To his millions of YouTube, Instagram and TikTok followers, 30-year-old designer and content creator Drew Michael Scott (a.k.a Lone Fox) is best known for his easy-to-follow DIY transformations, from updating his 1929 Spanish duplex and offering rental tips to surprising his mom with a living room makeover.

Now, Scott has taken on a new project that isn’t online. This week, he opened Lone Fox Los Angeles, a 7,000-square-foot bricks-and-mortar home store on La Brea Avenue in Mid-City that will have about 2,500 square feet of retail space across two floors.

In Sunday Funday, L.A. people give us a play-by-play of their ideal Sunday around town. Find ideas and inspiration on where to go, what to eat and how to enjoy life on the weekends.

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“I source every single item,” Scott said, as he gave a tour of the elegant showroom filled with vintage furniture and modern accessories including glassware, pillows, lighting and small gifts.

Scott started selling vintage furniture online about 2½ years ago after his viewers kept asking him about the pieces he used. “I would always use thrifted finds and flea market things in my makeovers, and people would always ask me, ‘Can you sell what you’re using?’” he said.

Fans can now get a taste of his impeccable style in person. Curious about where he finds his vintage pieces? On a typical Sunday in L.A., Scott visits one or two flea markets. Want to know which ones? Keep reading.

This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for length and clarity.

8 a.m.: Avoid anxiety by posting content

I am a workaholic. But I do that to myself. In the past, I was an anxious person, and that stemmed from having too much free time. So I like filling my day. I have been doing social media for 15 years, and Sundays are my primary day for posting content. I wake up around 8 or 9 a.m. and am excited to post my content, which I always have ready to go. Over time, I noticed it felt like a nice day for people to look at social media because they had more free time, and I found that my views did better on Sunday.

9 a.m.: Coffee and croissants at a minimalist coffee shop

I love the coffee shop Laveta Coffee near downtown [L.A.] on Glendale Boulevard, which is only 16 minutes from my house. It’s a chill coffee shop where croissants are made to order. They also have cinnamon-sugar croissant doughnuts that are really good. I always get the Andante, a cold brew with maple syrup, salted sweet cream foam, cacao powder and pink salt. It is the best coffee I’ve ever had in my life. It’s my go-to, and I love that place.

10 a.m.: Flea market shopping in Long Beach or Pasadena

Sundays are for flea markets, and I take advantage of that. I personally source all my vintage pieces, so I try to visit flea markets every week. I bring a wagon to carry all my finds and really enjoy hunting for treasures. I try to go early and can always find art or furniture to rework and give new life. My favorite spot is the Long Beach Flea Market.

Another great option is the Pasadena City College Flea Market. It’s especially nice on hot days because about 70% of it is in a shaded parking garage. Sometimes I’ll find a large piece of furniture. When that happens, I use Lugg, which works like Uber. It’s perfect for things like sideboards and usually costs about $100.

Noon: Hunt for treasures at a sprawling antique mart

I also spend a lot of time at the Mart Collective in Venice, where I have a booth. I love finding new pieces there and checking out the different vendors. The selection is so interesting. It feels more like a museum than a typical antique mall, and I always discover something new. Two booths I really like are West End Vintage, which has unique furniture that looks like it’s from a mountain home, and a French booth near the checkout stand that has amazing French oil paintings.

1:30 p.m.: Stop by Lone Fox Los Angeles

After shopping, I’ll drop off my vintage finds from the flea market and check in at Lone Fox Los Angeles. I don’t plan to be there all the time, but I want to be around the first few weeks it’s open to spot any issues.

2 p.m.: Walk the dog over to Thai lunch

After visiting the shop, I’ll walk my dog over to Her Thai in Mid-City to pick up lunch. I love their pad Thai and Thai iced tea, and I usually get my order to go and bring it home. The Thai tea is especially good. Her Thai is run by the same people who own Met Her at a Bar and Met Him at a Bar, and they are all great.

4 p.m.: Indulge in an afternoon bath

I love taking a bath during the day, even though it feels a bit unusual. I only get the chance on Sundays. I don’t really use bath time to relax, but I do find it sparks my creativity. When I’m in the bath, I come up with ideas for scripts or plan out my work for the week. It might not be the typical way people use their bath time, but it’s something I’ve always enjoyed. My mind is usually focused on work, so that’s where my thoughts go. While I’m in the tub, I like using Cyklar products. Their vitamin C body oils smell great, and adding them to my bath makes me feel productive.

7 p.m.: Enjoy some homemade pasta at a cozy neighborhood cafe

Then I’d have dinner at Met Him at a Bar, my favorite spot. I really like the restaurant’s vibe. They offer both indoor and outdoor seating, and it reminds me of a New York street corner. The restaurant serves Italian food and makes its pasta from scratch. Their Brussels sprout appetizer with balsamic glaze is amazing. The cocktails are great too. Since it’s just a few blocks from my house, I can walk there if I want to have a drink.

10 p.m.: Content planning while watching true crime documentaries

I love watching TV from bed. On Sunday nights, I usually plan content for the week and check what’s trending. I try to relax and come up with new ideas. I’m really into crime documentaries, which are very different from the content I make at home. I like how real they are, even if they aren’t uplifting. I can work on my phone and look up when something interesting happens. I also enjoy YouTube videos about home content, Mr. Kate, how things are made and soothing ASMR reels. It’s my guilty pleasure and helps me unwind.

A note from Wild Card host Rachel Martin: George Saunders is considered one of the master storytellers of our time. He uses humor and empathy to draw readers into characters and situations that stick deeply in the imagination.

He also seems like a guy totally preoccupied with the liminal space between the living and the dead. And I dig this because I am also preoccupied with this in-between-space. It was the setting for his best selling book “Lincoln in the Bardo” and of his newest novel, “Vigil.”

As he rolled up in front of my Van Nuys duplex, his teal Ford Tempo shimmering in the speckled fall sun, a wave of first-date excitement flooded my system.

Leaning across the center console, he flung open the passenger door.

“Sorry,” he said brightly, “I threw up in that seat on the 405 yesterday, but I think I mostly cleaned it up.”

I paused, looked at the seat and then back at his hopeful, earnest face.

“I ate vitamins on an empty stomach then sat in traffic,” he said with a shrug.

Well, I thought, at least it was just partially digested vitamins and not a carne asada burrito. It could be worse.

Deciding to be the cool girl, I slid into the not-quite-clean seat and took a deep breath.

Brian was 6 feet 4 and a moppy-haired brunette musician with magnetic stage presence. We’d met through a mutual friend from his band, a guy who made me laugh by drawing inappropriate images on my spiral notebooks in my theater classes at Cal State Northridge.

The week before, I’d watched them play a show in Calabasas and felt something shift. Onstage, Brian closed his eyes when he sang, swaying slightly offbeat as his wild waves caught the light. I was smitten.

Our first date unfolded on a stylish vintage couch in a cafe rumored to have once belonged to someone from punk-rock band NOFX. We sipped tea. This man had never had a sip of alcohol in his life, by choice, which felt both bizarre and wildly exotic to me at the time. I worried the absence of cocktails might make the night awkward. Instead, we talked for hours, our words tumbling over each other like we’d been rehearsing for years.

Within six months, he’d moved into my apartment. From there, we leapfrogged to Venice, then Marina del Rey and finally to Mar Vista, where we bought our second home and planted ourselves like people who understood picket fences. Two extraordinary children later, we had built something that looked, from the outside, like a Hallmark movie with much better music. I would stand in our kitchen at dusk, the marine layer settling in, peaceful as I loaded the dishwasher in a life I hadn’t necessarily seen for myself.

Then life, because it always does, began to press.

In 2019, my mother-in-law suffered a stroke and moved into our home while she recovered. I love her deeply and was grateful we could care for her. However. Caregiving inside a tiny West L.A. “bungalow” (as my MIL kindly referred to it) magnified everything from love to exhaustion. We survived it, yet hadn’t fully exhaled when the COVID-19 pandemic arrived like a cosmic reminder of how life loves a dramatic arc.

Suddenly, we were always home. Always in each other’s line of sight, always negotiating space that didn’t exist. I would often escape to our tiny yard for another DIY project, clutching coffee or whiskey like a flotation device and internally screaming in his direction: “Why are you always here?”

My chronic illness flared, and fear hovered over me like smog. Both sets of our parents were aging rapidly and reminding us of our own mortality. Grief layered itself over everything, but we kept the children steady and the house functioning. We kept showing up as best we could.

Yet somewhere along the way, large pieces of ourselves went missing.

In 2023, I fled to Mexico City with a friend. In photographs from that week, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. She was heavy, pale; her eyes dulled and vacant. I realized I had become a highly efficient machine for other people’s needs and had lost track of my own.

Months later, on a routine mental health walk near the Mar Vista park, I heard a podcast clip that stopped me in my tracks. “Life is a melting ice cube,” Mel Robbins said casually.

I physically froze on the sidewalk.

A melting ice cube.

Every time I passed that corner I thought about it, how this life was dripping away whether we were awake inside it or not.

That night I told Brian something had to change. I didn’t know what it meant. I just knew I could not continue living a version of life that felt like survival instead of participation.

As the friend he has always been, he listened.

Over the next year, we experimented. We tried reshaping our marriage into something more expansive. We tried an open relationship. We tried to rediscover the spark that had once felt effortless. What we discovered instead was that the truest thing between us had always been friendship.

So we separated.

Here’s the part people don’t expect to hear: It didn’t destroy us.

Somehow, without the pressure of being everything to each other, we became better. We are kinder and more honest. We parent as a team who spends holidays together and we will head to Coachella soon to complain about the bus lines amid total exhaustion yet again.

I turned 50 in the middle of the unraveling, sandwiched somewhere in the chaos of a second painful surgery and my mother’s death. To mark the end of a massive season in my life, I went to Spain for two months. I walked unfamiliar streets with music carrying me on its wings, ate dinner at 10 p.m. and remembered who I was when no one needed me to be anything in particular.

I came home a different person.

Now, Brian and I date other people. We talk on the phone most days about the kids, life and whatever absurd situation the world has thrown at us. We take it day by day, week by week, like adults who have finally accepted that certainty is an illusion.

Someone recently called our story “so L.A.”

I smiled.

Los Angeles has always been a city of reinvention, of artists and dreamers, and of people brave enough to admit when something needs to evolve. This city taught me how to chase a musician in a teal Ford Tempo. It also taught me how to build a family and how to let go without burning everything down.

Love does not always look the way we expect. Sometimes it transforms and sometimes it softens into something steadier and less cinematic.

Evolution is not failure; it is movement, and movement (even when it hurts) is proof you are still alive inside your life.

In Los Angeles of all places, I know how to begin again.

The author is a Los Angeles–based novelist and essayist. She writes about love, reinvention and modern relationships. Find her on Instagram: @marykathrynholmes.

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.