In a Burbank writers’ room, over deli sandwiches from down the street, someone asked, “What’s your one dating deal-breaker?” I didn’t hesitate. “He can’t have a cat.” A few eyebrows lifted. That’s the hill? I doubled down. I hate them. I’m scared of them. Instant swipe left.
Two years later, I met my Bumble date at a North Hollywood bar shaped like a whiskey barrel, and my heart dropped the moment I saw him. He was even more handsome than his profile suggested. Disarmingly real-life handsome. I scanned the room to make sure it wasn’t a prank, which had actually happened to a coworker, but the coast seemed clear.
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