The Arrangement: A Love Story

1

Once Upon a Time in Beverly Hills

I spilled a little champagne in the Uber!

Jordan’s text lit up my iPhone on the bed as I dressed for the evening.

Well, there’s an amusing start to a first date, I thought.

I laced up my black Prada sneakers, the final touch of my characteristically casual outfit—slim fit Levi’s and a black cashmere crew neck—then picked up the device.

Started without me, did you?

She responded with a laughing face emoji. Swear I’m not an alcoholic! I just get nervous meeting men this way.

Can’t blame you for that! I answered. After all, we had met—virtually speaking—on a dating site, and if that wasn’t nerve-inducing enough, it was on SeekingArrangement.com, where beautiful young women and successful older men seek mutually beneficial arrangements.

(That collective gasp of shock would be coming from most of my family and friends, because on the night of January 9, 2019, few knew this fifty-two-year-old, divorced Hollywood film producer was, as they say, a sugar daddy.)

•

Dampened paper towels in hand, I pulled shut the front door to my house—a rosy, cream-plastered two-story with that maroon Spanish tile roof common in my neighborhood of Westwood, California.

Finally stopped raining! I thought. It was such a nice, warm night, I didn’t even need a jacket, a welcome change after a winter so wet that Southern California meteorologists were calling it drought-ending.

I walked to the curb and looked west. I’d ordered the Uber for Jordan, so I knew it would be coming from Venice. (Lux option, of course. Can’t be cheap when you’re a sugar daddy!) But not seeing a single car approaching, I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly—I made a practice of stealing moments to meditate and reflect.

I felt gratitude wash over me. This wasn’t uncommon. I often joked to friends that I’d been born lucky.

In fact, in many ways, my life had been a veritable fairy tale. Once upon a time in Beverly Hills, there lived a prince…it might have been written.

I certainly looked like the embodiment of the phrase Jewish American Prince. At five foot eight and 170 pounds (on a good day) I kept the remains of my brown hair clipped so its recession blended with my tan forehead. Perched below my hazel eyes was that ancestral crook in my nose. (As a teenager, while all my friends were having rhinoplasty, I proudly refused to have my birthright straightened.)

And the royal family was admired throughout the kingdom…

My parents were often called Hollywood Royalty. My father, one of the most successful and respected film producers in the industry, and his wife of nearly sixty years raised my two brothers and me in an eight-bedroom Beverly Hills mansion. With nearly three acres of sculptured gardens, a tennis court, and an Olympic-length pool, all surrounded by a tall stone wall, it was a moat shy of a castle. More impressive still, my parents had forged a harmonious clan—especially in the fame, fortune, and ego-plagued lands of Beverly Hills. My two brothers and our families got along famously, often traveling to Europe and spending weekends together at our Malibu beach house.

But the prince had prospered in his own right…the fairy tale would have described my own royal quests.

Though I’d recently partnered with my father to produce a few critically acclaimed and financially blockbusting movies, I was just as proud of the screenplays, independent films, and television movies I wrote and directed on my own. I’d traveled the globe, flown airplanes and jumped out of them, surfed giant waves, become an ace tennis player, reached near-scratch golfer, and rode motorcycles to my heart’s content. And, of course, I’d embarked on the biggest adventure of all—marriage and children. The former ended in disappointment—come March, it would be four years since my divorce—but the latter was my greatest accomplishment. My two beautiful children were the pride of my royal existence.

So the prince again sought true love’s kiss…would be the next logical passage in this fairy tale.

If I were in any hurry to turn the page, that is. Which I was not. Don’t get me wrong—I didn’t consider myself that cliché man in the crush of a mid-life crisis, chasing young girls to avoid the pain of divorce or of facing mortality. In fact, I considered myself a happy, content, and vibrant man. And I’d emerged from my marriage with relatively few battle scars—my ex-wife and I were not just amicable; we were great friends. But I was truly enjoying this new world of internet dating. The last time I’d been single, I was in my late thirties, and people were still embarrassed to admit they dabbled on the one site—the dial-up version of match.com. But, like a romantic Rip Van Winkle, I’d emerged to discover a world where everyone and their mother were proud to be on Bumble, Tinder, Hinge. And with so many options, who could blame me for not wanting to settle down and get married again so quickly?

As if on cue, I felt a buzzing in my jean pocket. I pulled out my phone and saw that Jordan had texted, Minute away!

Ready for ya!

Standing there like a teenager with first-date butterflies, I decided to refresh myself with Jordan’s Instagram. Nearly a month had gone by since we first matched on Seeking and shared social media; our meeting delayed by a trip I took to Costa Rica with my ex-wife and kids for the Christmas holiday. (Yes, that amicable.)

Naturally, I’d peeked at her Instagram a few times since, but even tonight I was impressed by it. Fifty thousand plus followers strong, Jordan called herself a Wellness Warrior. This tall dirty blonde’s posts were unfiltered and un-Photoshopped pictures of her practicing yoga, modeling fitness clothes, and eating at organic restaurants around Manhattan. (In our messages she’d told me she just moved to Los Angeles.) And, unlike so many women who called themselves influencers but only swayed people with bikini shots and flattering selfies, Jordan’s pictures were downright modest.

But there’s something else about her pictures, I realized. I struggled to define what that else was, but the best words I could come up with were, Jordan just fits…where or how, I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t shake the thought.

I heard a quiet buzzing and looked up to see a white Tesla Model S pulling up the street and into my driveway. I dashed forward to open the rear driver’s side door.

I’m so embarrassed, Jordan gushed as she ducked out, miniature champagne bottle in one hand, plastic cup in the other. She unfolded her frame that was an inch taller than my own and shuffled so that her blue and white-striped silk romper settled on her lithe, natural curves. Long naturally dirty blonde hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be curled or straightened bounced past her shoulders, and she wore only the thinnest sheen of makeup. She had clear blue eyes unafraid of contact, and a small, charming bump protruded from her nose—nearly matching mine, but daintier. But it was her smiling lips that captivated me. Without even a trace of gloss or lipstick, they were invitingly full and pink.

Unable to contain how captivated I was, I blurted out, Jesus, you’re even more beautiful than your pictures!

Hah! Jordan exhaled with a breathy laugh. Thank you. And you have such an infectious smile!

Glad you think so. I gave her a quick hug. Let’s see what kind of mess we have here.

Oh, right. She stepped out of the way with a conspiratorial nod to the driver’s window and a whisper. The guy’s a little annoyed. But I swear, I hardly drink—this stuff’s been sitting in the fridge for ages.

I believe you, I reassured her, then whispered, And don’t worry about him, I tip big.

She laughed. I bet you do.

I climbed into the back to find the smallest circle of spillage on the seat—certainly nothing that warranted the death stares the grumpy driver shot us—and mopped it up.

Let me get rid of those… Jordan leaned into the car to retrieve the sodden towels and scurried to the trash containers waiting for side-walk collection.

I slid over in the seat and watched her dump them, the cup, and bottle into the blue recycling bins. Thinks about the environment, I noted—a not insignificant detail to a liberal democrat who believed in global warming.

Crisis averted! Jordan announced as she darted back into the car and pulled her door shut.

The car lurched backward before making a sharp turn and peeling down the street. Jordan and I exchanged comically indignant looks and quickly reached for our seat belts.

Little did I know how much we’d need them for the fairy-tale romance ahead.

2

A Genuine Arrangement

This place is so lovely, Jordan gushed as she made the most subtle of glances around the restaurant. We sat nestled in a quiet corner table at The Ivy in West Hollywood. By day, its patio was a scene of lunching celebrities perched over the sidewalk of Robertson Boulevard, inviting paparazzi to stalk them. But in the evenings, it became one of the town’s hidden romantic gems, with candles illuminating bundles of fresh flowers spilling out of Delft vases.

And nice and quiet, I pointed out. Call me crazy, but I actually want to hear what the person across the table has to say.

Crazy, Jordan teased.

I smiled appreciatively and reached for my water glass. Water was all Jordan had asked of our waiter after his cocktail pitch, and being only a social drinker, I followed suit. Frankly, I was relieved—after that champagne spill, it was nice to know the girl wasn’t an alcoholic.

To finally meeting! I toasted.

Cheers! she sang with an enthusiastic pitch matching the clink of our glasses. So how was Costa Rica? she asked.

Amazing. Have you ever been down there?

I wish.

"It’s truly a special place. We had an American guide who took us to all these private beaches, but it’s the people I’ll remember. They greet you by saying, pura vida. It means the simple life."

Love that! Jordan said, then flushed. I admit I might have stalked your Instagram while you were down there.

Considering my own deep dive into her social media, I conceded, I’ll take it as a compliment.

You have such beautiful children. Although, I couldn’t get over seeing your ex-wife in so many of the pictures.

Right, I said with a knowing grin. Jordan wouldn’t be the first date to note my social media and ask if I was really divorced. But trust me, we’re just good friends. Check out her Instagram. You’ll see she was posting about our ‘conscious uncoupling’ long before Gwyneth Paltrow.

I believe you. Seriously though, I hope you don’t mind my prying into your personal life. I know a lot of men on Seeking are looking for something discreet.

I shook my head. "I’m an open book. I mean, I’m publicly very discreet, but only because people are so judgmental. They think being a sugar daddy makes you some old lecher."

Jordan gave a comical shiver. Oh, but don’t you hate being called that? Sugar daddy, sugar baby…

It’s a little infantilizing, but I’ve learned to laugh about it. If the shoe fits…

She leaned forward and lowered her volume tactfully. "I pretty much feel the same—what consenting adults do behind closed doors is nobody’s business. But I do think there’s a difference between what I do and escorting."

I matched her lean. Tell me.

She cocked her head to the side. "I guess I feel it’s different because I’m not meeting strangers in hotel rooms. I choose who I date and get to know them first. And I signed up for this—literally."

I was impressed by how succinctly she’d described my own beliefs. In the perennial debate between feminists, I came down on the sex work positive side. Unless a woman was coerced into prostitution by human traffickers or pimps forcing her to trade tricks for drugs, I believed what any woman chose to do with her body should be legal and stigma-free.

Anonymous encounters don’t do it for me either, I said. Jesus, half of the men in Hollywood have madams on speed dial.

It’s the same with Wall Street guys in New York.

Right—you came to Los Angeles what, a month ago?

Less! Two weeks ago, I was up to my waist in dirty New York snow, and now I’m in this amazing apartment a bike ride from Muscle Beach!

I love Venice, I said. What prompted the move?

Oh, God, I guess it was a little impulsive, Jordan sighed. I’d been thinking of coming out here to try getting some acting work, and I mentioned as much to a friend. He said he knew a guy looking to do a swap and spend some time in Manhattan, so we linked up. He’s at my spot for at least three months, maybe more if I can find some work.

The universe provides… I said all too casually. But in truth, her admission that she harbored dreams of acting wasn’t the most appealing trait for me. First off, when I did the obligatory Google search of her, I saw that she had only a few off-off and off-off-off Broadway theater credits, but no real film or television experience to speak of. It was hard for me to get excited about a thirty-year-old inexperienced actor fresh off the proverbial bus in Hollywood. Secondly, I didn’t like muddling my professional and personal life. Even before the #MeToo era, I knew bedding actresses on the casting couch was unethical. And this wasn’t just a moral stance. I didn’t like to believe a woman was only courting me to network. As transactional as an arrangement could be, I wanted mine to feel as genuine as possible—a real chemical attraction with an intellectual, emotional connection.

But personal reservations aside, I didn’t want to sound unsupportive of Jordan’s dreams, so I drummed up a standard Hollywood nicety. By the way, I’d be happy to take a look at your reel and give you some feedback.

Jordan shook her head vehemently. Oh, no. Absolutely not.

I raised an eyebrow. What? You don’t have one, or you don’t want to share it with me?

No—I mean yes, of course I have a reel, and maybe I’ll send it to you one day. It’s just that I don’t want to be a clawing actress who tries to wheedle you into getting me an agent or something. I’m an open book, too, but I’d rather we talk about anything else. If that’s okay.

Okay? I wanted to leap across the table and kiss her! In one sentence she’d answered my paragraph of worry. More than okay, I said and reached for my menu. Let’s talk food, shall we?

Let’s! I’m guessing you’ve been here before, so what do you like? she demurred.

Well, I hesitated, thinking this fitness influencer and actress was probably more worried about caloric intake than taste. You’re probably vegan, vegetarian, paleo, something, right?

Nope! I eat everything.

Really? Even carbs?

Please. Carbs are my soul mate.

I laughed and dared to jest, You may be mine.

•

So tell me about some of your arrangements? Jordan asked as she gathered a few colorful remains from a plate of lobster tacos with her fork.

I pushed my plate of fried chicken smothered in mango chutney away while I searched my dating memory banks for a good story. Well, last summer I dated a woman named Allison…

I paused to let the name sink in. If there was one talent a film producer had to have, it was the ability to pitch a tale.

Details, please! Jordan demanded playfully, putting her fork down and perching herself on her elbows.

We dated last summer. She was forty-two, an ex-fashion model with two kids. She’d had this horrible divorce from a famous artist, and he left her with next to nothing in support. I think it was six hundred dollars a month.

To raise two children?

Obscene, right? He emptied their bank account and cut off her credit cards before he told her he wanted a divorce. Hid all his assets from the judge. Allison could barely afford a decent lawyer.

What an asshole.

I nodded. She lived in Atlanta, so when she didn’t have custody, she’d come and spend a couple weeks here. I helped her pay for an apartment in Santa Monica, gave her an allowance, bought her a bike to tool around on…

Lucky girl, Jordan said with an amused laugh.

I felt silly. Why’d I tell her about the bike? Anyway, we dated for five months. Then one day, Allison told me she’d fallen in love with another guy.

Jordan gave me the most sympathetic stare. I’m sorry.

Wait for it, I urged slyly, knowing the meat of the story was yet to come. You see, before we met, Allison had been webcamming to get by. Apparently, one of her old clients—fans, whatever you call those guys who stay up all night online—wanted to leave his wife for her.

Jordan gasped. No!

Yup. And it gets better. Allison had never even met the guy in person!

Oh. My. God. You must have been furious.

For a minute, maybe. But then I realized I might have dodged a bullet—she clearly wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier. But we remained friends. Although, I did warn Allison that married men are a messy situation, and she should give him six months to see how things played out before uprooting her life to be with him.

Sage advice.

I knew I had arrived at the punch line of my story. "Well, I was wrong. He ran back to his wife in six weeks!"

Jordan gave an animated groan. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry for the woman. And you’re such a catch!

I made a prayer gesture to thank her.

But I guess that begs the question of why you’re even on this crazy site? she asked. It can’t be hard for a man like you to meet women, so why aren’t you on normal sites like Bumble?

I allowed myself a humble smile. What’s a nice guy like me doing in a place like this?

Exactly, she laughed.

The answer is, it isn’t, and I was. After my wife and I split, I tried Bumble, Tinder, Hinge, The League, you name it. And I met some great women. But they all wanted something more serious than I was ready for.

Even on Tinder? That’s a hook-up site.

I know—it’s been hijacked!

Jordan laughed. Yet again, I thought. We shared a sense of humor, that was for sure.

I guess it is for people in their twenties, I continued. At my age, I’m more husband than friends-with-benefits material. But on Seeking, women want older men.

"That’s so true. Men your age are so much more respectful and kind. But then again, I have a feeling you were born a gentleman."

I smiled at Jordan’s compliment but had to admit, Well, I haven’t always been.

What do you mean?

Humility wiped my smile away. I knew I was about to reveal a proverbial skeleton in my closet. To be honest, I wasn’t the perfect husband. I went on Seeking when I was married.

Oh.

I sensed more curiosity in her voice than judgment, but I still felt the need to clarify. Listen, I really regret cheating on my wife. All I can say is that I’m a different person now.

Clearly, Jordan said with a hint of astonishment. Not many people admit to this kind of thing on a first date.

I kind of make a habit of it, I confessed. I want a woman to like me in spite of my failures. Warts and all, as they say.

Jordan squinted, and I imagined a thought bubble over her head with a line of questions stretching to infinity inside it.

How long were you married? she asked.

Seven years.

And when did you go on the site?

I took a beat to summon up the CliffsNotes version of my marital history. I didn’t mind being an open book, but I also didn’t want to drop the whole thing on the table before we even ordered dessert.

About two years before we split, I answered. We’d never been all that passionate. But one day, we hadn’t made love in like four months, and I saw a television special about the site. On Dateline, I think. I signed up, met a cute neuroscience major who needed money for books, and kinda never looked back.

No sex for four months would do it for me, too, Jordan sympathized.

Honestly, we were never all that compatible. We just both wanted kids so badly that we settled.

Did you guys try to work things out? Go to therapy?

"Are you kidding? We had a therapist; I had a therapist; she had a therapist. Hell, Elizabeth is a therapist!"

Jordan guffawed. I’m sorry, that’s too ironic.

I knew it was rich but refused to reward my bad behavior, even now. Look, I shouldn’t have started cheating. I figured paying for one-night stands was better than having full-blown affairs, but obviously that was a ridiculous rationalization. Whatever problems we had, that wasn’t the right way to deal with them.

Is it rude of me to ask how many women you cheated with? Jordan asked.

I don’t think it’s rude, I answered. But I’d hate to turn you off on our first date.

Believe me, I won’t judge.

I smiled and relented. I haven’t actually counted, but I’m guessing a few dozen.

Wow, she said, sounding more impressed than shocked. How did it all come out? Did she catch you?

No. One day we were in couples therapy, and I was just overcome with guilt and confessed.

That must have been some therapy session, Jordan quipped.

Believe it or not, she wasn’t even that shocked. She’d kind of suspected.

Wait, so she wasn’t even upset?

Oh, there were some tears, I sighed. But looking back, I realize the fact that we dealt with it like such adults was a sign of how little passion we had for each other. Our divorce mediator said she’s never had a couple who were so amicable.

That’s saying something.

But I learned my lesson. I haven’t lied to a woman since. These days I practice ‘radical honesty.’

I love that term, she said. Honesty and transparency are so important to me. Really, everything else is negotiable.

I couldn’t help a mischievous schoolboy grin from hijacking my face. Everything?

I guess that depends on how kinky you are…

Thank God, we’re back to flirting, I thought. I’m fairly vanilla. A woman once asked me to choke her during sex. I couldn’t bring myself to close my hands around her throat, and she started laughing at me.

Jordan laughed—with, not at me, I sensed. Clearly I’m no Christian Grey, I went on. I get off on pleasing a woman, not torturing her. Crazy idea, huh?

Crazy.

The space between our smiles was intruded by one busboy clearing our plates, another cleaning our tablecloth. I was so eager to turn the conversation to Jordan that I didn’t even wait for them to finish—I just angled my head to the side.

Enough about me, I said. What got you into dating this way?

She angled too. I’d always been kind of intrigued by the idea. Then, ten months ago, I had a really bad breakup.

I straightened my neck as the busboys left. I’m so sorry to hear that.

Thank you, but I’m over it, Jordan answered with a smile that hid no PTSD. But I was kind of an emotional train wreck for a while. We were together for two years. I thought we were going to get married. Then one day, out of the blue, I get this text from him telling me he wanted to break up, and that I had to move all my shit out of his place before he got home from work. I literally had three hours to move two years of stuff back to my place.

Wait, back up, I said with disbelief. He broke up with you by text?

Wouldn’t even take my calls.

And he didn’t say why?

Nothing that made sense. Said he ‘outgrew the relationship.’ But Ray was sober for a few years before we met, so I think he may have fallen off the wagon and didn’t want to admit it.

Ohhhh, I sighed. Still, that’s cruel.

I was a physical trainer, but I couldn’t work for months, so I lost all of my clients, maxed out my credit cards. One day, I went to get on the subway and my MetroCard was empty. I had zero cash. So, I jumped the turnstiles.

Jordan made the cutest confessional face, and my mouth gaped—at once, she’d impressed and concerned me. Couldn’t you have gone to family for help? I asked.

She rolled her eyes. "Are you kidding? My mother wouldn’t be able to sleep if I told her that. She’s a fucking lawyer."

I laughed. Yeah, I can see how she might flip a wig. But I mean in general, wouldn’t they help you?

They would, totally. But then I’d have to deal with her and my dad worrying and asking a million questions and begging me to give up New York and move back to Colorado.

I get it, I answered. My parents were generous in a million ways and often gave their children and grandchildren checks as gifts on their birthdays and anniversaries, but I was proud that I’d stopped relying on their money and proved my independence in my twenties.

I knew I’d pull my shit together eventually, Jordan continued. I decided it was time to go on the site, meet some nice men, and maybe have a little extra cash to do some of the things I couldn’t do working eleven hours a day in a gym.

I smiled inside at how Jordan said, extra cash. Despite her tale of having once jumped turnstiles, Jordan could hold a real job. She wasn’t like so many of the women on Seeking Arrangement who made being a sugar baby their full-time work.

What else? I asked Jordan. Any long-term goals, dreams, ambitions…?

So many things, she sighed wistfully. I’ve always wanted to get yoga teacher training.

That’s refreshing, I said. I’ve met a lot of women on the site who were just looking for shopping sprees.

Ha! I hate shopping. Unless it’s at Target. I can spend hours there wandering the aisles.

Could this be girl be any more modest?

Although I’m not immune to a little spoiling, she conceded. Listen to this—the first guy I met on Seeking took me to lunch, then to Neiman Marcus—he buys me these ridiculously expensive Manolo heels and a Chanel purse. And as he’s paying, he slips a thousand dollars into the damn thing.

Just for having lunch with him?

Jordan laughed. Well, I did go home with him. He had this three-story townhouse on the Upper East Side. Turns out he owned a big piece of a baseball team.

Hell of a first arrangement, I said, hiding a shade of intimidation. As generous as I was, I was a modestly successful film producer, leagues away from owning a sports team.

Yeah, too bad he was a coke addict, Jordan deadpanned.

I cracked up—she pitched a story like a producer!

I’ve heard there are a few billionaires lurking around the site, I said. I’ve also heard they’re the craziest, but they throw around so much money that it’s hard for a girl to say no.

Oh, I said no pretty fast, Jordan said demonstrably. He liked to go out every night, show me off at dinner as the age-appropriate girlfriend, then go to clubs and get wasted. After five weeks of all-nighters, I was out.

"Well, you don’t have to worry about me partying, I said. I haven’t had cocaine since my high school prom. I barely even smoke pot these days."

Ditto. I only took sniffs here and there to make him happy. But I ran into a friend of his right before I left for LA, and he said the league made him check into rehab.

Ejected from the game, was he? I joked.

Hah! Jordan said with that signature breathy laugh again.

And I thought, I would never get tired of listening to her laugh.

•

You take the last bite.

No, it’s yours.

Seriously, I’m stuffed.

So am I!

Jordan and I stared at each other, the last morsel of blackberry crumble on a plate between us—we were in a dessert standoff, each of us more eager to please than be pleased.

Well, it would be a gastronomical crime to not eat that, I finally pronounced, then used my spoon to part the crumble into two pieces so minuscule they seemed to float in the soup of melted salted caramel ice cream. "Carbs and sugar. Guess we proved you can have more than one soul mate."

We slipped our bites into our mouths and seemed to groan in blissed unison.

We’re pretty compatible, don’t you think? Jordan asked.

Very!

I placed my spoon down beside the espresso I’d polished off. By now, I had no doubt that Jordan and I were destined to begin an arrangement. All that was left to negotiate were a few key details. So is there anything specific you’re looking for in an arrangement? I asked. Beyond honesty and transparency.

Not much. I’d be curious to know how often you might like to get together?

Once or twice a week would be good to start, don’t you think?

Once or twice a week would be ideal, she said with a satisfied smile. And you? Anything I should know about what you’d like?

Just what it says on the site, I answered. No strings attached; all the perks of a relationship without the drama.

Jordan laughed. No drama. Noted.

And I assume you’re okay with not being exclusive? I asked.

No problem whatsoever.

Though Jordan answered as I’d expected—people on Seeking were in no hurry to commit to monogamy on a first date—I decided to elaborate on my reasons for asking. On this point, I was pretty specific. I guess now would be a good time to tell you that I’m not a big believer in monogamy. You know what ‘ethical nonmonogamy’ is?

Of course. Honestly, I don’t think monogamy is at all practical. Every man I’ve dated has cheated on me.

I don’t know a man who hasn’t cheated at some point in his life. Except maybe my father. I hate to sound cynical, but I guess the failure of my marriage made me, well, cynical.

Jordan chuckled. Of?

"It all—love, marriage, commitment. I read this interesting book called The Monogamy Gap. It says that statistically, people who don’t cheat in relationships are in the minority, so we’d all be better off if we accepted that nature didn’t wire us to be with just one person."

"I’ll have to get it. And you’re preaching to the choir. Have you read Mating in Captivity?"

I brightened—clearly, I’d met my existential match. "By Esther Perel, of course. The other day I watched a TED Talk she gave—she said monogamy