I could tell you that I found a kick-ass apartment in the North End, with exposed brick walls, kind, quiet neighbors and more floor space than I knew what to do with, but that would be a lie.
After I figured out why I had come to Boston, I stopped looking for an apartment and had a long talk with Hunky Mike.
I could tell you that I declared my love for him and that we moved in together and now, as the snow falls upon us, frequently make out by the light of a street lamp, glowing with love and passion. But that would also be a lie.
Instead, I talked to him about this new job, this fabulous opportunity, I got down to business and got the nitty-gritty details. What would I be doing exactly? How much would he pay me? Between what I saved by living with my parents (minus, of course, the money I just had to spend on shoes, purses and other items necessary in the life of a woman) and the decent salary I would be making at the online magazine (the online version of a popular print magazine, as it turned out), I could afford to buy a place. It's not fancy, but it's not a studio. It's tiny one bedroom walk-up in a neighborhood that just barely passes as Beacon Hill, and I love it. It's mine (or it will be in 30 years), and I can do what I want with it. I can have Hunky Mike over for dinner, which I might, once he's really over his wife...
That's the other thing. I must admit that I harbored some fantasies about Mike wanting me to move to Boston so that we could be togother, but I realized soon after we got here and Mike had hour long conversations with Kathleen each day on the office phone that Mike's not the guy for me. He's not the guy for me, because he's the guy for Kathleen. But he's also not the guy, because I've met someone else.
I'm in a brand new relationship, and I'm keeping the details to myself.
But I can shout from the rooftops that this time around, I'm not just beating Boston, I'm loving Boston.