Chapter 9 - WHAT WE DID WITHOUT EACH OTHER
My apartment remained mine.
That sounds obvious.
It did not feel obvious for a while.
The first three months, Conrad never came over.
Not once.
He knew the address eventually because legal paperwork required mailing information.
He did not appear.
No flowers.
No groceries.
No doorman bribes because there was no doorman.
He respected the boundary so completely that part of me became irritated.
Progress is inconvenient when your old emotional habits still want proof.
One snowy evening, I carried a shelf up three flights because the delivery service had left it downstairs.
Halfway, I thought:
Conrad would have handled this.
Then laughed.
Of course.
He would have sent two people and somehow the shelf would arrive assembled.
I sat on the landing.
Out of breath.
Did I miss the convenience?
Yes.
Did that mean I had stayed for money?
No.
People often confuse benefit with motive.
I had enjoyed Conrad’s house.
Travel.
Staff.
Security.
Good wine.
The fact that somebody else knew when the boiler needed service.
Those comforts were real.
My love was also real.
Leaving did not require pretending wealth had never been pleasant.
My apartment was not morally superior because the radiator screamed at six in the morning.
I renewed the lease anyway.
Not as a statement.
Because I liked the neighborhood.
Work improved.
Not dramatically.
I accepted partnership at Hensley Park after years of hesitation.
I had blamed some hesitation on Wexler social obligations.
That was partly true.
The deeper truth was that partnership meant becoming responsible for other people’s work, and I had been avoiding that risk.
Once Conrad was gone, I could no longer use his schedule as explanation for my own caution.
Uncomfortable.
Useful.
Conrad made changes too.
I learned some through Lydia.
Some from him later.
First, he rewrote his own estate plan.
No marriage conditions.
No behavioral incentives tied to relationship status for future beneficiaries.
His lawyers probably celebrated.
He also created clearer governance boundaries between family office and personal relationships.
Not because I asked.
Good.
Then he started therapy.
I knew because he told me when we eventually spoke.
Not:
I went to therapy for you.
Just:
“I’m seeing someone.”
Good.
He continued running Wexler Group.
No collapse.
No redemption story requiring him to abandon wealth.
His problem was never money existing.
It was what he believed money did to other people’s choices.
He had to learn power cannot be ethically managed by pretending it is absent.
You acknowledge it.
Set boundaries.
Ask.
Accept answers.
His mother told me once:
“He’s become terrible at silent dinners.”
I laughed.
“Why?”
“He keeps saying what he wants.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Good.
We spoke occasionally.
First call came four months after the divorce.
Conrad asked:
“Do you have time?”
“Yes.”
“I was thinking about the theater project.”
My project.
The one from years earlier.
“The designation passed.”
“I saw.”
“Then?”
“I wanted to say congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Silence.
Then:
“I miss you.”
My entire body tightened.
There.
Words.
Late.
Real.
I said:
“I miss you too.”
He breathed.
Neither used the confession to make a request.
That mattered.
Two months later, we had coffee.
Public.
Forty minutes.
Conrad asked about my work.
I asked about his mother.
No postmortem of the marriage.
Then he said:
“I want to see you again.”
I stared.
Direct.
Terrifying.
“What does that mean?”
“Dinner.”
I laughed.
“Specific.”
“I’m practicing.”
I said yes.
We started dating.
Not secretly.
Not dramatically.
Slowly.
Separate homes.
Separate calendars.
No family office booking anything.
The first time Conrad sent a car without asking, I canceled it.
He called.
“I thought it would make things easier.”
“It would.”
“Then?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Silence.
Then:
“You’re right.”
No sulking.
He came by train.
A billionaire on the Brown Line is not spiritually transformative.
He survived.
I had my own habits to break.
Once Conrad canceled dinner because of a board issue.
I said:
“Fine.”
He became quiet.
Then:
“Is it fine?”
I almost lied.
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to apologize for canceling after I moved another plan.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And I want us to reschedule now instead of leaving it vague.”
“Thursday?”
“Good.”
Old Maren would have waited three days to see whether he remembered.
Newer Maren asked.
Less romantic.
Much safer.
We also argued.
Real arguments.
Once about whether I would attend a Wexler family weekend.
“I don’t want to.”
Conrad said:
“Okay.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You look suspicious.”
“I expected an argument.”
“Do you want one?”
“No.”
“Then good.”
That should have been easy.
It wasn’t.
A nervous system can become so used to anticipated conflict that peace initially feels like missing information.
We did not remarry.
Not then.
Not within the first year.
People kept asking.
Lydia finally told one relative:
“Please let them have one relationship at a time.”
I loved her for that.
Conrad and I had been legally married before we had ever properly dated.
Now we were dating after divorce.
Ridiculous.
Also honest.
No deadline.
No trust.
No clause.
No ring.
If one of us stayed, it had to happen again the next week.
May you like
That repetition felt less glamorous than forever.
More trustworthy.
