I’d let most of them think we were Hollywood’s version of Camelot. The truth was that this past year had been bumpy. We’d definitely had our hills and our valleys. Dave was moody, which I tried to shrug off as his hotheaded Irish way. He was also very critical of whatever project I was working on and the way the higher-ups treated me. Dave said he had to be honest with me about all this stuff “because I love you so much,” and it upset him when people at the office treated me so “shitty.” He liked giving me advice about work. Early on, he’d disappeared on me for a couple of weeks with no phone calls or e-mails. I thought he’d gone back to an ex-girlfriend or decided he wasn’t into being in a relationship. When he reappeared he told me he “just had to get my head together” and that he was ready to be in something this “big.”

We made a left on Sunset and headed east. We roared through Little Armenia, past the huge Scientology Center, before grinding to a stop in bumper-to-bumper traffic when we reached Silver Lake. At a dead stop, I had an idea where we were headed.

“Are we going to a Dodger game?”

“Yes,” Dave said. He exhaled, a tiny bit deflated. “But I’m not ruining the surprise. We would have been there in ten minutes anyway.”

Okay, a Dodger game, I told myself. I guess that’s a surprise. And maybe Lauren was right—maybe something surprising would happen at the Dodger game.

Growing up in Boston, Dave lived and breathed the Red Sox. Dave’s loving baseball meant I loved baseball. So kicking out of work early on a Friday to go to a Dodger game was great.

We parked in the farthest part of the event parking lot, in a deserted stretch of empty spaces. “Are we in a different zip code from the stadium?” I asked.

“I just don’t want any drunk people nicking my car,” Dave muttered. “I’m still pissed about the dent in the back.” Some “maniac,” as Dave called him, had bumped his car when he ran into Kinko’s to send a FedEx, and I’d been hearing him talking for weeks about “getting in a part” to help fix the side back panel.

Dodger tailgaters had been in position for hours, grilling hot dogs and all sorts of eats in their parking spaces. Fathers were playing catch with sons. Women like me, girlfriends tottering in high heels, were hiking with their dates up to Dodger Stadium. Halfway up the path, Dave stopped me. I held my breath.

“I want to take your picture—the light is so great right now.”