The Other Significant Others

The Other Significant Others Plot Summary

Introduction

Friendship has long been relegated to a secondary status in our cultural hierarchy of relationships. While romantic partnerships are celebrated with ceremonies, legal recognition, and social validation, platonic bonds—no matter how profound—remain largely invisible in both policy and popular imagination. This asymmetry reflects a deeply ingrained assumption that romantic-sexual relationships should naturally occupy the center of adult life, with friendships serving as pleasant but ultimately peripheral connections. This perspective challenges us to reconsider the artificial boundaries we've drawn between different forms of love and commitment. By examining historical examples, contemporary case studies, and cross-cultural practices, we can see that our current relationship paradigm is neither universal nor inevitable. Rather than accepting the primacy of romantic partnership as natural, we might instead view it as a relatively recent social construction—one that fails to accommodate the rich diversity of human connection. When we expand our vision beyond compulsory coupledom, we discover alternative models of intimacy that can provide stability, care, and meaning throughout life's journey.

Chapter 1: The Hidden History: Platonic Bonds Through Time

Throughout history, deep platonic bonds have existed that rival the intensity and commitment of romantic relationships, though they've often been hidden in plain sight. These relationships challenge our modern assumptions about what constitutes a significant partnership and how we organize our intimate lives. While today's society privileges romantic relationships as the centerpiece of adult life, historical evidence reveals a rich tradition of devoted friendships that were publicly honored and recognized. In medieval and early modern England, men formed "sworn brotherhoods" through rituals that bound them together for life. These relationships were celebrated in churches, with friends entering into formal covenants to support each other until death. The tomb of John Bloxham and John Whytton at Merton College in Oxford stands as physical evidence of these bonds—the men were buried together and memorialized side by side, their monument resembling those made for married couples. Far from being hidden, these relationships were publicly acknowledged as significant commitments. The boundaries between friendship, kinship, and marriage were far more fluid in the past than they are today. In late medieval France, friends could join households through a legal contract known as affrèrement ("brotherment"), promising to live together and share "un pain, un vin, et une bourse"—one bread, one wine, and one purse. They typically became each other's legal heirs. Similarly, sworn brothers in China contributed to each other's family expenses and had mourning obligations when their sworn brother's parents died. These relationships blurred the lines between friend and kin. Physical and emotional intimacy between friends was also once commonplace. Men in eighteenth-century America wrote passionate letters to their friends, expressing what we might now consider romantic sentiments. Women sent locks of hair to female friends just as they did to male suitors. In the nineteenth century, women formed "romantic friendships" with other women, relationships characterized by intense emotional attachment. Later, some well-educated women lived together in "Boston marriages," supporting each other emotionally and financially in long-term partnerships. The sexualization of same-sex intimacy in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries dramatically changed how people expressed affection in friendships. As homosexuality became a stigmatized identity category, men and women grew wary of showing physical or emotional closeness with friends of the same gender, lest they be labeled as gay. This shift coincided with rising expectations for emotional connection in marriage. The result was a draining of intimacy from same-sex friendships and a narrowing of relationship possibilities. Today, people who form committed platonic partnerships often struggle to find language to describe their relationships. Without cultural scripts, ceremonies, or widely recognized models to guide them, they must invent their own terms—"platonic soulmate," "non-romantic life partner," or simply "my person." The lack of shared language makes these relationships feel unique and special but can also leave people feeling isolated, unaware that others have similar bonds. By recovering the hidden history of platonic partnerships, we can expand our imagination about the diverse forms intimacy and commitment can take.

Chapter 2: Challenging Coupledom: Rethinking Relationship Hierarchies

In contemporary Western society, romantic relationships are expected to take precedence over all other connections. This expectation—what Eleanor Wilkinson calls "compulsory coupledom"—teaches us that a long-term monogamous romantic relationship is necessary for a normal, successful adulthood. From fairy tales that equate finding "one true love" with living "happily ever after" to legal systems that privilege spouses, our culture reinforces the primacy of romantic partnerships at every turn. This privileging of romantic relationships has real consequences. Single people often feel excluded or viewed as immature—as if they've stalled before reaching the station of full adulthood. Friends like Kami West and Kate Tillotson challenge this hierarchy. When Kami began dating a new man, she made it clear that her best friend Kate would always be her "number one." Her date was confused, asking, "Eventually, I'll be your number one, right?" His question reflected the widespread assumption that romantic partners must inevitably displace friends from the center of one's life. The expectation that romantic partners should be everything to each other is relatively new. Before the late eighteenth century, marriage in Western societies was primarily an economic and political arrangement. People did not expect their spouse to be their passionate lover and best friend all in one package. Only in the mid-nineteenth century did the radical idea take hold that love should be the basis for marriage. By the late twentieth century, expectations for spouses had ratcheted up dramatically. Eli Finkel, a psychology professor at Northwestern University, calls this the era of the "self-expressive marriage," in which partners are expected to fulfill deep psychological needs and help each other become their best selves. These totalizing expectations create what Finkel calls "the all-or-nothing marriage." The best modern marriages are extraordinarily fulfilling, perhaps better than marriages of any previous era. But average marriages suffer under the weight of these expectations, as few people can meet such demanding requirements. The result is declining marital satisfaction and higher divorce rates. By asking so much of one relationship, modern marriages become like handblown glass: exquisite but fragile. The all-encompassing nature of romantic relationships often weakens community ties. Sociologists Naomi Gerstel and Natalia Sarkisian found that married Americans were less likely than unmarried or divorced Americans to visit relatives, socialize with neighbors or friends, care for aging parents, or be politically involved. Rather than being the cornerstone of community, as many politicians claim, marriage often strains community connections, making it what sociologists call a "greedy institution." Platonic partnerships offer an alternative model. Friends like Andrew Bergman and Toly Rinberg demonstrate that having multiple significant relationships can be more sustainable than relying on one person for everything. They've found that their friendship makes them more patient and steadier in their romantic relationships. Each relationship takes pressure off the other. As Tilly (Kate Tillotson) explains, "We're the cake" while romantic relationships are "the cherry on the cake." By distributing emotional needs across multiple relationships, people can build more resilient support networks and avoid the pitfalls of expecting one person to fulfill all their needs.

Chapter 3: Intimacy Without Sex: Redefining Connection

The question "Isn't a romantic relationship just friendship plus sex?" captures a common assumption: that sex is what transforms an ordinary friendship into something more significant. This equation suggests that sex triggers a state change, elevating a relationship from "just friends" to a partnership worthy of social recognition and legal protection. But the stories of platonic partners challenge this simplistic formula, revealing that deep intimacy, commitment, and even forms of desire can exist without sexual attraction. Stacey Reimann and Grace met in college and developed an extraordinarily close bond despite having no sexual relationship. They became each other's "primary person," making major life decisions with the other in mind and prioritizing their connection above other relationships. They flew across the country to see each other, spent holidays together, and integrated deeply into each other's daily lives. Their relationship contained many elements typically associated with romantic partnerships: emotional intimacy, physical affection (though not sexual), and a sense of building a future together. When Stacey later realized they were asexual, they began to question whether sex was necessary for the kind of partnership they wanted. Research by psychologist Lisa Diamond helps explain relationships like Stacey and Grace's. Diamond found that lust and love involve different pathways and chemicals in the brain. Sexual desire is influenced by androgens and estrogens, while love involves oxytocin, dopamine, and other neurochemicals that create feelings of reward and security. These distinct biological processes serve different evolutionary functions: lust drives reproduction, while love encourages lasting bonds that provide safety and support. Diamond calls time, togetherness, and touch the "magic ingredients" of attachment—and notably, sex isn't essential for this process. Evidence from multiple studies confirms that love and sexual desire don't always coincide. In one study from 1979, 61 percent of women and 35 percent of men reported having experienced love without a desire for sex. Thirty years later, 76 percent of survey respondents agreed that "true love can exist without a radiant/active sex life." Even infatuation—often considered a hallmark of romantic love—doesn't necessarily involve sexual desire, as shown by studies of children who experience intense crushes long before puberty. The distinction between sexual and erotic connection provides another lens for understanding platonic partnerships. The poet Audre Lorde defined the erotic as a form of power that strengthens resolve, feeds creativity, and gives energy to change the world—a definition that encompasses far more than sexual activity. Many platonic partners describe their relationships as having an erotic charge in this broader sense, creating a feeling of aliveness and creative energy without sexual attraction. Despite these insights, people in platonic partnerships often struggle against a culture that insists on categorizing relationships based on the presence or absence of sex. When Stacey proposed making their partnership official through a "friend-wedding," Grace hesitated, uncertain whether she could make their friendship the primary relationship in her life rather than a romantic relationship. Their struggle reflects the powerful cultural script of compulsory sexuality—the assumption that sex is a crucial part of a "normal," satisfying life and that not wanting sex is unnatural.

Chapter 4: Creating Family: New Models of Caregiving and Support

When law professor Natasha Bakht became pregnant through anonymous sperm donation at age thirty-six, her colleague Lynda Collins spontaneously offered to be her birth coach. Neither woman anticipated how this initial gesture would evolve into a lifelong family bond. After Natasha's son Elaan was born with cerebral palsy, Lynda became increasingly involved in his care. She learned to soothe him when he cried, attended his medical appointments, and spent holidays with Natasha's family. Five years later, Lynda realized she wanted to be legally recognized as Elaan's second parent—not because she and Natasha were romantically involved, but because she was already parenting him. Their journey to legal recognition exposed how deeply our family law is rooted in assumptions about romantic relationships. Because Lynda and Natasha weren't married or romantically involved, Canadian law dictated that if Lynda adopted Elaan, Natasha would have to forfeit her legal rights as a mother. This legal barrier reflects what family law scholar Nancy Polikoff calls "the New Illegitimacy"—the unfavorable treatment of children based on their parents' relationship status. Eventually, Lynda and Natasha found another route: a declaration of parentage that granted Lynda the same rights and obligations she would have gotten through adoption. The case challenged a fundamental assumption in family law: that two people must be in (or have been in) a romantic relationship to be parents together. As Lynda puts it, "Romance is wonderful, but I'm not sure it has anything to do with parenting." What makes good co-parents, she argues, is "that core of mutual respect and love and compatibility. Alignment in your values." This insight aligns with research showing that children thrive in "warm, supportive, stable families, whatever their structure," as Cambridge professor Susan Golombok writes after four decades of studying diverse family forms. Despite claims that the nuclear family is "traditional" and optimal for child-rearing, historical and anthropological evidence reveals a much more varied picture. Before the industrial era, extended families and communities typically shared child-rearing responsibilities. In most preindustrial societies, mothers relied on "alloparents"—people other than biological parents who helped raise children. Anthropologist Sarah Hrdy argues that "without alloparents, there never would have been a human species." The nuclear family ideal that many consider timeless actually emerged relatively recently, reaching its apex in 1950s America—a period that has become the source of much contemporary nostalgia. This idealized family form was always inaccessible to large swaths of the population. Enslaved Black Americans couldn't establish nuclear families because states didn't legally recognize their marriages or parental relationships. They adapted by creating what historian Herbert Gutman calls "networks of mutual obligation" that enlisted support from people who weren't necessarily related by blood or marriage—what scholars term "fictive kin." Immigrant households in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries rarely consisted of just two parents and their children, as economic necessity often separated family members. Working-class families, too, relied on extended networks of care. Today's platonic co-parents are part of a long tradition of creating family structures that meet children's needs outside the nuclear model. Some, like Natasha and Lynda, form these bonds organically after a child is already born. Others deliberately seek co-parenting arrangements through sites like Modamily and CoParents, which match people who want to have a child with someone else but not necessarily be in a romantic relationship with them. Single mothers have created "Mommunes" to share childcare and resources, while friends who are raising children separately sometimes merge households to create "co-families."

Chapter 5: Aging Together: The Practical Benefits of Platonic Commitment

When Barb Buettner and Inez Conrad met as colleagues in the late 1960s, neither woman could have predicted they would spend their retirement years sharing a home they affectionately call "the Hermitage." Their friendship developed gradually—first through a road trip to Washington, D.C., with Inez's two young sons, then through supporting each other through major life transitions. When Inez separated from her husband, Barb invited her and her sons to stay in her Phoenix home while they established a new life. Years later, as they approached retirement, they decided to buy a house together in Kirkwood, Missouri, combining resources to create a living arrangement that would sustain them through old age. Their decision reflects a growing trend among older Americans, particularly women, who are navigating the challenges of aging without traditional support systems. Women over sixty-five are far less likely than men to be married—47 percent versus 69 percent—and many live alone after surviving their spouses. Older women also struggle financially, with poverty rates for older Black women two and a half times that of older white men. These demographic realities make shared housing arrangements increasingly attractive. According to an AARP survey, the number of adults age fifty and older who share their homes grew from 2 percent in 2014 to 16 percent in 2018. Financial constraints are one reason Barb and Inez live together; they couldn't afford to maintain two homes. But their arrangement provides much more than economic benefits. They serve as each other's companions, confidantes, and caregivers. When Inez had emergency surgery for a broken wrist, they placed a bell by her bed so she could summon Barb if needed. They attend doctor's appointments together and deliberately see the same primary care physician, who can ensure they're aware of each other's needs. Their doctor once advised Barb to walk at the same pace as Inez, who was experiencing dizziness, to help keep her safe. The caregiving they provide each other is particularly valuable as the population ages and traditional support networks weaken. Researchers project that by 2060, life expectancy will increase by about six years, from 79.7 in 2017 to 85.6. But longer lives often mean more years living with chronic illnesses that require caregiving. At the same time, fewer older adults can rely on spouses or children for support. The divorce rate for people aged fifty and older nearly doubled between 1990 and 2015, while the number of Americans having no children continues to rise. Sociologists estimate that one in five older adults is an "elder orphan" or at risk of becoming one—someone with no close family ties to provide care. Professional caregiving cannot fill this gap. The United States faces a persistent shortage of paid caregivers, with low pay and difficult working conditions contributing to high turnover among nursing assistants and home health aides. Boston University sociology professor Deborah Carr suggests that arrangements like Barb and Inez's could be the "wave of the future" as older adults seek alternatives to both family-based and institutional care. Friendships offer unique advantages for older adults. Unlike parent-child relationships, where older people may feel like a burden, caregiving between friends tends to be more egalitarian. Studies suggest that friendship plays an increasingly significant role in well-being as people age, becoming more predictive of mortality than marriage for those over sixty. By reducing loneliness, friendships ward off the cascade of negative physical and mental health effects that stem from social isolation.

Chapter 6: Navigating Loss: The Unacknowledged Grief of Friendship Endings

When Joy Loughry's best friend Hannah Friedrich was diagnosed with stage 3c ovarian cancer at age thirty-four, Joy's world stopped. Hannah was the axis around which her adult life turned—they had been "bonded besties" since college, sharing adventures, witnessing each other's marriages, and supporting each other through life's challenges. During Hannah's illness, Joy became an essential caregiver, taking Hannah's children from daycare, organizing fundraisers, and even sleeping in uncomfortable hospital chairs to stay by her side during treatments in New York. When Joy's sister suggested she should "settle down" about Hannah's diagnosis, Joy felt misunderstood—Hannah wasn't just any friend; she was Joy's person. This lack of recognition for the depth of platonic bonds makes grieving their loss particularly challenging. When a romantic relationship ends, people generally understand the devastation that follows. Friends and family offer support, and cultural scripts provide guidance for processing the loss. But when friendships end or change significantly, the grief often goes unacknowledged. There's little vocabulary to describe friendship challenges, few rituals to mark their passing, and limited social support for those mourning a platonic relationship. The ambiguity surrounding friendship losses compounds the difficulty. Psychologist Pauline Boss coined the term "ambiguous loss" to describe losses without clear resolution or social recognition. Without a well-defined conclusion like death or divorce, loved ones may not realize they should offer support. The person experiencing the loss may not even recognize there's something to grieve. This ambiguity can lead to what Boss calls "frozen grief"—being trapped in sadness without a path forward. Shame further complicates the grieving process. While it's common to question one's role in a romantic breakup, friendship endings can trigger a particularly painful form of self-doubt. As the editors of an anthology called The Friend Who Got Away write, "friendship is supposed to be made of sturdier stuff, a less complicated, more enduring relationship. Because of this, the story of a breakup with a friend often feels far more revealing than that of a failed romance, as if it exposes our worst failings and weaknesses." When someone drops you as one of their many friends, it can feel like failing a less demanding test than romantic compatibility. This shame often leads to silence. Writer Patti Miller describes friend breakups as "shameful; it is certainly not something to talk about with other friends. I've been found unworthy by one friend—why would I advertise the fact to another?" The stigma surrounding friendship endings creates a cycle: people don't talk about their experiences, so others facing similar losses feel isolated and abnormal, reinforcing the silence. Yet friendship endings are remarkably common. A study from the Netherlands found that most adults replaced half their friends over a seven-year period, and only 30 percent of close friendships remained close. In the United States, a 2021 survey found that Americans report considerably fewer close friends than they did in 1990, suggesting many have experienced the loss of important friendships.

Chapter 7: Masculinity Reimagined: Men's Deep Platonic Connections

When Nick Galluccio and Art Pereira decided to live together as a family unit, they were breaking with convention in multiple ways. As youth pastors in conservative congregations, they were not only challenging norms about living arrangements but also reimagining what male friendship could look like. Their decision to build a life together—with Nick straight and Art gay—required Nick to confront deeply ingrained ideas about masculinity and homophobia that had shaped his understanding of male relationships. Growing up in a conservative Christian family, Nick absorbed messages that gay people deserved whatever ill fate came their way and that men should maintain emotional distance from one another. When he and Art became close friends in college, Nick worried about how others would perceive their relationship. He was concerned that if he went on vacation with Art, people would think they were a romantic couple. The sociologist Eric Anderson calls this fear of being perceived as gay "homohysteria," and it helps explain why men like Nick constrain their behavior—avoiding activities, people, or organizations that could mark them as gay. This fear isn't universal or timeless. In many cultures around the world, men engage in physical affection without concern about sexual implications. Korean men practice "skinship," a term for nonsexual physical affection. Men in Arab cultures commonly hold hands while walking together. Even in the United States and Europe, physical intimacy between men was once commonplace. Photographs from the 1850s through 1950s show men sitting on each other's laps, holding hands, or resting their heads on each other's shoulders. It wasn't until the category of homosexuality emerged as a stigmatized identity in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries that men began to withdraw from these forms of connection. The costs of this withdrawal are significant. American men today have fewer close friendships than just decades ago. In 1990, more than half of men reported having at least six close friends; by 2021, only about a quarter could say the same. Fifteen percent of men report having no close friendships—a fivefold increase from 1990. This friendship recession contributes to loneliness, which is linked to a range of negative health outcomes, from high blood pressure to depression to cognitive decline. Men's isolation becomes particularly apparent in later life. Compared to women who lose their husbands, men who lose their spouses experience a much more pronounced spike in loneliness and depression; they're more likely to die by suicide. Researchers attribute these differences to women having more diverse systems of social support. As comedian John Mulaney jokes about baby boomer men, "Your dad has no friends. If you think your dad has friends, you're wrong. Your mom has friends, and they have husbands. Those are not your dad's friends." Nick and Art's friendship offers an alternative model. Through their relationship, Nick has learned to express affection and vulnerability in ways that were previously uncomfortable for him. When Art struggled with his denomination's rejection after coming out as gay, Nick provided emotional support, sitting with him in his grief when he felt "totally powerless and unable to change anything except to sit and grieve with it." Their friendship has helped Nick pursue integrity, "specifically, being the same person everywhere that I am instead of different people in different places."

Summary

The marginalization of friendship in our legal systems, cultural narratives, and social policies reflects not a natural hierarchy of human connection but a particular historical arrangement—one that fails to accommodate the full spectrum of meaningful relationships. By examining platonic partnerships across different contexts, we uncover a more complex reality: friendships can provide the stability, care, and intimacy traditionally associated with romantic relationships, often with distinctive advantages. These bonds challenge us to separate our understanding of partnership from assumptions about sexual desire and to recognize the artificial nature of boundaries between relationship categories. This reconsideration of friendship has profound implications for how we structure social support systems, legal protections, and cultural narratives. Rather than privileging one relationship model above all others, we might envision a more pluralistic approach—one that recognizes diverse forms of commitment and care. Such a shift would benefit not only those in platonic partnerships but anyone whose life doesn't conform to conventional relationship scripts. By expanding our conception of significant relationships, we create space for more authentic connection and more equitable access to the resources and recognition all humans need to thrive. The path forward involves both personal reimagining and structural reform, challenging us to build systems that honor the full range of bonds that sustain us.

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Rhaina Cohen

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