We were in the same rooms more times than either of us can count. Same concerts, same sporting events, same everything — two people moving through the same city and somehow never crossing paths directly. In hindsight, it feels less like coincidence and more like bad timing that finally ran out. Two weeks before we met, we were both at the same restaurant, in separate parties, grabbing dinner and drinks before heading to the Embassy Theater for a Broadway show. It was just one of many near run-ins we'd eventually piece together — and probably the moment the countdown hit zero.

But before getting too far, I would like to step back about 12 months:

I had recently started working at an engineering firm in downtown Fort Wayne. I started walking a lot — lunch breaks, after work, just me and whatever was on my mind that day. Getting acquainted with a new part of the city, enjoying the time to myself. I didn't know it then, but I was getting to know the streets that would eventually become the backdrop of our entire story. The sidewalks we'd bike on together, some days passing right by the apartment we hadn't yet signed for — and eventually, the neighborhood we'd buy a house in. The blocks that would hold our first kiss. The place we'd call home.

When fate ran its course and we officially met, we quickly found out we worked just blocks from one another. I found the courage to ask her to join me on the lunch walks I'd been taking alone. We'd leave our offices at the same time and walk toward each other, usually meeting somewhere around Pint & Slice. I'll never forget seeing her from three blocks away — big smile, waving the second she spotted me, always in one of her many pairs of Ray-Bans. Those walks became the highlight of my day, each one turning up some new thing we had in common.

Our first date was at Bistro Nota, a few blocks from both our offices. No awkward silences, no forced icebreaker questions — just easy conversation, like two people who had already known each other for a while. A few days later she asked if I would be interested in seeing The Wood Brothers with her. I hesitated — $90 is a lot for a band you've never really listened to. I told her I was already a fan, which was not entirely true. I spent that afternoon on Spotify getting up to speed and committed to the bit. It was $90 well spent. Something clicked that night that didn't need much analysis. For the next six months, I doubt we spent more than two or three days apart.

From there, our new life together began to take shape. More lunch walks. I'd bring dinner to her place most nights (shoutout to Chung King). We picked up pickleball. The concert count climbed steadily — currently sitting at 56 shows in three and a half years, which is either impressive or irresponsible, possibly both. We could have put a kid through college.

Eventually we signed our first lease. You really get to know someone in an 800 square foot apartment. We leaned into downtown life pretty quickly - walking to dinner, to work, to Thirsty Thursdays at Parkview Field, to whatever else caught our attention that week. Annie welcomed my twelve-year-old pug, who she quickly nicknamed Binky on account of the tongue that permanently hung out of his mouth like a pacifier. The fourth resident of the apartment was her cat Ashley, who wanted nothing to do with anyone until she decided she wanted everything to do with me. To this day she refuses to sleep anywhere but my right side.

There's also much more to this story than just Annie and me. I first met the Bobay and Verstynen families over Thanksgiving weekend of 2022. I was naturally nervous — but it didn't last. Almost immediately, I could see why Annie was who she was. It felt like a perfect fit from the jump, and the welcome I received from day one is something I won't ever take lightly.

One moment from that weekend that has stuck out: Annie invited me to the family's annual Black Friday bowling outing, and on the way to the alley I watched her dad pull a Bob Dylan handkerchief out of his pocket. As probably the world's biggest thirty-something Dylan fan, I nudged Annie, tried to keep my composure. The more I got to know the family, it was clear that every single member of that family carried some version of the spark that drew me to Annie in the first place. After three years of lake weekends, 30A vacations, and birthday dinners, I still can't find the right words for what an honor it is to be joining this family.

Beyond everything that drew us together early on, we also found a shared love of golf —I hit the jackpot there. How many girls would get excited over spotting Brandt Snedeker on the streets of Dublin, Ohio?? My appreciation for the game had been growing for years, but something shifted after seeing it through Annie's eyes. She approaches golf in a similar way she approaches her Catholic faith — with real reverence for the tradition, the etiquette, the history of it all. Being around that gave me a much deeper appreciation, for the sport and for the value of tradition in general. Golf has handed us some genuinely meaningful moments — following a player's journey toward a title, getting out on the course ourselves, and the thoughts of how proud Annie’s grandfather would be seeing her play.

All of that, I think, is what led us to last June.

A brisk morning at Muirfield Village. Dublin, Ohio. One of the most beautiful pieces of golf real estate on the planet. I asked Annie to marry me there, surrounded by everything we love. She said yes — though it's worth noting she did not display quite the same level of emotion she had when Rory won his first Masters a few weeks earlier. We spent the rest of the morning walking the course, it was a true glimpse of heaven. At one point I was watching a favorite golfer chip onto the 13th green, and I glanced back over my shoulder to find Annie photographing her ring against the Muirfield backdrop — completely in her own world, a new kind of spark in her eye that I won't forget. Later that afternoon, we watched Scottie Scheffler win his second consecutive Memorial Tournament championship. It was the kind of day that doesn't feel real while it's happening.

Muirfield Village will hold a permanent place in our story now — a place we'll return to every first week of June to celebrate what started there. Just as downtown Fort Wayne will always hold that place, too. Where I used to walk alone. Where I first saw her smile from three blocks away. Where we built something, block by block, that I wouldn't trade for anything.