I’m never doing that again, he’d say in the car, vibrating and agitated. I’m never going to another dinner like that again. I can’t take it.

I would close my eyes, and sigh, and look out the window. Did other couples suffer this much? Did all husbands unravel after only an hour or two of harmlessly annoying parents? I’d stare out into the darkness, trying to focus on houses and trees and storefronts and street signs, but I could never see past those questions.

Sometimes I wished I’d married someone who loved to entertain, who filled the house with people every weekend, dimming lights and pouring drinks and explaining where the cheese was from and how we’d first discovered the wine we were serving. But every part of that fantasy was ridiculous: when we’d met, Gary was already sober, and people had annoyed him even then. And maybe it was for the best, since once my career started to wane, I found it easier not to have to explain why yet another book I’d written hadn’t been reviewed or wasn’t being stocked in giant stacks at Costco, or why another television possibility wasn’t going to happen. So when we stopped having anywhere to go, and anyone to go with, I couldn’t help but think that, like everything else I had somewhat willingly given up, it was almost better that way. Leaving the social scene early had made things easier for both of us.

It was Gary’s idea to stop socializing as a couple—for the simple reason that we weren’t a couple anymore—wasn’t that what separation was all about?—so the idea of having to socialize with Sari and her husband is making me nervous. Not only are we out of practice, but it’s also entirely possible that given Gary’s recent truth-bomb of telling me about his fling with the young CEO and the stress of the trip, we could make a scene. It’s entirely possible that the center will not hold.

* * *

“Tell me again how you know Sari?” Gary asks. We’re at a Dunkin’ Donuts, drinking coffee, eating Munchkins, taking a break to strategize and recalculate.

“Sari Epstein,” I correct.

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you just said ‘Sari.’ But you have to say her first and last name. Sari Epstein.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s one of those people where you have to say both names.”

He rolls his eyes—okay. Anyway—then repeats his question.

“She’s a really successful creativity expert.”

“Define ‘successful’ and ‘expert,’” he says while I glare at him. “Does she have a TV show?”

“No.”

“Has she won awards?”

“Not exactly.”

“Bestsellers?”

I shrug. “She’s never written a book. Unless you count coloring books.”

Gary stares at me. “Then how is she so successful?”

“She has a podcast.”

He snorts. “Everyone has a podcast.”

“And she’s on social media. She has really big Twitter and Instagram followings that focus on authenticity and courage and how to unlock the creative spirit.”

Gary’s eyes glaze over. “Sounds like bullshit to me.”