I immediately started fantasizing about what our children would look like, but I also reminded myself to be careful. I had no idea if he was a crazy.

“Look, I know you don’t know me and I can’t think of a single line, but I just wanted to talk to you, so hi.” He extended his hand. “I’m Dave Gallagher.”

Dave’s hand was still outstretched waiting for mine, so I offered up my hand and he gave it a solid squeeze.

“I’m Dani Hale.”

He was pretty cute. Really cute. Living in LA, I’d learned that the cheeseballs who hung out in bars always came up with some lame line they’d stolen from that month’s issue of Maxim. The last time I had been subject to a pickup line while waiting at a bar alone, a guy had come up to me and blurted out, “Hey, little lady! You know, if you were a booger, I’d pick you.” For me, pickup lines had always fallen into the “eww” category. I’d smiled to myself at Dave’s simple hello and hand shake.

Dave and I traded details. He was a TV director. I told him I was a writer for TV shows too, inflating my résumé only slightly; I was still working my way up the ranks in the writers’ room at High Tide.

“Are you from the East Coast?” I asked. “I think I’m hearing a bit of an accent.”

“Yeah, South Boston,” he answered, tipping his beer back for another sip. That’s when I noticed the freckles splayed across the hand gripping his beer. Salmon and beige flecks that reminded me of spots

on a puppy’s tummy.

“I hear the south side of Boston can be tough.”

“For some,” he answered. “Where’d you hear that?”

I smiled. “I’ve just read a lot of interviews with Mark Wahlberg.” This made him laugh and we both kept smiling. The long wait for my flight that I’d been dreading evaporated, and I was surprised when I heard the muffled announcement that my flight was boarding.

We exchanged numbers. He gave me his home number and asked for my e-mail, saying he wanted to forward me a link he thought I’d like. He solemnly shook my hand good-bye and, when he slightly pressed his thumb into the palm of my hand, I got instantly wet. I smiled all the way to the gate.

That was almost two years ago. Friends thought we were some sort of fairy-tale couple that would eventually marry, buy a house in the hills, and spawn. “Think how fate brought you into each other’s lives,” my friend Ina would say. “It was destiny for your flight to be canceled. You guys were meant to be together.”