How Do the Scales Balance?

I see possibilities. I always have. And I'm creative. So when Aaron asked me if I could ever see an exception to remaining monogamous, of course I could think of one. Actually I came up with several almost immediately. Stranded after a plane crash. Coerced to save Annie's or Kiley's or Aaron's life. A couples swap with Aaron's consent. And maybe that thunderbolt that sometimes happens. I'm sure I could have come up with more. But they were exceptions: by definition the probability of them happening was extremely low. I tried to explain that.

"But the chance is not zero, Till. And with the addition of each possible exception the total risk of you fucking someone else again increases. I can't live with it hanging over our marriage. I can't. You've devastated me, Tilly. I have no reserves to survive another blow."

And so he devastated me in turn.

I was depressed for many months after he filed for divorce, but I had to put on my big-girl pants every day to keep our girls going and to win clients for our firm. I didn't have the luxury of moping around, and since I am a proponent of the fake-it-til-you-make-it approach to problems I put on my best face every day. But the nights in my bed alone were hard, and when Aaron had the girls -- we shared custody, splitting weeks between us -- I ate many pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream. And cried. A lot.

Aaron wasn't faring any better. I knew him so well, and I could see his profound sadness. His jovial, easy-going manner had evaporated, and he looked so pensive and even lost whenever he wasn't talking to someone. But no matter how often I implored him to come home to me, he wouldn't. I finally realized he needed to return to me on his own; nothing I could say would make a difference. And maybe that's when I saw how much I had really hurt him. He'd always looked to me for counsel. He trusted my opinions, at least before. And now he didn't.

Randy was long gone by the time I was ready to date. He was divorced as well. His wife Trish heard Aaron very clearly that night. Randy was caught flat-footed, and he couldn't spin the news in any way that helped him. He had much less success with his divorce than we did with ours. Aaron and I parted amicably and we stayed friendly for the kids, but Trish went hardcore scorched-earth on Randy. They had small kids too, but she got custody and he got the bill. He left our firm when a sales manager position opened up at a competitor, but he had to move to Chicago for it. I felt as badly for him as for me -- the sex wasn't worth the price, but I had wonder why it had been so expensive for all concerned.

I didn't face any repercussions at work. I told Jim and Frank a sanitized version of the reason for my divorce and assured them that I wouldn't put the firm at risk again. They let me know they were disappointed, but I was a rainmaker for them, and I'm sure they looked the other way as much for that as for any grace they felt for me.

I started dating about a year after the divorce was final. Men began asking me out as soon as the news of my impending divorce started circulating, but it took me that long before I was ready to admit my marriage was probably over. I was feeling very lonely, and so I dipped my toes back into the pool, agreeing to lunch dates with a few different men. I didn't sleep with any of them even though I was very horny; I kept hoping Aaron would come back, and I wanted to be able to tell him I'd been faithful. The irony didn't escape me -- not faithful when we were married but faithful when it was over. Sex still didn't matter to me, but it clearly mattered a lot to Aaron, and I wanted to have something of value to give him if he chose to take me back.

After another year apart it seemed Aaron had found a center in his life. I didn't know if he was seeing anyone. We didn't discuss dates, and, though I never asked the girls directly, their recaps of their time with Aaron didn't include any women. But he seemed settled when we saw each other, and if he didn't seem exactly happy then he looked to be at least content. I had given up hope for us at that point, which helped me be open to other people. Which led me to Bob.

We met through work. He had a family office, and I sold him on our services. I took him to dinner to celebrate the deal, and then he asked me to dinner to talk more personally. He was a widower of four years, about ten years older than me, with no children. He wasn't opposed to them; his wife hadn't been able to conceive. He'd grieved for two years, then slowly opened his heart. I could relate.

Bob mostly healed me. I'll always have the scar from Aaron's rejection, but Bob was tender and thoughtful and funny. He wasn't a handsome man -- he was plain, not large or small, not especially noticeable -- but his heart was big and warm and it just wrapped me up. He also saw things in shades of gray, and he said he couldn't imagine how a perfect marriage could be demolished by a couple episodes of meaningless sex.

I didn't know how I'd feel if Aaron was the first one of us to move on with a new partner, so I was very nervous before I told him about Bob and me moving in together. Our talk was anticlimactic though. Aaron was gracious.

"I'm happy you've found someone, Till." He smiled at me, genuinely happy. "You've always had excellent taste in partners, so I'm sure he's a good man."

I couldn't help it. I lunged and hugged him, but he tensed in my arms. I sighed inside. He'd never release the hurt I caused him.

Bob and I bought a four-bedroom house near where Aaron and I had lived. We wanted a fresh start. During and after the divorce I'd stayed in our old house to keep things as normal as possible for the kids, and Aaron had purchased a three-bedroom condo not far away in the same school district. The kids incorporated Bob into our arrangement almost seamlessly, I think largely because he was so easy-going and because Annie was still a couple years away from adolescent rebellion.

I still think about Aaron often.

I want him to be happy. I hope he will be one day. I try not to dwell on what could have been, if only. If only he'd been more flexible. If only he'd been more open. If only he'd have let me help him heal from his pain. But then I guess he wouldn't have been Aaron, my perfect partner.

My almost-perfect partner.

* * * * *

I'd met Bob, but I'd never spoken to him beyond bland pleasantries when I picked up or dropped off the girls. He seemed like a decent guy, maybe a little boring, which coming from me was a little rich. I was at his house -- his and Tilly's house -- for Kiley's eighth-birthday party, and we were the only two men there. Tilly and a couple of other mothers were riding herd on the dozen or so girl berserkers charging around the yard, and neither they nor the kids had need of two older guys, so we sat in camp chairs on the patio and watched the frenzy. We'd covered the Twins' travails, handicapped the Vikings' chances, bemoaned the hot spell from the past week, and that pretty much ran us out of innocuous topics. We were quiet a moment or two, sipping our Molsons, when Bob spoke.

"I don't mean to put you on the spot, Aaron, but how could you let Tilly get away? I mean, look at her. She's beautiful, smart, fun. She's a great mother, an amazing cook, and an incredible lover too. She's the whole package."

I'd given it a lot of thought in the years since our marriage imploded. He was right in his observations. Tilly was an impressive woman. She'd also gutted me, and it took a couple years of therapy for me to realize that I was better without the doubt she brought to my life. A partner is supposed to make things easier, smoother, lift you up. Doubt in a partner is insidious. It poisons every moment, adding stress instead of taking it away. I couldn't live with that, and my grief at losing my marriage kept me from seeing that truth for a while. But once I saw it, I felt so much peace. I shrugged.

"We just weren't the right partners for each other."

"I like to think that I'd fight to keep someone like that, not throw her aside."

"Well, I hope you never have to do that, Bob."

He shook his head. He didn't get it either. I smiled and drank my beer. They were a better fit than Tilly and I had ever been.

That thought didn't bother me. I was over Tilly, and I was glad she was over me. Despite the pain I'd felt at her betrayal I didn't want her to suffer. She didn't mean to hurt me. She really was just the wrong partner for me.

Besides, I had something of a secret.

I met Dierdre -- Dee -- about nine months before. I'd been doing a little self-improvement since the divorce, taking cooking classes, joining a book club, and I'd bought a road bike for cycling. Dee and I met on a group ride, and we rode at about the same pace, so we spent most of that ride together. We sat next to each other at the coffee that ends each ride, and then did it again two weeks later. She was witty and well-informed on a lot of things that interested me too, so I asked her to join me for a stroll around the art museum and then lunch the following Sunday. That led to dinners, movies, and, after five evening dates, sex. Really good sex.

Dee was a project manager for Verizon, divorced six years with a ten-year-old daughter, which put Nadine between Annie and Kiley. Tall and thin, Dee usually bubbled with playful energy, but she was all business when it was time to get something done. As you'd expect from a project manager who was mostly a single mother -- her ex had Nadine every other weekend -- she was hyper organized and a little bossy. We shared a surprising number of interests: both of our playlists featured The Strokes and Muse, "Pulp Fiction" was at the top of our best-movies list (I liked it for Willem Dafoe but Dee was all about Uma Thurman), and we were pragmatically progressive politically (we live in Minnesota after all). When we were together we found that time passed without us noticing. And we were both sticklers for monogamy.

We'd been keeping a low profile, mainly to make sure we were compatible before involving the kids. I don't know how long Tilly had been seeing Bob before she introduced him to the girls, but I wanted to be sure that Dee and I were destined for a long relationship before taking that step.

And we were almost there. Dee and I had driven up to Duluth to meet my folks at their summer cottage a couple weeks before; she charmed them, and we left feeling very supported. We didn't want to steal any thunder from Kiley's birthday, so we decided to wait until next week to break the news to our daughters. We weren't sure when we'd do the in-person meeting, but it wouldn't be too much longer after that.

And then?

Who really knew exactly? The ending of my marriage to Tilly sucked as badly as I feared, but I felt both stronger and wiser on the other side of that terrible journey. I felt secure and completely grounded with Dee. No matter which angle I used, when I looked at our relationship it was true, in balance.

And I liked the odds of keeping it that way.

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