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I remember the first e-mail I received from Jamie; it wasn't exactly poetic. Looking back, it's hard to believe what that simple line would lead to. At the time, I was nearing 30 and working as a secretary at a big investment bank in New York City—not exactly the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. So I checked out his profile immediately, but wrote him off just as fast—he lived in the Midwest and, more importantly, hadn't posted a photo. He persisted and e-mailed a few snapshots, along with a note. But it was at night that our talks really picked up steam. Paul's reaction mirrored that of my friends, sisters, and parents, so I clammed up. I was working in a dead-end job, watching my friends get married one by one, and kissing my 20s good-bye, having apparently missed the "Saturn Return," that astrologically significant period that occurs between the ages of 28 and 30 and is supposed to be marked by accomplishment, power, and prestige.

Turns out he was reasonably cute, and really funny. This went on for a couple of weeks until I said, "So, do you want to come to New York for a date? I canceled evening plans more than once just so I could go home, change into my pajamas, and curl up in bed with the phone. At some point, I again broached the subject of meeting with Jamie.

In the morning when I arrived at my bank job, I would call him right away. to 6 p.m., and our conversations were a welcome respite from my monotonous routine.

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This guy had already managed to hurt me, in the space of just two weeks. We spoke for hours about everything, from our damaged childhoods to jobs to exes to first kisses.

Then he'd found me—a woman he might want to have a real relationship with. "Please," he begged, "give me another chance." I hesitated. I'd planned to merely dip my toe in the water, but instead, I cannonballed right in.

He said he'd joined determined to overcome his intimacy fears but hadn't been moved by any of the women he'd met. I want to hear your voice."He called me that night, and was even smarter and funnier on the phone.

"Ever since my father died, I've been terrified to get too close to anyone..." The e-mail was long and apologetic, full of searing self-criticism and shamefaced confessions.

The mere sound of Jamie's voice made my heart thump wildly. He said he'd like nothing more than to meet me but admitted he still felt scared. "You might not be attracted to me."In hindsight, I should have cut and run right then.

But I wanted badly to connect with someone, and the truth is, I shared some of his fears.Prior to Jamie, I'd dated a string of emotionally unavailable men, and I was terrified of repeating old patterns; the idea of getting to know someone slowly appealed to me. I was raised by a passionate, volatile father who alternated between exploding in anger and begging forgiveness.When he wasn't in one of his moods, he lavished attention on me—standing proudly in the doorway as I practiced piano, praising my artwork, taking me for hair-raising spins on the back of his Yamaha motorcycle. Late at night, we would sit in his den, talking about art, politics, even sex.Being treated as my father's intellectual and emotional equal was heady stuff, and I'm guessing it was then that I developed a taste for the whispered intimacy of a forbidden nighttime chat.Over the next few months, my e-mails and calls with Jamie grew increasingly passionate."When we talk, I never want it to en —I want to totally merge with you," Jamie wrote. I like that we're different." And we different: I was a social butterfly, happiest surrounded by friends at a cocktail party; Jamie was an admitted introvert, with no interest in going out.

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