Jake and I rustled under the covers in our plush, king-sized bed. Rain lashed against the windows. Despite the hangover curdling my stomach, I felt content knowing I’d held my own as his plus-one at the prior night’s wedding. As I untangled myself from the bedsheets, he whispered, “I hope you don’t plan to steal all my friends when we break up.”
This wasn’t the first time we had spoken about the dissolution of our relationship, but it was the first time Jake had brought other people into bed with us. I felt a lightning bolt crack through the wall, directly into my nervous system.
Still, I didn’t hesitate before smiling sweetly back up at him and lying:
“Oh, of course not.”
I hadn’t planned to date seriously when Jake and I met. Instead, I spent my 20s romantically unattached, organizing book clubs and weekly dinners for the friends I propagated like pothos clippings. I imagined sowing each of these cuttings into a garden, and attentively tending to these sprouting relationships as they nourished, sheltered, and supported me. I didn’t see any need for romance with a garden already so full.
