friend just had to bail on a movie tonight, and I already bought tickets. Any interest in seeing Cyrano?

It was later the same day. After 72 hours steering clear of Romeo, I decided to cave and invite him to see a movie with me. But an editing gig he was working on ran long and he had cancelled. I considered going to the movie myself. Wearing this enormous, head-to-ankle hoodie I had ordered, crying alone in the dark, and then shuffling off home - which, at that particular moment of emotional exhaustion seemed like just the ticket - but something told me to fill that seat. I’ll never know what that something was, but if I figure it out, I’m taking it out to dinner.

I’ll be there, single derpy dad responded.

But, while I sat outside the AMC theater, amidst the glitz, neon, and tourists of City Walk, I couldn’t help but think of those pictures. It was one thing to joke, but what if this guy actually was derpy? A total dweeb? He was awfully enthusiastic about this date, and had texted me frequently throughout the day, including near constant updates about his progress from the entrance of Universal Studios, where the Uber had dropped him off, to the movie theater. What if he hadn’t gotten laid in years and it showed? What if he honked when he laughed? What if he smelled like nerd sweat and comic books?

And then I saw him… or, at least, I thought I did. Bearded, also in a large sweat shirt, speed-walking with what looked like one pigeon-toed foot, so that the whole appearance was that of a large, clothed bear, ferociously hobbling through the crowd, left arm cocked at the elbow and waving a bit, as if the motion could hasten his progress.

Oh no, oh no, oh no….

I looked down at the pavement. Please God, I’m not a religious woman, but I am a decent one… or, at least, I try to be. Please, please, please, do not let this be the guy…

But, when I looked up again, I didn’t see derpy bear man. He was in a sweatshirt, yes, bearded, yes, but he was tall, with kind, brown eyes, a fucking perfectly orthodontured, megawatt smile, and an unexpected degree of confidence that struck me as very appealing. The sweatshirt did him some favors, but I could tell there were a few extra pounds under there, and the beard was clearly an attempt to hide some chinnage, but shit, I’d take dad bod over elongated uvulas any day.

“So… you said you were an engineer for a tech company, but you didn’t tell me which one.” I asked, while we walked a bit, making small talk before the movie. He had been cagey about where he worked during our text chat over Tinder, and I wanted to make sure he wasn't homeless. Or in porn.

“Tinder.”

“Wait. What?”

“Tinder. I work for Tinder.”

Now it made sense... He was grinning at me. Clearly, this was a bomb he had been looking forward to dropping.

“Is that… a conflict of interest?” I asked, trying not to sound as weirded out as I was.

“No…” He said, trying to sound more sure about that than he was.

“So, can you like… read my messages and stuff?” I could see the faces of my friends in my mind. Hear their voices. Benvolio, Mercutio, Tybalt, Sampson, all shouting, RUN BITCH! But my fucking sweatshirt was too long, and I was wearing combat boots.

“Yep. And I could write them for you too, but I wouldn’t.”

The fuck had I gotten myself into? I hadn’t even really wanted to start dating again. I told myself not to download the stupid app again, but I did, like a jerk, and now, because of fucking Tinder Guy over here, I’d never be able to use it again. Well, at least Tinder wasn’t the only app game in town…

“I mean, I technically work for Match Group, who owns pretty much all the dating apps, but Tinder specifically.”

And there goes that. I pictured myself in my 40s, haggard, with ripped nylons and a cigarette, trying to meet people in dive bars like an old-timey weirdo, excommunicated from the entire world of online dating, just because stupid Romeo had stood me up for Cyrano. What a dick.

But, as we were making our way into the movie, something happened. Something very simple, yet inexplicably magical, that changed everything.

“What are you doing?” Tinder Guy asked, nearing me as I stood by one of the several soda machines, attempting to navigate the digital touch screen.

Now, it is worth noting that I don’t drink soda. Usually, when I go to a movie theater - which is never - I just grab a bottle of water, popcorn, and get on with it. For whatever reason, on this particular evening, I had a hankering for seltzer, and the only option - so I was told - was the machine. The machine, however, seemed not to be informed of this fact, as every attempt I made to procure a bit of carbonated water was met with a dribble, hiss, and nada.

“Have you ever used a soda machine before?” Tinder Guy asked, those perfect teeth on full display.

“Look, man,” I said, my latent New York accent in full force, “This isn’t me, alright? Shit’s fucking broken.” I didn’t give a shit anymore. I wasn’t trying to be cute. I wasn’t trying to be pretty. And after six months of bullshit dating, I sure as hell wasn’t trying to get anyone to like me. All I wanted was to be myself for once… and god damn, if Tinder Guy didn’t love it.

“Oh, yeah? Looks like it.” He said, cracking up, as I tried the next machine, thumping a finger on the stupid screen, only to have it shart out another meager spray and stop.

“What the fuck?! You see that? I'm not doing this! Fucking machines have it out for me!” Now I was laughing. People around were watching, turning at the sound of the sharp curse words coming out of my mouth, but I didn’t care. For the first time in what felt like years, I was having fun.

I went from machine to machine, Tinder Guy and I busting a gut as one after another, they all shit the bed.

“It’s a fucking conspiracy!” I threw up my hand, and Tinder Guy doubled, emitting a series of loud honk laughs. So, there it was. A touch of the derp. But you know what? I dug it.

I couldn’t remember the last time I made someone laugh like that. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so inclined… so empowered. But I used to. All the time.

When I was in my teens and early 20s, that’s who I was. I always made people laugh. I was a goof. But then along came Paris - a bigger goof. An entertainer who took up so much space in the room that I never felt there was much left for me. It wasn’t anything he did. Paris is a naturally funny guy. Maybe it was the way people took to him when we were together. Maybe it was the stony way he received my jokes, or the fact that he scowled at me whenever I cursed. Whatever it was, I lost that side of myself. The slightly masculine, foul-mouthed New Yorker I used to love.

But now, here she was. And as I watched Tinder Guy belly laughing in front of a bunch of strangers like we were the only people there, I realized I hadn’t felt more myself in over a decade.

Now, you should know that your Juliet came to this date prepared. I had worn my gigantic hoodie, as originally planned, because fuck this guy. I was tired, I was over dating - and, as previously mentioned, Romeo and his fucking uvula had proved to be a ginormous disappointment. I just wanted to be comfortable. But, in the event I actually liked potentially derpy single dad, I had put a cute outfit on underneath. Well, dearest Nurse, that hoodie came off before we even got into the movie theater.

I came out of the bathroom in a black mini and fishnets.

“You ready to go in?” Tinder Guy asked, holding the seltzer I had finally managed to procure. He was looking me dead in the eye. Not at the hoodie draped over my arm, my legs, chest, nothing. Just directly in my eyes. Perhaps he couldn’t see that well and didn’t notice the costume change? Or maybe he just wasn’t letting on? Either way, a sideways smile slipped across my lips. The confidence I had noted upon first meeting wasn’t a fluke. This guy was unflappable, but just how unflappable, I was about to find out.

“What other dating apps are you on?” He asked.

We had decided to extend our date past the movie and were getting a drink at Residuals on Ventura. The only problem was, it was a Sunday, which is karaoke night, and the regulars are rabid. So, Tinder Guy and I were doing our best to carry on a pleasant conversation over a horrific rendition of Machinehead being sung by a drunken frat-boy-turned-wanna-be-actor.

I could tell he liked me. He knew I was tired, and was doing everything he could to keep me engaged so I wouldn’t want to go home yet. It was adorable, and I was enjoying the attention, so when this question landed like dead weight on the table, I took a heavy, inward sigh. Sure, I could lie. Omit. Dodge. But, like I said, I was tired. Tired of the bullshit. Of trying. Of being something I wasn’t. I was done with that now, and if that meant I would lose the attention of Tinder Guy, his fabulous teeth, and easy laugh, so be it.

“Positive Singles.” I said, wincing a bit.

“Oh. I don’t know that one.”

“Probably because it’s for people with STDs. I have herpes.” I said with a shrug.

I expected a grunt. An uncomfortable shift in the chair. A nervous laugh, even. But I got none of that. What I did get was the exact same unflinching gaze that I got when I came out of the bathroom in my mini skirt.

“Oh. Okay.” Like it was nothing.

“Is that an issue for you?”

“No.” He said, shaking his head with that same confidence. “I was an EMT for seven years, so…”

I cocked my head, the snarky New Yorker in me wanting to ask if first responders often use their dicks to resuscitate patients, but I got the message. He had seen a lot. Non-fatal viruses were a walk in the park, and, unless I was being presumptuous, after only one date, he was letting me know I was worth the risk.

He walked me home, we said our goodnights, and like the well-behaved, romantic, Elizabethan character I am, I said goodnight. No funny business. Because maybe, just maybe, there was something about Tinder Guy worth waiting for.

A few days later my father and his girlfriend arrived in town

“You wouldn’t believe what we went through.” My dad started in as soon as I picked him up from LAX. Some giant eye-roller about the plane’s gate being changed, and having to go from one terminal all the way to another one. Arriving just in the nick of time. Having to wear COVID masks the whole time, but then everyone was eating. The life story of the person they ended up sitting next to, and so on. I love my father to pieces, I do, but the man can talk. Forever. And with little ability to read a room, the details are sometimes less than riveting.

“I have a date tonight,” I told them, “But it’s just down the street, so you can use my car to get whatever you need for the hotel.”

The two-bedroom I shared with the girls was just that, a two-bedroom. So, my father and his girlfriend usually grab a room in the area when they were in town. There was a time that I felt badly about not being able to house them, but these days I valued my privacy. Having my own space in this world I could control… or so I thought.

“Oh, great.” He said. My dad loved driving my Rav. “And where should I put it when I’m done?”

“You can park it in my A-spot, thanks.”

Because I have a two-bedroom, I have two parking spots. And because I gave Paris the boot, the other is open for guests. The only problem is, my second spot is labeled “G”. No, the geniuses that lettered the parking area weren’t thinking about the ramifications of this decision.

But that was the last thing on my mind when Tinder Guy showed up for our date, which happened to coincide with the arrival of my cleaning lady, who had just discovered her husband was cheating on her, and left him. I was doing my best to make her feel better. To tell her there was a whole world of fabulousness out there for her when she was ready for it, which is probably why I didn’t even think about the fact that if she was in my spot labeled “G”, that meant Tinder Guy was in my spot labeled “A”… but I digress. (Or do I?)

And so, off to dinner we went, to a silly, little Italian place in walking distance, where the food is supremely average, but the waiters sing. I’m theatrical at best, and a drama queen at worst, so this is one of my favorite spots. And it delivered once again, Tinder Guy and I having a lovely conversation, full of smiles and laughter, until…

“[Juliet], there you are!”

I looked up and the chianti I was drinking curdled in my throat. There was my father, sweaty and agitated, marching toward me from the back door of the restaurant.

“Dad!?”

“I’m so glad I found you!” He said, taking off his hat to wipe his forehead, and sitting down - I shit you not, dear Nurse - AT the table with us. “There’s someone parked in your ‘A’ spot.”

“Oh. That’s me.” Tinder Guy piped up like this was completely normal.

“Um… Dad, this is [Tinder Guy].”

“Hey, [Mr. Capulet]!” Tinder Guy chirped, unfazed by the intrusion, or the fact that he was meeting my father on a second date. I stared at him in amazement. If this had been PTSD Guy, he would have gone into a fugue state and shit himself.

“Crap. Sorry, dad. Just park in my “G”… one.”

“The what!?” My father always waited until the worst possible time to be hard of hearing.

“The ‘G’… the spot labeled ‘G’ is also mine.”

“The ‘G’ spot?” He roared, catching the attention of nearby tables. “You want me to park in your ‘G’ spot?”

“Yes, Dad.” There it was. He had said it. And though I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, I could feel Tinder Guy on the verge of busting a gut. “You can park in my ‘G’ spot.”

“But are you sure?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Yes, dad. Here, let me walk you out.”

I escorted my unaware, flustered father out of the restaurant, got him back into my car, and waved him off. I took a breath before I entered the restaurant again. Jesus fuck, that was awkward. But when I returned to the table, Tinder Guy was all smiles.

“That was amazing.” He said, and he meant it. I probably could have kissed him right then, but there was still another matter to attend to.

“The play was racist against white people.” Romeo said as we walked to the valet, leaving a performance of Slave Play that I had invited him to a few weeks back.

“Wait, what?” I said, looking around to make sure no one had heard his idiotic statement. I was tired, and looking to avoid a fist fight. “Were you actually watching the show?”

“Of course.”

“Did you hear the last line?”

“What are you talking about?”

“‘Thank you for listening’!” I barked, “That’s all the play was asking you to do. To just listen, and you can’t even do that.”

“That’s not what the play was about.” He asserted, like he knew anything. And that's when the political banter I had mostly enjoyed started to curdle into fury.

“What was it about, then?” I challenged, but the truth was, I didn’t give a fuck about the answer. Going to the play with Romeo was a last chance. I was pretty sure I was done - unable to muster any degree of feeling necessary to touch him, kiss him, be with him - but I wanted to be sure. After Romeo was plucked from the line for not being vaccinated against COVID and forced to test before entering the theater, I was already having my doubts that any of that was recoverable. But then, during the show, I felt his agitation. Heard his dismissive “liberal bullshit” laugh, and felt his disdain for what I thought was a very smart meditation on modern race relations. And now he wanted to spend the ride home complaining about how unfair the play was to him and his dumb ass brethren? Excuse me, but I’d rather be forced to look at his elongated uvula.

“It was about what all these things are about. How White people are the problem.”

Nope, nope, nope. Wrong. On. Every. Level.

But I let him go on, arguing to the wind, as I pulled out my cell.

This is probably a terrible idea, but I’m heading home from a show right now. It’s pretty late, and I may not last long, but…

I’ll take 30 seconds of you over nothing.

I smiled.

I knew what I was doing was shitty - going out with Romeo, then sending him home so I could I could see Tinder Guy again - but I was over caring about other people in that moment. Romeo hadn’t given a shit about me when he rekindled things with Rosaline, and I was starting to believe he didn't really give a shit about me now. He just wanted a lifeline. To feel validated by someone and not be alone. But what was very evident in that moment, was that he didn’t care about art, theater, or Black people. I had given him one last chance, even if it wasn’t really another chance at all… but now, I was done. And strangely, even though I barely knew him, all I wanted was Tinder Guy.

Romeo pulled into my afore-mentioned “G” spot, and before he could lean in for anything, I was out the door.

“Thanks for the show.” He said, as if he actually enjoyed it. “Hey… this stuff that we talk about… my opinions… they don’t bother you, do they?”

Maybe I should have been honest. Maybe it would have helped things make more sense to him in the long run. But on the other hand, maybe that's not my job.

I didn’t lose my attraction to Romeo solely because of his political views. Like I said, those most likely would have been surmountable. I did, however, take issue with the way he presented them. Scoffing and dismissive of traditionally leftist viewpoints regardless of their content. As I mentioned, I also took issue with how often I found myself entrenched in some meaningless debate. After all, we’re not politicians. We’re not writing legislature or running for office. Yes, discussions are interesting, but I have a life, kids, a career, lots of things I’d rather be talking about than how critical race theory somehow teaches kids to be racist.

The thing is, Romeo doesn’t really have a life, or, at least not one he’s proud of. His career has stalled - which I half suspected from the few freelance clients he described - but this was really brought home when he sent me a video he had made nearly ten years ago. The last big thing he had done that he was proud of. When you're in your 30's, that's a tough one to get past. Not to mention that when he sent it, back in March of 2022, Romeo no longer had a girlfriend, an apartment of his own, or really anything that made him happy, aside from a cat, named after his favorite Ayn Rand character.

But what really did it, what really and truly killed what lady boner was left for Romeo, was this:

“I don’t read.”

“What?”

“I don’t read. I’m not a reader.”

We were in bed, discussing Juliet Anonymous. I had referenced something I had written about him that was met with a blank stare.

“Oh, yeah. I didn’t read it.”

The explanation being, of course, that Romeo doesn’t read.

What.

The.

Actual.

Fuck.

Okay, okay. Not everyone is a reader. I get that. It can be time consuming… I guess. Some people have trouble with it. Dyslexia and the like. I suppose if your vision was impaired, it might be troublesome to focus on the words and their meaning.

I don’t know, dear Nurse, I’m trying here.

But to not read a book that is written in large part ABOUT YOU, BY THE WOMAN YOU ARE SUPPOSEDLY IN LOVE WITH AND WANT TO WIN BACK, is patently absurd.

Anything Romeo wanted to know about who I was, what I had been through, how I felt about him or why, was all there. Right out in the open. Twenty-four-fucking-seven. But, oh, snap. What to do? Romeo doesn’t read.

You know who does read? Tinder Guy.

“I fucking love it.” He said to me at lunch today at an outdoor cafe in upstate New York, as I read over the retelling of our first and second date.

“Oh, come on.” I rolled my eyes.

“I do! You know Juliet Anonymous is my favorite thing of yours.”

Because Tinder Guy reads. He reads the scripts for my comic books, story pitches, old plays I’ve written, anything and everything I send him, he reads. Sometimes the same day. He’s not very critical, but fuck, everyone else is. He’s just a fan. My fan. And after five months together, I’m starting to realize that a fan is a very important thing to have. Not just of my writing, but of me. Who I am. The parts of myself I’m proud of, and the parts that crap out, yell, and generally shit the bed. A fan of my smile and my cry face. My fun and my funks. My kids and even Paris, who, believe it or not, has taken a reluctant liking to him, too.

“You have to at least tell them that story.” Tinder Guy emphasizes, sinking those gorgeous fangs into a tempeh burger we’re sharing.

We obnoxiously split everything, Tinder Guy making allowances for my various dietary restrictions, so I can always try more than one dish. And we insist on sitting next to one another everywhere we go, which is okay - I think - because we’re good tippers. I just fucking love Tinder Guy. Is that obvious?

“You’re right.” I tell him. “That was what cinched it, wasn’t it?”

He nods with a grin, and I go back to typing. Because it’s been hard to figure out where this story ends, but Tinder Guy is right. You have to hear this story.

Tinder Guy and I attacked one another the night after Slave Play. An evening of reserved handsiness and making out after the second date had primed us, and now we were ravenous. There was only one problem…

“You can tell them that part. I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, particularly because I've been considering publishing Juliet Anonymous, and maybe, some day, actually revealing my identity. And, Dearest Nurse, if you know who I am, you’ll know who Tinder Guy is as well.

“Of course.” He says, still holding me in that warm, decisive stare, directly in my eyes. Assured. Confident. Adoring.

“Okay,” I say, putting down my half a tempeh burger, and getting back to it.

“I think I’m a little nervous.” Tinder Guy said. He was naked in my bed. We had gotten into it in the kitchen, but the change of location seemed to have gotten in his head. That and the very forward texts I had been sending him over the past two days. Poor Tinder Guy had caught what many had before him: performance anxiety.

“Omigosh, that’s okay!” I assured him, a little too enthusiastically.

See, another thing I liked about Tinder Guy - fucking adored, actually - was his enthusiasm. On our first and second dates I could feel how excited he was to be around me. On this night, I had gone down to the store to pick up a bottle of wine, and as I was returning to the apartment, I could see him, physically running down the hill toward me. I shit you not. Fucker was jogging just to get to me a few tenths of a second sooner than walking would allow.

He didn’t care about seeming “cool” or hiding his feelings to protect himself, he was wild about me already and he wanted me to know it. I didn’t have to worry about how often I texted, what I said, or how I said it. He wanted me and I wanted him, and that was that. No games. No pretense. No bullshit. He was like a breath of fresh, sea air after a public park porto-potty.

It was the type of dating experience I remembered from my teens and twenties. The ease and familiarity of a friendship-turned-romance. The vibrating thrill of finding someone to pour yourself into. And often, as I remembered, what came with that, was first-time jitters. Call me crazy, but the fact that Tinder Guy cared so much about my sexual satisfaction that he freaked himself out and lost his hard on, was extremely endearing.

“Not the first time this has happened. Don’t even worry about it.”

Tinder Guy chuckled. “It gets better.” He promised me. “Exponential growth.” And Dearest Nurse, I won’t go into too much detail, but let me just say, the man has delivered. I’m doing things now I never thought possible, in every sense of the word. But again, I digress. (Or do I?)

Tinder Guy and my fourth date was epic. He arrived in the early afternoon, and we had lunch with my father - who was expected this time around - and from there, we went to The Huntington Library Garden, my favorite place in the whole world. The air was cool, the sun was shining, and the conversation was easy. Maybe because I did most of the talking - I almost always do with us - but Tinder Guy also loves to listen, so there you have it.

We came back to my place. I made something for dinner, though the details of the meal have since evaded both of us. Probably because there was only one thing we were thinking about.

“Omigod, that was fucking amazing.” I said, and I meant every word. Not only had Tinder Guy redeemed himself, he had exceeded expectations, as did his beautiful penis. It was perfect, and somehow, in spite of its ample size, there were zero disagreements with ol’ Tilty the Uterus. I was elated, and told him as much.

“I’m so glad you like it!” He said with genuine excitement. “I was hoping you would.” This guy was too fucking cute.

He stood up to take the condom off, and for the first time, I regarded his body. Not nearly as dad bod as I had thought under the sweatshirt. Tinder Guy was actually in pretty good shape. Not ripped, but fit and meaty in all the right ways. I’m falling deeper for this guy by the minute, I thought, as he walked out of the bedroom to throw the condom in the trash in the kitchen.

I lay there on my bed, arms wide, and a big, satisfied smile on my face. I didn’t know what was happening, but whatever it was, it was good. Really good. A type of good I didn’t know was still possible for me, and yet, here he was. And it was just at that precise moment of pure, inner, celebration, that Tinder Guy hurried back into the bedroom, still in the buff, with a weird half-grin on his face.

“You okay?” I asked, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”

“Um… Your dad is here.”

“What!?” The words sounded as if they had been spoken under water. Blood rushed in my ears. I couldn’t breathe.

I am, dearest Nurse, very vocal in bed. I always have been. The better the sex, the louder I get, and have I mentioned Tinder Guy is mind-blowing in the sack? Pretty sure I have, and I’m also pretty sure, on this particular night, I woke the neighborhood.

Okay, so… my father was here. Right. Got it. But how long had he been here? What had he heard?

And what the fuck was he doing here?!

Yes, I had told him he could borrow my car again and asked him to return it, but the parking spot was definitively outside of my apartment. There was zero reason for him to be here, and yet, a part of me felt as though I should have known this would happen. My father has never been very good with boundaries, particularly when it comes to his kid.

“Your dad is in the kitchen.” Tinder Guy said, and then he did something completely and totally extraordinary given the circumstances.

He giggled.

I stared at him. This poor man had just worked very hard to prove himself in bed, succeeded, only to stumble upon my father, yet a-fucking-gain, this time butt-ass naked. But was he mad? Annoyed? Embarrassed? Put out in any way, shape or form? No. Fucker thought this was funny.

That was the moment, dear Nurse. I didn’t fully realize it then, but that’s when I fell. I would try to assert my independence later on. Many times. Pretend I didn’t need him. Try to make us both believe I could still leave at any time. Such is the way of the self-protective divorcee… but each time even I knew I was full of shit.

“We’re made for each other.” Tinder Guy has always said. And he’s right. I don’t know what the future holds. No one can. But for this moment, at this time, in this place, in this world, he’s exactly what I need. And miraculously - like a shooting star at the precise moment you make a wish, a beloved song you haven’t heard in years playing just when you need it most, or a kiss so divine you feel it in your toes - I’m what he needs, too.

I stumbled around my room for a minute, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do about my father. Tinder Guy watched me, half dressing, and then inexplicably flapping the sheet around in an awkward, ill-timed attempt to make the bed… another thing I never do, but fucked if I knew what was going on in that moment.

“I feel like you’re avoiding this.” Tinder Guy said gently.

“You think!?”

Tinder Guy doubled again, clapping a hand over his mouth so as not to laugh too loudly. And now I was grinning. This was kind of amazing. We were like teenagers again, and you know what? It was fun.

I finally got my pajamas on right side out, and ventured out of the bedroom. The hall and living room were dark. Not a single light on. It was like a horror movie. As I approached the end of the wall dividing the open kitchen from the dining area, I could see that none of the kitchen lights were on either. Just a dim, blue-ish glow from…

My father, leaning against the sink in the dark, ditzing around on his cellphone, while eating a pint of my ice cream out of the container.

“Um… dad?”

“Oh. Hey, [Jules]!” He said, like nothing in the world was strange about the fact that he was either so selectively hard of hearing that he had no idea what just transpired, or that he did know, and had decided to wait until his daughter was done getting banged to perfection to return a copy of the car key she didn’t need. Oh, right… and that he had decided to grab a snack while he did so.

I would never know what my father did or did not know, and I will never - God help me - ask. I politely packed up the ice cream in a bag, sent him on his way, and dove back into bed with Tinder Guy, where we proceeded to laugh our asses off for an hour.

We still laugh our asses off every time we talk about that night. It was unforgettable. Ridiculous. Hilarious. And utterly perfect. We wouldn’t say official “I love you”s for another week or so, (yeah… things moved quickly) but that was the moment for me. When I knew I loved him. Or that I would love him. For as long as I get to.

And I would tell you more, Dearest Nurse, but that isn’t this story anymore. Juliet was a scared, twisted-up single mom who had just made the hardest, bravest decision of her life. To save her life. And had to find a way to live again in a world that no longer made sense to her. Romeo was a big part of that journey. Of growing. So was Paris, who I am happy to say has become one of my best friends in the world. So, were Lord and Lady Capulet, my guides, comic relief, and challengers. Benvolio, with her sage advice and constant support. Mercutio and the way she always seems to know exactly what I need to hear when I need to hear it. Tybalt for playing devil’s advocate, and just plain loving me. Sampson for teaching me how to be a friend and making me laugh. Friar Laura, for her truth bombs, and for reminding me that I deserve the best. That I can have the best, and that the best exists. So was Little Italy, who made me feel beautiful again, and has become a dear friend and ally in my career. Old Boss, who taught me the power of saying ‘no’, and - in spite of himself - how important it is to find someone who is truly kind. El Fotografo, for restoring my sexual confidence, and PTSD Guy, who forced me to find the emotional fortitude to weather a storm, but most importantly, to fall in love. The Prince, for reminding me that affection and wisdom can come from anywhere. That it stands the test of time. And that fuck, I am fucking legendary. And the handful of others I didn’t have time to tell you about, like the date I had with the tiny man who was definitely gay, but reminded me how to have fun, no matter the circumstances. Or the Santa-looking fucker who rejected me for having herpes, and made me want to curl into a ball and die… until I remembered that he looks like Santa.

All of that is the story of Juliet Anonymous. How Juliet grew. How she found herself. How she became a mother she’s proud to be. Found her voice again. Her ability to be patient, kind, and funny. To love herself - and I really do think I’m the fucking bomb - and to be loved, which, strange as it may sound, may have been the biggest challenge of all.

“I’m not going anywhere, [Capulet].” Tinder Guy tells me regularly, and I believe him more and more every day.

Because real, enduring love is possible. I didn’t think it was before. I scoffed at romantic comedies, cringed at engagement announcements, and became convinced that all those adorable old couples holding hands on benches were secretly waiting for the other to die. I thought passion was for kids. But I have felt more alive in the past five months than I can remember. Ever. And it just keeps getting better.

So, while there are many stories left to be told, this is the end of Juliet Anonymous. Because, in truth, I’m not Juliet anymore. It is time for me to pass the torch and move on. But let me end my saying thank you. Thank you for reading. Thank you for reaching out to me, sharing your stories, and supporting me. The Juliet Anonymous Project worked because of you, and I am forever grateful. And yes, that includes you, Tinder Guy, to whom I write:

When I first heard you laugh,

I knew you.

Love came so easily it felt like

Luck, a fluke. But,

You reassured me

Over and over, that this

Unbelievable connection was real,

Miraculous though it may seem,

And, for the first time, I

Realized I had found the

Romantic partner I always dreamed of.

You are all I want,

My

Everything.

?

Sincerely yours,

Juliet