For years, I avoided doing the math because some part of me knew I wouldn’t like the answer.
That night, I did it anyway.
Rent.
Utilities.
Streaming services.
Internet.
Groceries.
His health insurance contribution.
His phone.
His car repair.
Equipment insurance.
Software subscriptions.
A monthly payment for one of his cameras.
Over the previous eighteen months, I had paid nearly eighty percent of our shared expenses.
Then I looked around.
The couch was mine.
The dining table was mine.
The television was mine.
Most of the kitchen equipment was mine.
Even the security deposit on the apartment had come entirely from my account.
Then something caught my attention.
The lease folder.
I pulled it from the drawer.
I had forgotten one important detail.
When we moved into the apartment three years earlier, Marcus’s inconsistent income had created problems during the application process.
The landlord had approved the apartment based on my salary and credit.
The lease had only one tenant listed.
Me.
Marcus was registered as an authorized occupant.
Nothing more.
I stared at the paperwork for a long time.
Then my phone buzzed.
A reminder appeared.
MARCUS CELEBRATION DINNER – TOMORROW, 7:00 PM
I almost laughed.
Instead, I called Natalie.
She answered sounding half asleep.
“Claire?”
“He said I’m not his wife.”
“What?”
“He said I need to stop expecting husband duties because I’m only his girlfriend.”
Natalie was silent.
“What were you asking him to do?”
“Clean his plate.”
Another pause.
“Claire.”
“I know.”
“Are you crying?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No.”
“What do you need?”
I looked at the lease.
“For you to come tomorrow.”
“The dinner?”
“Yes.”
“I thought it was a surprise for Marcus.”
“It still is.”
The next morning, Marcus woke up cheerful.
He walked into the kitchen wearing gym shorts and kissed my forehead.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
He opened the cabinet.
“Did you make coffee?”
“There’s some left.”
He poured himself a cup.
Apparently, the previous night had disappeared completely from his memory.
“I’m meeting Derek around eleven,” he said. “We’re going through equipment for the commercial.”
“Okay.”
“Probably won’t be back until seven.”
“That works.”
He smiled.
“Why?”
“No reason.”
He grabbed his keys.
Then he turned around.
“Hey.”
“Yes?”
“About last night…”
My heart stopped for half a second.
Then he continued:
“Just don’t take everything personally, okay? I’m under a lot of pressure.”
That was his apology.
Not I’m sorry.
Not I shouldn’t have said that.
Just another request for me to absorb whatever he gave me.
