But none of the perks mattered. When Josh met my best friend from college for the first time, he described me as “a fish in a fish tank.” My friend’s exact words to me after the double date were “What the actual fuck.” I shrugged. I had only just begun to understand what had been troubling me so much about our relationship: He needed a say in everything. Josh said he found it sexy when I ate only lettuce. He said he wanted me to wear more makeup, higher heels, skimpier outfits, and, when I said I would prefer not to, he said, “Why can’t you do it for me, if you love me?” He said if he and I disagreed—and we did, a lot, debating everything from the problem of free will to whether my nonbelief in seeking retribution meant that I did not believe in justice—then I should change my beliefs to match his because he was, I quote, “the man.” Over that summer, I felt like the hand of God had fished me out of still water and placed me in a river. I did not need to be single; I needed a partner who would not try to build enclosures. After I called Josh and told him I was choosing neither him nor Boone but, in fact, myself, he said, “I’ll pay you more than whatever Boone is paying you not to take the job.” I hung up.