"I have something to tell you," he said, clutching my hand. I could feel his body trembling, and he kept looking away and biting his lip, as though fighting back tears. "Just give me a minute. I've been rehearsing this for, like, four days. I want to get it right."

My stomach flipped. It's only been four months since we met, but I wondered if he was about to propose -- or maybe announce his intent to propose some time down the road.

I met Liam in a bar one night after work. My friends were already talking to his friends when I arrived. He caught my eye right away -- he was cute, had a great smile and was an ex-policeman turned firefighter who still had his old uniform (you can imagine the instant fantasies).

I wasn't looking for a boyfriend at the time. Instead, I was in the middle of desperately trying to leave my job, find a new one and still settle in to my new life in New York City. I had no time for a full-blown relationship. But we hit it off that night and exchanged numbers. He called the next day (boys never do that!). He remembered I had mentioned my birthday was the following week and wanted to celebrate with me.

From that point on, things moved quickly -- because of him. If he wasn't with me, he called every day to say good morning, checked in in the afternoon to see how my day was going and wished me a good night before bed. He would set future dates with me in the middle of our current one. I mentioned I loved Harry Potter, so he sent a copy of the fifth volume to my workplace when it came out. He drove the two hours to Connecticut when I went home for the weekend and picked me up, so I wouldn't have to take the train back. He promised a weekend trip to Atlantic City and outings to Yankee Stadium and amusement parks. He constantly reminded me how beautiful I was and "what an amazing girl" I was. He was wonderful, and I finally let my long-held guard against men down.

I started dating when I was 16, and I do not exaggerate when I say that every long-term relationship I've had since then has been miserable. I've endured both physically and mentally abusive boyfriends, cheaters, liars and drug addicts. Suffice to say, I was jaded and had come to the conclusion that every man had something wrong with him -- whether I remained in the relationship was a matter of what I was willing to put up with. This is another reason why I was not looking for a serious boyfriend when I met Liam.

He seemed too good to be true, and I insisted to my friends that something he had to have a flaw. They told me I was paranoid, a result of years dating assholes. "Remember," they said. "He's 28 (the oldest guy I've ever dated). He's more mature than the other people you've dated and knows how to treat women. You need to stop looking for something to be wrong and have fun with this guy." After two months of suspicion and trying to pry information from his friends, I did. I made peace with the idea that I had finally met a great guy and lamented how lucky I was as I listened to my friends' horror stories about men. After he told me he loved me three months into the relationship (and I was pretty sure I felt the same way -- or was at least quickly falling for him), I envisioned myself with Liam for years, and I was unbelievably happy.

And so, as I stood there, looking into Liam's eyes, I expected some romantic proclamation of love.

"You are an amazing girl, and I've totally fallen in love with you," he paused. "I never expected for that to happen, but I couldn't help it."

He stopped again and began to cry. My face fell. Something was wrong. "What is it?" I asked.

"After I tell you this, you're probably never going to want to talk to me again," he said. I felt ill. This was a familiar line. "You probably know what I'm going to say."

I had no clue.

"It has to do with why you never saw my apartment," he said, breaking into a full sob. My mind started racing. Maybe he still lived with parents and had been too embarrassed to tell me. Or maybe he was only a volunteer firefighter and worked full-time at Wal-Mart. Sure, he lied to me, but I could deal with those confessions.

"I'm married," he said.

A wave of nausea came over me. "What?" I yelped, trembling.

Then the reporter in me kicked in, and I began firing questions at him. I couldn't believe he was married, and, for a fleeing moment, I thought he was joking. After all, at 23, I'm too young to be The Other Woman. Desperate, older women with ticking biological clocks -- like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction -- are mistresses, not successful, decent-looking 23-year-olds like me.

I asked him how long he'd been married (three years); whether his wife knew ("I don't know."); why he didn't have his ring on the first night we met ("I had just come from work. I don't wear my ring there."); and when he saw his wife, since he stayed at my place often, constantly traveled with his friends and worked an average of 60 hours a week ("I didn't say it was a happy marriage."). I asked whether his friends knew. They did, of course, and never told me, even when I asked his closest friends if there was anything I should know about him. "Liam's a great guy," they insisted. One even went so far as to say he was so happy, because Liam was such a great guy and deserved to meet someone like me.

I smoked a cigarette. I asked if it was his first affair. "Yes," he said. "And you?" I wanted to kill him.

I came close to breaking down in front of him but refused to let it happen. I would remain the strong one in this situation. I was better than him, and there was certainly no way I'd settle for being The Other Woman (not to mention the moral issues I'd have with it).

"I'm so sorry I did this to you," he said, touching my hand and then, thinking better, drawing it away quickly. "I know you've had bad relationships before, but you have to understand, I didn't mean for it to go this far." The famous last words heard by mistresses everywhere.

"That's why I tried to end things two months ago," he continued, referring to the time he said he wanted to slow things down and then called me more than ever in the following days. "But I was selfish and loved being with you."

After what felt like hours of silence, I calmly replied, "I want you to know I will never trust men again because of you."

I finished my cigarette. He was silent. "I think you should go." He hugged me, in what I imagine was some bizarre effort to comfort me. I tried to pull away, but he held me tightly. I wish now that I vomited on him. I walked him to the door. Before he left, he turned to me. "If you want to call me..." I closed the door.

I started walking toward my roommate, and my legs gave out. I collapsed and cried hysterically. My roommate was incredulous, as everyone else was that I told. I cried until I couldn't any longer. I was in shock. This wasn't happening. He would call tomorrow to tell me he had been joking, however sick that was.

I felt betrayed by him and his friends. I felt like a fool for telling everyone what a wonderful boyfriend I had, and I was embarrassed about all the times he and I were affectionate in front of his knowing friends. And I felt immense pity for his wife and guilt, even though there's no way I would have known.

After a few hours of crying, I decided I needed to get his home phone number. I wouldn't do it tonight, but I had to tell his wife.

My roommate, a super sleuth on the Internet and seasoned pro at performing background checks on men she dates, not only accessed his home number (it killed me to see his and his wife's name on the listing), but she also found out what his wife does for a living and a picture of her (I know, I'm a masochist). I stared at the beautiful woman in the picture and thought about how, if I were a 28-year-old woman whose husband was cheating after only three years of marriage, I'd want to know now, while I'm still young, without children and able to start a new life.

I lay awake that night, envisioning him leaving my bed and climbing into theirs at home. I saw them sitting down to dinner together, in the church at the wedding and going to family barbecues. I was disgusted.

I thought about how I ignored my initial feelings that something wasn't right -- that he seemed too good to be true. Never did I imagine he was married, but something in me knew he wasn't fully letting me in. Maybe that's why I waited three months until I referred to him as my boyfriend. The craziest part is I woke up on Monday (he told me on a Wednesday -- a mere week ago, in fact) with a horrible feeling in my stomach, almost a sense of dread, and I didn't understand. Everything in my life was going so well -- I was succeeding in my job, had just received exciting news about a book proposal and had a great guy. Intuition is an amazing thing.

But then little things about our relationship came back to me, and I realized they were all extremely subtle hints that something wasn't right. First, I never saw his apartment, but he lives far out in Queens. To see his place would have required numerous subway transfers and a trip on the Long Island Railroad. He had a car, and it was much easier for him to just drive into the city. I think now how lucky he is that I never decided to surprise him and show up at his home. Second, he would text message me incessantly with messages like, "Just thinking about you" or "I wish I could see you tonight." I, of course, loved these messages (who wouldn't?) and figured he sent them because he wanted to tell me he missed me without calling me 20 times a day. I realize now he probably sent them as his wife sat in the same room. Then there were the cancelled plans. He suddenly had to work on the weekend we planned to go away, or he'd forget he made plans with friends for a night we were supposed to see each other. But he's a firefighter, they work crazy hours, and he couldn't control that, I reasoned.

Besides those small things, he covered his tracks beautifully. As I said, he was fortunate enough to use his job as an excuse many times. But I was in his car, and there was no trace of her. He had no tan lines where his ring should have been. He never received strange calls when he was with me (he apparently covered his tracks well with his wife, too). And he seemed to live a single guy's life. He was always going away with his friends for a few nights or at the beach with them, and I know those weren't stories he made up, because I could hear the guys in the background when I called. And many times, I met him while he was with his friends. It's still unbelievable.

The next morning, I called in sick to work, cried for a few hours, dragged myself out of bed and filled my day with preoccupations: lunch with my friends (actually, it was many, many drinks), a haircut, a manicure, dinner with friends and drinks again later that night (hey, I was in pain). Reasoning the best way to heal was to "jump back in the saddle," I called a guy I met a few weeks before, prior to Liam and I making our relationship "official," and made plans to meet for drinks the following Monday.

I coped pretty well that day, except after he left a message on my phone saying goodbye, in case I never called him. By then, my sadness had turned to outrage toward him, and in true Rachel-from-Friends fashion, I decided to return his call, bitch him out for putting me through this and hopefully obtain closure. As my luck would have it, he didn't answer, and I left a calm message asking him to call. He called that night, when I was at the bar with my friend and already unnerved because the guy she's dating, conveniently Liam's childhood friend, was on his way to meet us.

I didn't want to make a scene in front of the bar, so I maintained an only-slightly-elevated voice as I told him how dare he do this to me and how dare he endanger my health (who knows how many other affairs he's had?); questioned why he didn't tell me the first night that he was married; told him someone had to tell his wife about her asshole husband; rambled on about all the other feelings and thoughts I had the night before, and told him it was nice knowing him.

He rotated responses to all my comments and questions with "I know," "I'm so sorry I did this to you" and "I don't know what to say."

I hung up, unfulfilled. I felt no closure and was pissed I hadn't been somewhere where I really could have yelled and carried on. Soon after, his friend appeared. He told me none of Liam's friends realized how serious we were, and I learned Liam told them next to nothing about us. In their minds, we were simply dating and having fun. He went on to explain it wasn't his place to tell me, but that he urged Liam to cool it from day one. And he said he hoped I'd still come out, I had no reason to be embarrassed, and I had an open invitation to his beach house, where all of Liam's friends went on the weekends. I appreciated his taking the time to talk to me, but I'm not sure whether I'll ever go out with those guys again. I still feel betrayed, and I certainly don't want to risk bumping into Liam again -- or worse yet, Liam and his wife.

As for his wife, I'm not sure whether I'll tell her. I would hate to find out my husband was cheating on me from The Other Woman, and I'm even a little concerned for my safety. After all, I really don't know Liam. He lied to me in every conversation we had, and who knows what else he's capable of? I certainly don't need death threats or harassing phone calls after telling her. But I'm also a strong believer in karma and things coming back to bite you in the ass. I fear that if I don't tell her, and, god forbid my husband cheats on me, I'll never know. I hate him for putting me in this horrible position. Not only must I recover from a breakup with a guy I was falling in love with, but I also must deal with this terrible feeling of responsibility I have to tell his wife and the confusion about whether to do so.

And I also hate him for bringing back those old feelings of distrust toward men. Just as I was ready to throw out my previous notions about men for good, this happened. The idea that I will someday meet a good guy, who loves me and wants to be with me (and only me) seems unreal, a hopeless and silly fantasy. When I think about that, it's enough to send me to bed for life. I'm not one of those girls who has to have a man, but it's nice to feel loved and like you have a connection with someone.

Part of me is tempted to become like Samantha from Sex in the City -- a woman who uses men for fun and free drinks and dismisses them immediately. This way, I'd protect myself by never falling in love again. And, besides, why should I suffer just because most men are pigs? But then again, as my friends have pointed out, I'm too nice to pull that off successfully, and I'd only hurt myself.

In the meantime, I'm trying to resume normal daily activities, like concentration. The first day back to work, I stared at my computer screen, eating cookies (thank God my boss wasn't in that day). But luckily (or not so luckily), I've had practice recovering from bad relationships, and I know I'll be okay. Shit, I'll be more than okay.

I strongly believe everything happens for a reason. If anything, this was yet another learning experience, from which I learned two lessons. First, never ignore your intuition. I now know how strong intuition feels versus simple doubt or paranoia, and never again will I dismiss it. Intuition is that person kicking in your stomach and the small voice in your head and, sometimes, the invisible slap in the face that make you pause and rethink what you just saw or heard. And when I look back, I realize that in many of my past relationships, that intuition was there in full effect, kicking and screaming for my attention. From now on, it will no longer be that thing I brush off, but my newfound savior. And, second, always insist on seeing the guy's apartment.

Rebecca Giantonio lives in New York City and works in the public relations department of Meredith Corporation, publisher of Ladies' Home Journal and Better Homes & Gardens. In the past, she worked as a reporter and later freelanced for the Herald in New Britain, CT, and her work has appeared in Connecticut magazine and Glamour. When she's not working or out on the town, she edits essays for this Quarterlife Crisis series.

In 10 years, Becky hopes to be at her beach house, writing to her heart's content. Her husband, Tom Cruise, will adore her. Penelope will have finally gotten over it. (Please note Becky did not have an affair with him.) But, more importantly, she'll be surrounded by her friends and plenty of martinis.