“Claire, they picked me.”
I smiled so hard my face hurt.
“I knew they would.”
“They actually picked me.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“I couldn’t have done this without you.”
At the time, those words meant everything to me.
So I decided to celebrate him.
I booked a table at his favorite restaurant for Friday night, then changed my mind.
A private dinner at home felt more personal.
I ordered barbecue from the place he loved downtown.
I bought bourbon he normally considered too expensive.
I ordered a cake from a small bakery with a tiny film camera drawn on top.
I invited Natalie and two of Marcus’s closest friends.
I even bought him a leather camera strap he had been staring at online for months.
Friday was supposed to be proof that all the struggling had finally meant something.
Thursday night changed everything.
I had been working since seven that morning.
At 10:45 p.m., I was still answering messages because one of our largest clients had a software rollout scheduled for the following week.
Marcus had finished dinner hours earlier.
His plate was still on the coffee table.
So were two beer bottles, a bowl with dried sauce stuck to it, food wrappers, and a stack of napkins.
The kitchen sink was worse.
I looked at the mess.
Then at Marcus.
He was stretched across the couch watching basketball highlights.
“Marcus?”
“Hmm?”
“Could you clean up before you go to bed?”
“I will.”
“You said that after dinner.”
“I know.”
“I have a call at seven tomorrow. I really don’t want to wake up to the kitchen looking like this.”
He sighed.
Not a tired sigh.
An irritated one.
“Claire, can you not do this tonight?”
“Do what?”
“This.”
He gestured vaguely toward me.
“I’m asking you to put your dishes away.”
“I said I’ll do it.”
“When?”
He muted the television.
“Why are you always on me?”
I stared at him.
“I’m always on you?”
“Yes.”
“Marcus, I’ve been working for almost sixteen hours.”
“And that’s my fault?”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You’re acting like it is.”
“No. I’m asking the other adult who lives here to clean up after himself.”
His jaw tightened.
“There. That tone.”
“What tone?”
“The wife tone.”
For some reason, I almost laughed.
“The what?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“No, Marcus. I really don’t.”
He stood.
And then he said it.
“Claire, you’re my girlfriend. You’re not my wife. Stop acting like I owe you husband duties every time you want something done.”
Silence.
The refrigerator hummed behind me.
Some sports commentator continued talking soundlessly on the television.
Marcus picked up one of his beer bottles and took another drink.
I waited.
Surely he would realize what he had said.
Surely he would apologize.
Instead, he shrugged.
“You know what I mean.”
I stared at him.
Then I said:
“Actually, I think I finally do.”
“Good.”
He unmuted the television.
I walked into the kitchen.
Marcus probably thought the argument was over.
He had no idea the relationship was.
I sat at the dining table and opened our banking records.
