In a Burbank writers' room, over sandwiches down the street, someone asked, “What's your one dating deal-breaker?” I didn't doubt it. “You can't have a cat.” Some eyebrows were raised. Is that the hill? Double. I hate them. I'm afraid 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 skipped a beat the moment I saw him. He was even more handsome than his profile suggested. Charmingly handsome in real life. I scanned the room to make sure it wasn't a prank, which had actually happened to a coworker, but the coast seemed clear.
We drank Moscow mules and exchanged stories as if we had known each other for over an hour. When a surprising burlesque performance broke out next to us, he didn't even look away. His eyes stayed on mine. The night felt magical.
I don't usually romanticize first dates. Most make it easy. A quick drink, a polite conversation, a mutual understanding we tried. It's easier than confronting the parts of myself I've hidden for years, fearing no one will accept me. I perfected the art of staying far enough away to never be fully seen.
Until now. This one felt different.
As I headed home, the buzz of Lankershim and the blur of neon from the bars couldn't drown out the quiet, unmistakable voice inside me that whispered, “I think I just met my future husband.”
My phone vibrated.
“Have I mentioned that I have a small black void called Aneksi?”
A black cat with huge green eyes stared back at me. Oh no… no, no, no! How could the guy of my dreams, my supposed future husband, have my biggest deal breaker?
This can't be happening.
Despite my trepidation about the cat, I saw him again, just to make sure the magic of my first date wasn't a fluke. But the second date was even better. Shoot.
For the next few days, I did what any rational woman who fell in love with a man with a cat she despised would do. I Googled how long cats live. Fifteen years. Sometimes 20. Could I survive? Could I ask my dream guy to give up his rescue cat, his pandemic companion? No. That would be cruel. Or yes?
Cats weren't something I could easily get used to. All my life, they had been vilified by my mother's side of the family. We half joked that our family had a cat curse. Perhaps this supposed “curse” is the reason why I am afraid of cats, or perhaps it is because when I was 4 years old I was attacked by one.
It happened at a pajama party. My friend's cat hid under the bed and wanted us to play with it, so I leaned over and said three words I'll never say again: “Here, kitten.”
The cat pounced and dug its claws into my arms. I ran towards the door. Tight. I tried to barricade myself in the closet. The cat fighter was faster. My screams finally made my friend's mom intervene. I limped home looking like a scene from “Carrie.” The family curse was alive and well.
Now she stood at the intersection of fear and desire. And I couldn't help but like it.
For most of our initial relationship, Aneksi hid. He rarely stayed overnight, secretly loving the eight-minute gap between his home in Valley Village and mine in Sherman Oaks. The perfect distance physically… and emotionally.
It had been more than a decade since I fell in love. I was ashamed of parts of my body that I preferred no one examine too closely. He had an MBA in becoming invisible. And yet, despite the pit around my heart, I couldn't deny that I wanted love again.
It turned out that Aneksi had trust issues of his own. Once he realized I wasn't leaving, he cautiously emerged from his hiding place, keeping an arm extended between us. Good for me. The boy of my dreams would occasionally nudge me to pet him or offer him a treat. I did, briefly, because he cared. What worried me more than the cat was this man's patience. His firmness. The way he cared without asking for anything in return.
And then he left town.
He asked me if he could see Aneksi. The first day the cat remained hidden. I fed him, cleaned the litter box and left. On the third day, curiosity won. He stuck his head out. I put a treat in the cat tower. He accepted. I stroke him for about 2½ seconds. He seemed to enjoy it. He seemed to enjoy it. Hey? At the end of the week, she sent photo updates like a proud nanny, documenting every inch of progress.
Over the next year, Aneksi no longer ran away when I entered the room. Sometimes, however, he still wanted to do it. That's when the boy of my dreams, known as Sergio, started living together. Every cell in my body screamed yes, but my mind was spinning. The sandbox. The tuna. The early mornings. No more eight-minute window to retreat.
Plus, the idea of one of us giving up our rent-controlled apartment was like throwing a pot of gold into the Pacific. What if it didn't work? And yet, my growing love for him tipped the balance. Okay, I thought, let's really try it.
Coexistence was not perfect. The litter box was still gross. The tuna still smelled. We coexist more than we unite. I loved Sergio. I tolerated the cat.
Then I hurt my knee at a dance audition in Pasadena that I had no business attending.
When I started limping, Aneksi exuded a sympathetic limp. The vet confirmed that nothing was wrong with him. As I lay on the living room floor in pain, he plopped down next to me and blinked slowly. I instinctively blinked as tears of happiness ran down my cheeks. For the first time, his presence did not exalt my nervous system. He steadied him.
Something changed after that. The more confident he felt, the more open I became.
Sergio knew about my insecurities. What he didn't always see was the care with which I behaved towards them. Like the angles I chose in the photos, the way I shrank to go unnoticed, the relief of a closed door. Living together made hiding more difficult.
One night, with Aneksi wedged between us on the couch, I let her see the parts of me I still wanted to hide. He didn't flinch. He stayed.
For someone who spent years running from love, I was surprised to learn that when I stopped running around in my mind, I was finally able to trust what my body already knew.
Now I am married to Sergio. The leftover rent-controlled apartment is gone. The sandbox remains. And Aneksi rarely leaves my side. Now I have two loves of my life and I couldn't imagine it any other way. Maybe the family curse never had anything to do with cats. Maybe it was fear. And maybe, finally, it's broken.
The author is a screenwriter whose upcoming Hallmark movie “A season to bloom” premieres on April 4. Find her on Instagram: @itsjenwolf.
Los Angeles Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to hear your true story. We paid $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find shipping guidelines. here. You can find previous columns. here.
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