Apartment Therapy, Relationship Therapy: When Should You Move In Together?

There are three reasons why a couple should move in together:

1. They have been dating for over two years.
2. They are engaged and/or married.
3. They live in Manhattan.

Which is why, just a week shy of three months together, my boyfriend didn’t think it was weird to suggest we move in together.

He knew I would be hesitant, so he started to drop hints. We walked by a retro diner a few blocks away and I pointed out how cute the white walk-up above it looked. “We should live there together,” he mumbled
drunkenly—so drunkenly, I decided, he would never remember in the morning.

A few days later, we walked by the same diner after a few drinks and he said it again. “I think it’d be a good idea. You and me. It would be awesome. We could live right above the Ambrosia Diner.”

I smiled and squeezed his hand. He was half right—it would be awesome, but it would also be stupid. We had been dating for less than three months. It was more than stupid! It was downright idiotic.

I casually mentioned it to my friends at work, who did not take it so casually.

“Are you serious?!” my coworker screeched. “Don’t you remember what happened to me and my ex? We broke up after a year but still had a lease and neither of us could afford to move out so we lived together
for six months! Six! Months!”

“Well, those are unusual circumstances,” I said.

“No, what was unusual was our sleeping situation. I was sleeping on the couch and he was sleeping with his new girlfriend in our bed.”

I nodded. “You’re right. It’s an awful idea! That’s what I told him.”

My older friend joined in. “Getting divorced sucked. Label all your shit—even your books. And whatever you do, do not buy furniture together.” She chewed thoughtfully on a stray cuticle. “And don’t buy any pets. I miss my fucking dog.”

“I don’t think we can afford a dog.”

“Then you probably can’t afford to move in together. It’s a really bad idea.”

When I went home, I felt depressed in my flex two bedroom. My boyfriend was practically living in my fake room—his laundry in one corner, his shaving cream and face soap leaking suds on my bookshelf—and my roommate wasn’t speaking to me. I didn’t blame her. We both signed a lease together, and he was more than she bargained for. But he lived in the belly of Brooklyn in a dirty apartment with a cat I was wildly allergic to. So we hid in my room and whispered. We spent most of our time out in the East Village, and when we ate in the apartment we dripped soy sauce on my bedspread.

A few more weeks past. Another night, another party. We sat on a park bench afterward, looking up at luxury apartment buildings framing Madison Square Park and holding hands.

“Let’s live together. You and me.” This time he said it with conviction, his eyes only slightly bleary from liquor, the confidence in his voice amplified in the quiet spring evening.

I pictured the two of us in a spacious apartment of our own, cooking in an open kitchen, watching his big screen TV in the living room and having loud sex in the shower. I stared up at those luxury rentals and wished we lived in one of them, unencumbered by a fake wall that felt like a dorm room. I looked downward into his big blue swimming pool eyes and sighed.

“Okay.”

“Okay, you’ll think about it?”

“Well…” It had been four months, after all. And it sounded so great. “I thought about it. Let’s move in together.”

He broke into a big goofy smile.

“But I have a few conditions,” I said sharply, before he could get too excited. “First of all, we’re moving into a two-bedroom. Because if we break up, neither of us can afford a one bedroom on our own. We can use the extra room for an office so we have some personal space, and if we’re broke or traveling we can sublet. Most of the furniture is mine, so if we break up, I can stay in the apartment and sublet that room to
a friend.”

“That sounds fair.”

“And I want a dishwasher, a bath tub and an open floor plan.”

“Sure. Whatever you want. Whichever neighborhood you want. I just want to live with you.”

“Okay then.”

He picked me up and kissed me in Madison Square Park. The warm evening suddenly smelled like dog shit and Shake Shack. It was all so stupid and happening too fast. But we lived in New York City, the land of
sky-high studios and bankrupting one bedrooms. We spent all of our time together. We slept together every night. He made me feel warm, safe and happy.

I smiled and took his hand. The apartment search was officially on.