It was September 2021, and the fall chill was creeping in. Since the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, I had been shackled to my 350-square-foot studio apartment in Miracle Mile, supervising two dogs who couldn’t get along. I felt trapped, and the sensation was heightened by metal bars on my windows.
In late 2020, I had driven 300 miles to rescue a pandemic puppy from Tijuana. I named him Valiente, Spanish for brave. He was terrified of men and was prone to barking and lunging at them. I could not have any visitors in my studio despite my efforts to train the two to cohabitate. Val tried endlessly to get my senior dog, Bunny Bear, to engage, as he wanted to run and play like a typical puppy. Sadly, one evening, when Bunny had enough, she took a chomp out of his snout. Ever since, Val was glued to my hips for fear of the wrath of Bunny.
I sank further into depression. I looked forward to my weekly therapy sessions as they provided me with one of my only sources of intelligent human conversation. My therapist suggested going on a dating app. I reluctantly decided to give it another shot.
I clicked the reactivate button on my Bumble account, and a young man popped up from Boston. I swiped right and apparently he did too. He piqued my interest because he listed “writer” as his occupation. I am a wordsmith, and he writes for a living.
We were both from the East Coast, so we appreciated L.A.’s laid-back vibe and the temperate weather. I figured he could string together words beyond the typical trite one-liners that guys would normally throw my way on these apps: “How was your night, beautiful? Are you lonely? I’m a big spoon, looking for my little one. Could it be you?”
These types of lines left me feeling hollow. I longed for a more meaningful connection, and not just a physical one. I longed to experience true love. These apps were a playground for people pretending to be anybody but themselves to snag a “prize.” I was again faced with the daunting task of sifting through piles of hay looking for one needle, so when Tom suggested that we Zoom, I was all in. Zooming was another layer in the weeding-out process, and I was curious to know if he was indeed a working writer.
We were having a great Zoom, and he checked all the boxes. Despite this, I was still suspicious. At the end of the call, he asked what my availability was like to get together in person. He suggested two restaurants: the casual Mexican restaurant Don Cuco and the pricier historical landmark the Smoke House, across from the Warner Bros. lot. I opted for the “safer” bet of the two, Mexican. Had I gone with the high-end spot, I fear he might have expected more.
When I met Tom at the restaurant, I was instantly struck by his strong physique and his dreamy blue eyes, which he smiled with. I could not stop looking at him. His voice was sexy.
We chatted about L.A., and I explained that when I moved here, I knew one person and had no job. Within the first three months of arriving, I made my debut on the James Corden show, lived in Hollywood and worked in Beverly Hills. It was fast and furious, and I never looked back.
His career was a little more stable. He went to film school at Emerson and moved to Burbank when he was 22. He worked his way up, writing for TV and comics. He seemed extremely stable — like he could be the yin to my yang. I was instantly smitten, and he left me wanting more. This connection went beyond just a “spark.”
When we parted, he did not give me his phone number but instead said, “You can message me on the app if you want. Or not. It’s up to you,” then walked away. I was stunned. Most of the guys on the apps were pushy. He was not. He left the ball in my court, which was refreshing and confusing at the same time.
I did not hear from him for two days, so I made the bold decision to message him to see if he wanted to get together that day. I felt more confident about the prospect of this being real since he hadn’t pushed for sex. I had the date mapped out: We were going to drive to Hermosa Beach, have a drink on the pier, casually stroll the beach and eventually make our way into the water for a first kiss.
Much to my delight, it unfolded exactly like that. I even got to show off some of my Pilates instructor moves in my bikini.
In the car ride home, he turned to me with those irresistible blue eyes and said, “So what do we do now? Get married?” I was grinning ear to ear and hoping there was some truth to what he said.
When we got to my apartment, I ran in to get Val for an introduction. I wanted them to meet on neutral territory before bringing him into my apartment. When Tom leaned down to pet him, Val lunged and bit his leg, drawing blood. I thought I’d never see the guy again.
When I heard my phone ring later that night, I was thrilled to hear it was Tom.
The butterflies in my stomach were flying in full force. He thanked me for the “most perfect date” and brushed off the bite. He said he would love to go out with me again. I was ecstatic that my scheme had worked. It was a big win.
Fast-forward a year later, and I said yes to the rest of our lives. The elopement was supposed to happen in Maui, but the wildfires in Lahaina threw a wrench in our plans. We pivoted to Oahu and had the most magical wedding on the beach at sunset, set against a backdrop of rolling waves and volcanoes. Ever since then, we joked that our story was “love at first bite,” and we wouldn’t have it any other way.
The author is an L.A.-based Pilates instructor. She lives in Burbank with her husband, Tom, and their pup, Sparky. She’s on Instagram: @jbearinla and @sparkytheshark.
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This story originally appeared on LA Times
