“I thought there had to be a more humane way to dissolve marriages,” Seth says. “So when I made partner, I hired an in-house family systems psychologistwho specializes in divorce, and I encourage all of my clients to work with her. I also steer them toward private mediation. It’s not always pleasant, obviously, but we’ve had a lot of success in guiding couples to amicable resolutions outside of court, even in situations that begin acrimoniously.”
I’m not sold.
“Good for you. You’ll have to forgive me for being skeptical.”
He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry for what he put you through. With your mom. I’ve never forgotten it.”
He’s alluding to the fact that my mother had a complete nervous breakdown during the divorce, and my father left me, his pubescent daughter, as her primary emotional support system. She’s apologized for that—the two of us even did family therapy. But it made my teenage years incredibly difficult.
“Thanks,” I say. “She’s great now. She starteddatingsomeone last year. She won’t really say how serious it is, but suddenly she’s been on me to ‘let my guard down and open myself up to love,’ like she’s Oprah.”
He laughs. “Good to hear it.”
Talking about myself in relation to romantic attachment is making me uncomfortable.
“Anyway,” I say, “why are you bored?”
“Well, I’m pretty much at the top of the game. But I feel a little bit like I’ve plateaued.”
“Can you do something else? Like, say, not divorces?”
“I’ve toyed with the idea of starting a nonprofit legal clinic. Or my own firm. But I don’t want to get really busy with work and then have kids and no time for them.”
I get a strange twinge of affection that he’s thinking of this. Taking care of his future children. He’s so…good.
“Got it,” I say, because Seth’s quest for a family is another unsettling topic to be discussing.
And that’s where the flow of conversation dries up.
There’s a pause so long I almost consider turning on NPR. It eats at me that I can’t seem to sustain a comfortable chat with Seth, a person I have never been unable to talk to. In fact, several of the best conversations of my life have been with Seth. Which is saying a lot, given we were under the age of eighteen when we had them.
But he seems as reticent as I am on the topic of his future.
“How is your family?” I finally ask, feeling like I’m checking off conversational boxes. Next, I’m going to be inquiring into his fitness routine and sleep schedule.
He smiles. “Amazing. I was actually with Dave and the kids last month. We drove up to Pigeon Forge and went to Dollywood. It was wild.”
“You did not! It’s mydreamto go to Dollywood.”
He smiles at me wryly. “I don’t know. You have a pretty rocky relationship with theme parks, if I recall.”
“Oh God. Don’t bring that up.”
He is referring to when we went on an “ironic” date to a cheesy, second-rate water park in Central Florida and I almost died.
“Only you would commit a near-fatal error getting onto a water slide,” he says.
I rolled my ankle trying to get on a raft, slipped into the water, and was nearly sucked down the steep tube of “rapids” on my ass. Luckily Seth grabbed me, and I wasn’t hurt, but I think I am single-handedly responsible for millions of dollars of additional safety features at the Ocala Splash Attack.
I still feel emotional thinking of that day. How Seth held me as we climbed off the ride, me crying, him squeezing water out of my hair. It was romantic teenage trauma-bonding at its finest—like we were inside a John Green novel. We really do have the profile of two romance tropes. Seth the sensitive, cinnamon roll of a boy, and me the manic pixie dream girl. (Or manic pixie nightmare, more accurately.)
“I genuinely thought you were going to drown,” Seth says. “I couldn’t breathe for hours. Maybe days. Actually, I kind of can’t breathe right now, remembering it.”
He puts his face to the air conditioner vent and takes exaggerated gulps of air.
I pat his back. “Easy there. Head between your legs.”
He laughs but stiffens under my touch.
