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SCENARIO 3: STUCK WITH YOU

Agreement—yes, and—is the one improv rule that should never be broken, and the most difficult rule for partners in crisis. Nothing is too small to fight about; I’ve seen spouses spend fifty minutes arguing over the most efficient route for the five-minute drive home. Partners who can’t agree on little things often worry they won’t know how to work together when big things happen, like illness and loss.

Now that you’ve established new pathways ofcommunication, Scenario 3 is aboutcollaboration. At this point in your relationship journey, we’re ready to raise the stakes, to keep everyone engaged. Invent a situation where yourcharacters get into big trouble, then work together to find your way to safety. Make the problem something nobody could solve alone. How about a perilous journey, a time-sensitive crisis, or a delicate diplomatic situation?

Tip: Don’t get sucked into disagreements—remember, conflict makes bad improv. Arguments keep the scene small, when the point of this scenario is to go big!

—The Second Chances Handbook

McHuge’s book is like a backcountry trip with no ops support: unnecessarily rough.

After our breakthrough last week, I expected Tobin and me to be on a stable, linear path, either toward reconciliation, or toward breaking up. It should be predictable, moving from ten to one, or the other way around, one number at a time.

The Highway to Hell trail is the perfect metaphor for the path we’re actually on: a rocky, muddy mountain trail made of upward scrambles sandwiched by steep downhill switchbacks.

Today is not a majestic day on the way to Hell. It’s a beautiful route in summer, starting from the cool, evergreen-scented shade of the forest, breaking through the tree line into purple-flowered alpine meadows framed by majestic peaks and soaring, narrow waterfalls, ending in the crumbly, swirling black rock formations of the hot springs. You might spot a grizzly lumbering across a neighboring slope, heading home after a morning spent fishing in a lake bluer than the sky.

In summer, the mountains will take your heart and not give it back.

But at the beginning of May, the conditions are at peak sloppiness. The no-see-ums—half the size of mosquitoes and twice as thirsty—come with the thawing ground. Disappointed tourists slump back down the trail at 10A.M., too early to have gotten morethan halfway to the hot springs. Bloodied by bites, they look ready to snatch the bug netting right off my hat.

Tobin sends me a brazen grin, black paisley bandanna tied low over his nose, crude eyeholes snipped slightly too close together. It’s all very Dread Pirate Roberts. He did specify a shipboard theme, but when he said he’d be dressing appropriately, I thought he meant what I’m wearing: full-body coverage against every hazard.

“There are no costumes in improv,” I point out acidly.

“I thought you’d like this. You could join me next time. They have lots of five-dollar dresses at Thrift Town.” He smooths his puffy black shirt, inviting me to admire.

Unlike me, Tobin can wear a costume on a public trail without getting mercilessly mocked. He’s not afraid of judgment, so somehow nobody judges him. Quite the opposite, in fact; a couple of dudes have tried to high-five him.

I make a mental note:McHuge correct. If you’re okay, audience okay.

One hand on the wheel of our imaginary ship, Tobin strides across the marsh where we’re seeking hidden treasure, in complete control of himself and the scenario.

“One of us should watch for swamp fire. The last thing we need is a hole in our hull. All we have to do is steer around it, and we’re home free.” He looks supremely piratical in his tight black pants and swashbuckling smile. I feel like a sullen stowaway in my jeans and boots and bug hat. And bad attitude.

“You mean, allyouhave to do is steer around it.”

He looks at me askance.

Two days ago, when he touched my crooked smile, hesawme in a way nobody else does. But he doesn’t see who Icouldbe. He’s comfortably in charge; I’m supposed to go along, I guess.

When he and I were both river guides, I thought we made a good team. Some of my clients inevitably wanted to switch to the“fun” boat. But some of his passengers were happy to come with me and listen to the wind and the water, instead of another twenty verses of “Barrett’s Privateers.” That’s where I had the idea for the quiet tours I semi-pitched to Sharon.

By chance, a family reunion got canceled at the same time a camp chief—the expedition manager, chef, and concierge rolled into one—quit. West by North needed one less river guide, and one more cook. Me.

Looking back, that was the turning point in my career. I still had a job, but I couldn’t help noticing how uniform the guides were without me. All men, all cast in the same extroverted mold. There was one right way to be a guide, and my way wasn’t it.

After that, Tobin got a zillion opportunities to sharpen the leadership skills he already had, rising from guide to expedition leader to head guide. I got shunted in the opposite direction: cook, paper pusher, second banana in a one-person ops department. Our reputation for loud, nonstop good times drew more and more loud, nonstop clients. Even if I’d gotten my raft back the next summer, there would’ve been no one who wanted to ride with me.

Who would I be, if the company had chosen leaders with diverse skill sets instead of the same kind of person over and over? If I’d insisted on being the front person in our marriage sometimes, instead of relegating myself to a supporting role?

They’re hard to break, these routines we’ve made. I hate my part in creating this one, where I point out the places we shouldn’t go, and he gets to decide where we should.

“I fear there may be creatures in the depths,” he prompts. “Alligators. Snakes.”

“You could go look.”

“I’m steering. I need you in the crow’s nest.” He braces his legs against the iron-gray waves, wiping salt spray from his face. Wetand cold are nothing to him. A pirate captain doesn’t feel such things, much as he doesn’t notice pain or sadness.