Cupid’s Countdown

It was 2004, and there I was—Daisy Carlton—living my best mid-20s life in Philadelphia. Fresh out of an overpriced degree in sociology that my dad insisted was “impractical,” I landed a gig at a market research firm. My job? Hop on planes, crash in mid-tier hotels, and ask people which detergent brand made them feel more fulfilled as a human being. Exciting stuff, right?

One weekend, I was back in my hometown, Scranton, for a friend’s farewell party. She was shipping herself off to law school in New York because, unlike me, she enjoyed living up to parental expectations. So, I figured I’d drop in, grab some homemade casseroles, and bid her adieu.

And that’s when he walked in: Marcus—an acquaintance of a mutual friend who worked at the Swedish Embassy, of all places. I was knee-deep in a rant about overpriced organic food when he interrupted, looking slightly bewildered by my impassioned stance on kale. Marcus was tall, wearing glasses that screamed “introverted genius,” and had a quiet smile. The kind of guy who would argue over board games but hold the door open for you in the pouring rain.

“He seemed… agreeable,” I recall, “in that mysterious-but-might-also-be-an-accountant kind of way.” He nodded along to my monologue like he’d actually listen to my opinion on anything, even if I went off about traffic light conspiracies.

Marcus, meanwhile, remembers thinking I was some kind of social tornado. “She was this whirlwind of ideas and sarcasm,” he says. “I was just trying to keep up.” Before leaving, he handed me his number in a way that suggested he’d never been quite so bold before. “If you’re ever in town again,” he mumbled. A classic non-committal move.

Fast-forward two months. I was back in Scranton for work—researching a focus group on toothpaste preferences (yes, this is a thing)—and I decided, why not give the mysterious introvert a call? Marcus answered and suggested dinner. We met at a quiet diner, where he ordered plain coffee, and I mocked his lack of adventurous taste buds. It was oddly charming.

“We talked for hours,” I say. “I didn’t even check my watch once. When we left, I thought: ‘This is the guy. I want to argue over travel itineraries and disagree on movie choices with him forever.’” That night, back at my temporary motel room (yes, it was as sad as it sounds), I took out my stationery and wrote him a letter declaring my intentions—yes, an actual letter, not some flimsy text message.

People always ask me, Why so fast? To which I answer, Have you met a millennial with a crippling fear of dying alone? Besides, Marcus seemed grounded, patient, and refreshingly devoid of any Instagram filters.

When Marcus received my heartfelt epistle, he was, understandably, flabbergasted. “I thought, ‘Wow—someone really needs to pump the brakes here,’” he says. But he called me anyway. “I like you a lot,” he stammered, “but I’m not sure I’m ready for, you know, vows and all that.”

So, I suggested a compromise: “How about we just act like we’re going to get married for a few months and see if the universe spontaneously combusts?” Not your typical romantic gesture, but what can I say? I have a way with words.

We kept chatting, visiting each other, and sharing increasingly sappy emails. Eventually, I wore him down. “Daisy was so certain,” Marcus laughs. “Like she knew something I didn’t. After a while, I thought, ‘If someone’s that convinced I’m their happily-ever-after, maybe she’s onto something.’”

A few months later, we decided to meet again in Scranton to hash out the logistical nightmare that is modern love. “He was concerned I’d be miserable living with his parents for a while,” I explain. “Because, yes, my degree may have been useless, but at least I was employed and living independently. Then there was the whole ‘I make significantly more money’ thing, which, let’s be honest, made him a little twitchy.”

Marcus, bless him, tried to play it cool. “I was worried I couldn’t offer her the kind of life she deserved,” he admits. “And what would our families think? We didn’t exactly fit the usual mold.” I’m from an all-American, middle-class family, while Marcus’ parents are academics who discuss Plato over breakfast. Yawn.

My parents, predictably, freaked out. “You barely know him!” they said. “Is this a rebound?” Gary’s mom, meanwhile, couldn’t fathom why I was in such a rush. “You’re young, attractive—why the race to the altar?” But Marcus, the sweet fool, convinced his parents that I was the best life choice he’d ever make. “She’s bold and quirky,” he explained to them, “but she’s the only one who sees beyond the shy guy who always loses at Scrabble.”

We tied the knot six months later at a courthouse with only close friends and family—a strategic choice to avoid fainting mothers and disapproving glances. My best friend, in true supportive fashion, smuggled in champagne and muttered, “You better not regret this.”

I didn’t. We moved into a small duplex in Scranton. Three years later, I had our daughter, Zoe. Marcus’ dad passed away unexpectedly, and suddenly, there we were—living with his mom for a few years to help her out. Talk about domestic bliss.

By 2010, Marcus suggested moving to Austin, Texas. “He was itching for a change,” I say. “Our friends had raved about the tech scene, the laid-back culture… and the tacos.” We visited Austin and fell in love. After jumping through immigration hoops and surviving the soul-crushing experience of Craigslist apartment hunting, we finally made the move.

It wasn’t smooth sailing—jobs were hard to find, and we almost packed up and left a few times. But Marcus powered through a Master’s program, landed a gig as a research analyst, and I found my niche freelancing.

Now, we’re settled in our little patch of Austin, arguing over where to buy organic kale and whether or not Zoe should be learning the ukulele. “Daisy’s always in my corner, pushing me out of my comfort zone,” Marcus reflects. “She makes me laugh, and sometimes, she even lets me win an argument.”

As for me? I knew he’d be my partner from the first cup of diner coffee. He’s still got that look—calm and steady. I guess, after all this time, I really did marry the guy I couldn’t imagine a non-caffeinated life without.