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.
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.
