Jake and I rustled under the covers in our plush, king-sized bed. Rain lashed against the windows. Despite the hangover curdling my stomach, I felt content knowing I’d held my own as his plus-one at the prior night’s wedding.

As I untangled myself from the bedsheets, he whispered, “I hope you don’t plan to steal all my friends when we break up.”

This wasn’t the first time we had spoken about the dissolution of our relationship, but it was the first time Jake had brought other people into bed with us. I felt a lightning bolt crack through the wall, directly into my nervous system.

Still, I didn’t hesitate before smiling sweetly back up at him and lying: “Oh, of course not.”

I hadn’t planned to date seriously when Jake and I met. Instead, I spent my 20s romantically unattached, organising book clubs and weekly dinners for the friends I propagated like pothos clippings.

I imagined sowing each of these cuttings into a garden, and attentively tending to these sprouting relationships as they nourished, sheltered, and supported me. I didn’t see any need for romance with a garden already so full.

My best friend, Katie – madly in love with her own boyfriend – didn’t understand this set of priorities. We squabbled about it endlessly until she responded with an OkCupid profile using my name, photos, and a description of me so insightful that I burst into tears after reading it.

I agreed to consider anyone she vetted through the app’s DMs. Eventually, Katie sent me a profile: a lanky boy with two left ear piercings, crouched in a cornfield. My born-and-bred Midwestern heart sang.

Suddenly, Jake became my first boyfriend. I pictured him in a place of honour in my garden.

We bonded over chaotic work schedules and eccentric hobbies (him: fire juggling; me: collecting National Park junior ranger badges). Yet we repeatedly danced on the edge of breakup. Over brunches, during long car rides, on a rooftop at sunset, we battled over Jake’s fear of making a “wrong choice” while pretending I wasn’t, in fact, one of those “choices” open for discussion.

But there was always something to hold off the death blow: a global pandemic or a downstairs neighbour’s sudden, inharmonious, a cappella rendition of Landslide in the middle of a mounting argument.

I decided that if we weren’t going to break up, I would treat this like all the other relationships I maintained: if I was going to commit, I was going to commit. I began to relish having a boyfriend – someone who could finally reach the top of my cabinets, a default plus-one for parties, and send me daily texts wishing me a good morning.

I had stumbled headfirst into love (my first love!), and it was easy enough to convince myself that when Jake asked for my patience, it meant he saw a future for us.

After a few months of dating, Jake introduced me to his friends. They hung out frequently and overcommitted to themed activities monthly, often hosted by his brother and sister-in-law, Emily. There were trolley trips to Medieval Times, Formula 1 watch parties, and the social event of the year: an all-day marathon of The Lord of the Rings films.

I beamed any time Emily added me to a new text thread for an upcoming party or a more intimate “girls only” event. It felt natural to incorporate the group into my garden, and by the time I was Jake’s wedding plus-one, I knew I’d earned the invitation in my own right.

Meanwhile, I feigned ignorance of how these friendships felt like a protective layer of roots stabilising my rocky romance, preventing its further erosion.

The author planning a Ruth Reichl-themed dinner party for friends in 2017.

Four years into our relationship, Jake told me that he was going to move to Los Angeles for work. Whenever I tried to steer conversations toward our future, he folded into himself. I wondered if, all along, I’d refused to listen when Jake said he’d never been able to commit to anything.

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