“That’s why Judy’s here!” Gary says, rescuing me finally. “She loves curated experiences.” We look for our cards, and when we find them, we realize that we’ve been separated, seated at opposite tables.

“You’re at table two and I’m at table one,” I say.

“It’s probably a mistake,” Gary says. “I’m just the last-minute add-on.”

Gregory, who has remained within earshot of us to my great annoyance, shakes his head. “No mistake. We always separate couples. They need to learn how to disconnect from each other and form bonds with other people. To achieve their own noble journey. It’s all part of the creative process,” he says, drawing out the alllll. “Learning to trust others and to trust ourselves instead of always leaning on our spouses.”

We both laugh.

“What’s so funny about self-differentiation?”

Gary fills a heavy earthen mug with coffee from a thermal pitcher and grabs a sticky bun from a platter that no one else has touched. There are small bowls of brown sugar and honey and what I think is agave, and I pray that he doesn’t accessorize his bun with condiments clearly meant for the beverages, something he often does either accidentally or on purpose because he loves sugar so much.

“It’s just a private joke, my dude,” Gary says humorlessly, his voice edgy, then reaches to grab a napkin. “Judy and I aren’t like other couples. We’re actually quite disconnected from each other already.” It sounds like a joke, and Gregory’s face softens just enough to assure me that we’re not going to be asked to leave. “In fact,” Gary continues, his tone slightly warmer, “we’re experts in ‘self-differentiation.’ We’re officially separated but we can’t afford to live separately, so we just live in opposites parts of the house so that we can continue to co-parent our son as if nothing’s wrong. So if you guys get tired later we could probably run things for a while.”

I’m grateful when Gary finally bites into his sticky bun and stops talking. And then I do what I always do when things get awkward with people we barely know: I thank Gary for his honesty.

“We’re supposed to be honest here, aren’t we though?” he says, suddenly loud enough for everyone at the place-card coffee table to hear. Clearly he’s been triggered and we’re not done yet. “Why shouldn’t Gregory know the truth? I’m not ashamed of us, Judy. Are you?”

“This guy!” I roll my eyes and laugh, then motion for him to wipe the crumbs and stray pecan from his chin. Of course I’m ashamed!

People are staring now. They always stare. Today it may be because Gary is the only male seminar attendee, or because he is the only one eating the proffered carbs. But usually it’s his energy and the differential in our demeanors. He vibrates with the hypervigilance of the superanxious—his eyes are always scanning a room, assessing his fight-or-flight options, while I’m completely contained, almost reptilian in my stillness. Which is my own version of hypervigilance: I’m always waiting for Gary to panic, to make a scene, so I try to take up less space and air than he does. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath since we met, unable to fully inhale or exhale; as if there isn’t enough room in the world for both of us.