let me pay for the sundries only because he wanted me to move in sooner rather than later.
We ended up agreeing to disagree and to be honest, it wasn’t worth the arguments.
“Why do you have to be so stubborn about this?” Paul raised his voice at me. “Do you think Dad makes Mom pay the electric? Do you think they have separate bank accounts or that the house is only in Dad’s name?”
“Of course not, that would be stupid. They’re married.” I realized my mistake too late.
“Exactly!”
“But we’re not married yet!” I was clutching at straws.
“But we’re going to be. You said yes. You’re wearing my ring. I already think of you as my husband and a ceremony and a piece of paper isn’t going to change anything.”
“Oh, now you’re just being a hypocrite. You said you wanted a boyfriend to love you for who you are, not for your bank balance or social connections. When we first started dating we split things fifty-fifty. Why can’t we do that now?”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Paul huffed, clearly not giving up yet.
I tried to get him to see it my way. My voice quieter, I said, “I’ve been on my own since my parents disowned me. I’ve had only myself to rely on. No one has ever been there to support me and make sure I was all right. I don’t want to be dependent on you, and as unlikely as it is, I want to be your equal. I want to be worthy of you, and I can’t do that if I feel like I’m mooching.” We didn’t talk about my parents much; there wasn’t a lot to talk about, after all, but whenever the subject came up, Paul became more upset about their absence than I did. My anger fled, and although Paul’s face had softened he was still hanging on to the fight.
“You are my equal. Maybe not in salary, but there are other ways to be in balance with each other. You bring so much to our relationship, to our home. And I’m not talking about Dave.” He tried to lighten the conversation, but I could sense the truth in his words. “Will you change your mind after we’re married?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Please let me pay my way, I don’t know how to be comfortable doing anything else.”
Paul gathered me in his arms, holding me tight against his chest and burying his face in my unruly hair. “Fine, I give. But once we’re married what’s mine is yours.”
At that point we hadn’t discussed the pre-nup.
C HAPTER T WO
NOT LONG after I moved in, we had a problem with Dave. It seemed my cat had taken quite a liking to Paul’s shoes and peed in them whenever we left the closet door open, whether he’d been fed or not. Paul had been at his wits end trying to scrub the smell of cat urine out of his expensive loafers and it had caused more than a few fights between us.
It all came to a head when Paul was working from home one Thursday afternoon. I had stopped by our local Chinese after work to pick up dinner, and as I entered the apartment, I was assaulted by the smell of disinfectant and Paul’s yells.
“Get back here you little pissing machine!”
Dave darted past me, around the kitchen, and up the stairs, heading to his cat-flap that led to the small terrace garden on the roof. Paul was hot on his heels, naked apart from his boxer briefs, his hair wet from a recent shower, clutching the water spray bottle we used to squirt Dave when he’d done something wrong.
“Your fucking cat!” Paul yelled at me as he ran past, taking the steps two at a time after Dave.
Yes, it was my
fucking cat
when Dave peed in Paul’s shoes, but when Dave wanted a cuddle he was all Paul’s. I rolled my eyes at Paul’s retreating back.
I placed the takeout boxes on the counter and gathered plates and cutlery from the drawer as I waited for Paul to return. I knew Dave would be fine. There’s a hidey-hole in amongst the garden planters where he hides from the spray bottle, big enough for him to fit but too small for a human to get to him. My cat wasn’t
We ended up agreeing to disagree and to be honest, it wasn’t worth the arguments.
“Why do you have to be so stubborn about this?” Paul raised his voice at me. “Do you think Dad makes Mom pay the electric? Do you think they have separate bank accounts or that the house is only in Dad’s name?”
“Of course not, that would be stupid. They’re married.” I realized my mistake too late.
“Exactly!”
“But we’re not married yet!” I was clutching at straws.
“But we’re going to be. You said yes. You’re wearing my ring. I already think of you as my husband and a ceremony and a piece of paper isn’t going to change anything.”
“Oh, now you’re just being a hypocrite. You said you wanted a boyfriend to love you for who you are, not for your bank balance or social connections. When we first started dating we split things fifty-fifty. Why can’t we do that now?”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Paul huffed, clearly not giving up yet.
I tried to get him to see it my way. My voice quieter, I said, “I’ve been on my own since my parents disowned me. I’ve had only myself to rely on. No one has ever been there to support me and make sure I was all right. I don’t want to be dependent on you, and as unlikely as it is, I want to be your equal. I want to be worthy of you, and I can’t do that if I feel like I’m mooching.” We didn’t talk about my parents much; there wasn’t a lot to talk about, after all, but whenever the subject came up, Paul became more upset about their absence than I did. My anger fled, and although Paul’s face had softened he was still hanging on to the fight.
“You are my equal. Maybe not in salary, but there are other ways to be in balance with each other. You bring so much to our relationship, to our home. And I’m not talking about Dave.” He tried to lighten the conversation, but I could sense the truth in his words. “Will you change your mind after we’re married?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Please let me pay my way, I don’t know how to be comfortable doing anything else.”
Paul gathered me in his arms, holding me tight against his chest and burying his face in my unruly hair. “Fine, I give. But once we’re married what’s mine is yours.”
At that point we hadn’t discussed the pre-nup.
C HAPTER T WO
NOT LONG after I moved in, we had a problem with Dave. It seemed my cat had taken quite a liking to Paul’s shoes and peed in them whenever we left the closet door open, whether he’d been fed or not. Paul had been at his wits end trying to scrub the smell of cat urine out of his expensive loafers and it had caused more than a few fights between us.
It all came to a head when Paul was working from home one Thursday afternoon. I had stopped by our local Chinese after work to pick up dinner, and as I entered the apartment, I was assaulted by the smell of disinfectant and Paul’s yells.
“Get back here you little pissing machine!”
Dave darted past me, around the kitchen, and up the stairs, heading to his cat-flap that led to the small terrace garden on the roof. Paul was hot on his heels, naked apart from his boxer briefs, his hair wet from a recent shower, clutching the water spray bottle we used to squirt Dave when he’d done something wrong.
“Your fucking cat!” Paul yelled at me as he ran past, taking the steps two at a time after Dave.
Yes, it was my
fucking cat
when Dave peed in Paul’s shoes, but when Dave wanted a cuddle he was all Paul’s. I rolled my eyes at Paul’s retreating back.
I placed the takeout boxes on the counter and gathered plates and cutlery from the drawer as I waited for Paul to return. I knew Dave would be fine. There’s a hidey-hole in amongst the garden planters where he hides from the spray bottle, big enough for him to fit but too small for a human to get to him. My cat wasn’t
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