When I looked at Decker, I always came away with the thought that he was my best friend. We had fallen for each other like bags of bricks—quick and hard. In LA, settling down with a girl who “works in entertainment” before the age of thirty-five is a foreign concept. “There are just so many distractions, so many options.” That’s what everyone told me about the dating scene here, and I not only believed it, I had accepted it like some tax you have to pay to live here. Yet here we were: me, twenty-four years old, him, twenty-six; fingers interlocked at the top of the mountain, and most certainly doing the damn thing.

“Ready for brunch, babe?” Decker asked.

“Yup. Starving.”

He kissed my lips and down the hill we went.

Halfway back, a blonde lady with too much plastic surgery (a dime a dozen) passed us walking the cutest dog I’d ever seen.

“Oh my god, Decker. Look at that pupppppyyyy!” I squealed, giving his arm a squeeze and dragging him over for a closer look at the insane cuteness.

“Excuse me, can we pet your dog?” I unapologetically asked on behalf of both of us.

Before she even responded, I was bent down and giving this little French bulldog all the attention in the world. Everything in me wanted to snatch the puppy, run, and deal with the repercussions of doing so later.

“How old is he?” I asked, submitting to all the licks and kisses.

“About six weeks,” his owner said.

“Awww, you’re just a baby, aren’t youuuu?” I said in that high-pitched, crazy-dog-lady voice people can’t help but use when canoodling the cutest-ever six-week-old Frenchie.

“You can pick him up if you want to,” the lady said.

“Isn’t he adorable?” I said to Decker as I rocked the puppy like a newborn baby in my arms.

“He’s very cute, yes. What’s his name?” Decker asked.

I grabbed hold of the little bone-shaped tag around his neck and turned it toward me. It said LENO.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” Decker asked.

“This dog is named Leno. Stole your ‘firstborn’s’ name!” I turned the tag toward him as proof and couldn’t resist smiling.

“Turn it over,” Decker said. “What does the other side say?”

I flipped the tag over, unsure of why it mattered what the other side said. The coincidence of the year had already taken place—a dog named Leno, just like Decker had always planned for himself. But, as it had turned out, the romantic gesture of the year had not.

“MARRY ME, CHARLOTTE?-D” was engraved on the other side of the dog tag.

I looked up at Decker, who was smiling ear to ear, then back to the blonde dog owner. By now, she had removed her giant sunglasses and was asking if it was “okay to leave now.”

Decker gave her a twenty-dollar bill before she scampered away down the mountain. He then crouched down on one knee. The whole thing was still a blur, but what I knew for sure was that I was clutching a puppy and he was holding a ring.