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“Speak for yourself. I’ve already named the turkey. His name is Ralph.” I was genuinely concerned.

Meanwhile, Cleopatra Belle’s spirit lingered in the house like an old diva haunting her favorite theater.

The other dog—lilo, who had always been a bit “off”—was now entirely unhinged.

I think Cleo had been holding her sanity together with the sheer force of her disapproval.

Now, without that grounding energy, Lilo spent her days barking at the microwave and licking the couch like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Maybe she’s just grieving,” Jon suggested, as Lilo ran full speed into a closet door.

“Or maybe she’s possessed by Cleo’s ghost,” I muttered.

“Honestly, both feel plausible.”

Christmas Eve rolled in with the scent of smoked meat and buttered rum.

Jon wore his apron that said ‘ I’ll Smoke You Too’ and I played my “Home for the Holidays” playlist, which was mostly Boyz II Men, Mariah Carey, and a rogue appearance by Celine Dion because—icon.

We spent the afternoon dancing around the kitchen like idiots.

I accidentally dropped the cranberry sauce bowl and screamed like I’d shattered the Holy Grail.

Jon caught me mid-panic attack and said, “Relax, baby. Ralph would’ve wanted it this way. ”

By the time Christmas Day rolled around, we were so full we debated skipping dinner altogether and just climbing into the hot tub downstairs with champagne and snacks like two characters in a mid-budget rom-com called Bubbles & Bacon.

The hot tub—this massive jacuzzi tub with jets that could exfoliate your soul—became our post-dinner sanctuary.

We brought a Bluetooth speaker, and wine in plastic cups (because I don’t trust Jon with stemware), and Nacho sat on a towel like a lifeguard supervising our date .

“I can’t believe we’re alone in your parents’ house during Christmas,” Jon said, stretching one arm across the tub and the other across my shoulders.

“It feels wrong. Like we should be on a registry somewhere.”

“Don’t say registry,” I groaned.

“My mom will appear out of thin air with a wedding binder.”

We clinked glasses and stared up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above us.

It wasn’t snowing. There were twinkling lights outside.

No dramatic gift exchanges or carolers or magic snowfall.

But there was Ralph, resting in smoked glory on the kitchen counter.

There was Cleopatra Belle, finally at peace.

There was my ridiculous, redneck boyfriend and our dysfunctional pets, and me, soaking in bubbles, finally breathing without Patricia in my rearview mirror—for now.

“Merry Christmas,” Jon said, kissing the side of my face.

“Merry Christmas,” I murmured.

“Don’t let lilo lick the outlets.” He nodded.

“No promises.”

The day after Christmas, with our bellies still full of smoked Ralph and our pores infused with hot tub humidity, we decided we needed two things: a drink stronger than leftover rum punch and a gossip update stronger than the one my mom texted me from Zurich about a “snowy fondue accident.”

So naturally, we leashed up Nacho and Ranger—our trusty four-legged companions—and loaded them into the backseat like two very hairy toddlers on their way to preschool.

“I think Lilo’s gonna be fine here alone,” Jon said as we backed out of the driveway.

“I left her a sock, half a banana, and that singing fish toy your dad gave us that only plays ‘Funky Town.’”

“Great,” I said.

“So we’re either coming home to a chewed-up couch or a full exorcism.

” Lilo had taken to barking at the wall behind the TV and hoarding my fuzzy socks under the coffee table like she was building a shrine.

It was best to leave her behind on this particular adventure.

Our destination? O’Malley’s, the beloved neighborhood bar that sat in the corner of a strip mall between a vape shop and a psychic who once told me I had “the aura of someone haunted by my past.” O’Malley’s was where gossip flowed like Miller Lite and the regulars were 60% nosy aunt energy, 30% conspiracy theorists, and 10% barstools that should’ve been replaced in 2006.

We walked in with Nacho and Ranger like we were bar celebrities. The bartender—Tina, who wore a Santa hat with sequins and once told Jon he looked like a “soldier with feelings”—greeted us like we were long-lost friends.

“Is that the Navy guy and the Asian girlfriend?” she bellowed across the room, tossing us a wink.

“Get over here and tell me what y’all been up to. I heard something wild about a woman named Patricia and a meth ghost?” Jon obviously comes here way too much.

“Oh, it’s worse,” I said, pulling up a stool as Jon tied the dogs’ leashes to the chair legs and gave them each a treat from his coat pocket like an over-prepared dad on a zoo trip.

I ordered an old-fashioned Jon got a Bud Light and a shot of something brown and questionably legal-looking. We made small talk with the locals—like Janet-who-bakes-and-eavesdrops and Carl-who-thinks-Bigfoot-lives-in-Missouri. All in all, it was festive, cozy, and just the right level of unhinged.

By the time I was ordering my second drink—a stronger old-fashioned that Tina declared “ the kind that makes you rethink texting your ex ”—I turned around to find Jon gone.

At first, I assumed he was in the bathroom or making a nacho run (both realistic possibilities).

But then I spotted him. Kneeling. On one knee.

In the middle of the bar. Right between the jukebox and a dartboard that had a Sharpie heart drawn around Jeff Goldblum’s face.

He was holding up a ring. But not just any ring.

A teardrop diamond glistened in the amber glow of O’Malley’s overhead lights, which somehow made it sparkle even harder like a contestant on Dancing with the Stars.

Everything slowed down. The music faded.

Tina gasped. Nacho barked once in approval.

And Jon—this 5’8 -something man with a beard that could land him a role in a wilderness survival show—looked up at me with the softest eyes I’ve ever seen.

“I know it’s not the Eiffel Tower,” he started, his voice just loud enough to rise above the sound of Carl slapping his knee in delight, “and I know I don’t have a five-year plan or a Roth IRA… but I love you.” The bar collectively sighed. Even Tina wiped a tear while pretending she wasn’t.

“I love how you laugh too loud at true crime podcasts,” he continued, “and how you feed everyone like it’s your spiritual duty.

I love how you still check Patricia’s Instagram just to roast her captions.

I love how you saved me from the mess in Idaho Falls, and somehow made me feel like I was coming home, not running away.

” He paused, and there it was—the most beautiful, delicate, elegant teardrop diamond ring I’d ever seen.

“Marry me,” he said, “so we can keep roasting crazy people and making smoked turkeys forever. You and me, baby. With Nacho. And the other dogs. And maybe a bigger hot tub someday.” I blinked. The room spun. My soul somersaulted. I choked out the only word in the english language that made sense:

“YES.” He slid the ring on my finger, I dropped my old-fashioned directly on my boot, Tina screamed “MAZEL TOV!” like she was at a bar mitzvah, and Nacho did a celebratory sneeze.

We kissed. The kind of kiss that tastes like beer, salt, and a million days of chaos finally makes sense.

The kind of kiss that makes you forget you’re standing next to a neon “J?ger Bombs $4.99” sign while Carl tries to start a slow clap.

“I guess this makes us officially a team now,” I whispered as we hugged, still dizzy.

“You mean besides being dog parents and emotionally entangled in Patricia’s psychodrama?” he smirked.

“I mean like forever.”

“Forever sounds good to me,” he said.

And right there, in a tiny bar tucked between a vape shop and a psychic, with our dogs at our feet and the faint smell of jalapeno poppers in the air, I got engaged to the love of my life.

After the bar proposal of a lifetime—which, by the way, is now known as The Day Tina Cried and Nacho Sneezed—we somehow managed to peel ourselves away from O’Malley’s, giggly and giddy and just a little bit tipsy.

Ranger was thrilled, Nacho was confused, and I was wearing the kind of smile that made my cheeks ache in the best way.

The next morning, we woke up in what could only be described as engaged bliss fog.

I twirled around in the kitchen like I was on a soap opera, my ring catching the morning sun as it had just been blessed by Beyoncé herself.

Jon stood at the stove, making sausage and eggs and I swear to God, the man had never looked sexier than when he was buttering a skillet of carbs for me.

And that’s when I got a text from my mom :

“Landing at 12:35 pm. Please don’t be late.” Classic.

So of course we took Jon’s truck to pick them up from the airport because it’s a big truck and my mom has probably bought half of Switzerland by now.

As soon as my parents climbed in—my mom in a black trench coat with sunglasses like a Trini version of Olivia Pope, and my dad trailing behind her with a paper bag full of airport snacks—I blurted it out.

“We’re engaged!” I said, holding up my hand like I was on The Price is Right. Jon leaned over the steering wheel like it was a confessional booth.

“Technically… also married.” Silence. I swear even the air conditioning took a break.

My mom turned her head in slow motion as if she just witnessed a raccoon wearing lipstick.

“Married?” she repeated, lips pursed.

“As in… legally?” My dad blinked twice. Then shrugged.

“Well. At least this one makes her laugh.” Cue my mom sighing as she’d just watched a YouTube tutorial on how to emotionally recover from impulsive children.

But after five minutes and a Diet Coke, she warmed up—especially once she realized this meant no massive wedding, no venue deposit, and no arguing over napkin colors with Aunty Carla.

But here’s the twist: We weren’t actually married.

Yet. Technically, Jon had only proposed.

But after the truck ride, and the emotional rollercoaster that was my mother processing things while texting Pastor Ravi, I texted Jeanine. Me:

“So Jon proposed at a bar. With dogs. And people clapped. I think I want to get married in Vegas.” Jeanine:

“That sounds like a spiritual rebirth. Also, Kaleb and I did Vegas. Highly recommend. Harrah’s has killer room service.” And that was it. Operation Las Vegas Elopement was born .

Within hours, my parents were all in. Which, honestly, shocked me. My mom—Queen of Overplanning and Pinterest Boards—immediately whipped out her phone and started calling bakeries like she was casting a cake-based reality show. Fred’s Bakery agreed to do our wedding cake.

“Pick up January third,” she said like she was confirming an arms deal.

“And we’ll fly out the second. Your father and I already requested time off.” My dad? He took it one step further.

He offered to buy me my wedding dress. Cue waterworks. And by waterworks, I mean me crying in the dressing room at Ventura Bridal, holding a Kleenex and whispering, “This is better than prom, Dad.”

The dress was everything. Ivory satin with a deep V, subtle sparkle, and tea length. The minute I put it on, I knew. And my dad knew. He got misty-eyed and took a photo, which I can only assume he immediately added to his slideshow app of “Why I Love My Daughter.”

Meanwhile, my mom had arranged for a few of her top physics students—a.k.a.

responsible, nerdy babysitters who once built a robotic catapult for fun—to stay at the house and dog-sit Lilo, Ranger, and Nacho.

God bless them. If Lilo doesn’t chew through the drywall, they might get an extra $20 in their thank-you cards.

Jon and I hit the mall for his suit and my wedding shoes, which was a whole romantic comedy montage in itself.

He looked edible in navy blue, and I found the perfect nude heels that wouldn’t murder my arches.

I also snagged a little white clutch with the words “Wifey AF” in rhinestones, which I’m 90% sure made a woman in Claire’s tear up.

The pièce de résistance? I made my veil.

Yes, me. With a hot glue gun, lace trim, tulle from JoAnn’s, and a dream.

It was a vibe—half Etsy goddess, half Pinterest chaos—but it came out perfect.

Crooked in the best way. Like our love story.

So now, here we are.Three days from departure.

We’ll drive Jon’s truck there with the wedding cake waiting for us at Fred’s in Vegas, my dress packed safely in a garment bag like it’s the crown jewels, and Jon blasting country music while singing dramatically off-key to George Strait.

We’ll be checking into Harrah’s Las Vegas, where we’ll live our rom-com dreams for a few days.

And on January 4th, at Love Story Wedding Chapel, I’ll walk down a short aisle toward the man who kneeled beside a dartboard and asked me to love him forever.

And I’ll say yes. Again. But this time in rhinestone heels.