On a cold, late Thursday night in February, we both ended up at a house party on Cleveland's near west side. It was quite an interesting house that neither of us had been to before...or since. I was traveling for work, and Jillian was celebrating her first night off after three shifts in a row. We probably both should have long been asleep, but there we were, sipping on Jim Beam and talking late into the evening. Towards the end of our discussion, I grabbed her hand, asked for her phone number and told her I'd like to see her again. She promptly replied "no chance!" After a bit of attempted persuasion, I was making no progress, so I grabbed my coat and sulked my way down the stairs to the back door which lead to the driveway. There, next to the door sat a single pair of women's boots-cream colored and a bit tattered, belonging to the only woman at the party. This...had been a sausage-fest. So I decided to shoot my shot. I scavenged my way through all the drawers I could find in the rooms nearby to try to get my hands on a writing utensil. Eventually, failing to find a permanent marker, I was able to track down a pen. I went back towards the door, grabbed one of those boots, and scribbled my phone number on the bottom of it like Andy from Toy Story. I left it face up, walked out the door, and waited three long days for any further contact. The rest, as they say, is history.

Trying to get away for a long weekend after being cooped up for the better part of six months, so a few days in Tulum, Mexico sounded like a good idea to Jill. I had planned to propose the first night so we could have a relaxing weekend, though she had no idea. I called in a favor and got us a late reservation at Hartwood, Tulum's most popular spot, with an all-wood-fired menu that changes daily. As we walked out the door of our casita, I got down on a knee in the darkness of the Mexican jungle during a pouring rainstorm and asked her to marry me. She was oblivious (duh).