Page 56 of I Almost Do

At Crown Shy, she sings along to Lizzo's “Good as Hell” when the song changes in the background.

Her auburn curls bounce with the beat as she dances in her seat.

When she orders a fifteen-dollar appetizer, I must give away my surprise, because she smiles at me and says, "You've forgotten how the other half lives."

I snort. I haven't forgotten. There was a time when a fifteen-dollar appetizer would have been an impossible luxury. "Don't talk to me about the other half. You're a one-percenter, and you didn't even know what the other half was until you went to a state school."

"This"—she indicates the restaurant at large—"is still bougie food prepared by a Michelin-starred chef. When you come visit me at school, I'm making you eat a fast-food burger with cheese."

She laughs out loud at my slow blink and the deliberately blank expression on my face.

When someone is raised the way I was, bounced around between social workers and extended family members, with most of my belongings stuffed in a trash bag as I moved from aunt to grandparent to cousin and back again, it's easy to think that when someone can provide expensive gifts, theyshouldprovide expensive gifts.

I want to give her everything. And part of me struggles with the way she doesn’t assign value to anything via currency. Money has never been in short supply for her. For her, loving something has nothing to do with a price tag.

Money is power. The acquisition of it was my driving ambition for most of my life. I want to feed her a thousand-dollar dinner. She deserves a $150,000 first edition set of novels that she's never going to read because touching them could damage them.

But when we get home, I give her a first edition ofPride and Prejudice—a set of three slim novels she touches with reverent hands.

I also give her a Birkin bag—which she tosses over her shoulder and models for me—and a Squishmallow pillow shaped like an ice cream cone. And it’s the fifty-dollar toy that makes her smile, eyes wet and shining, as she thinks of Marcus.

We share a double-chocolate mini cake from the Angelina Bakery on Eighth Ave., and I try not to think about licking frosting off her nipples. Or laying that pillow toy down, bending my wife over it, and fucking her. There's not a moment I spend with her that my mind doesn't find a way to turn into a sexual fantasy.

Then it's move-in day. She takes my cat. And I'm missing my wife.

21

Peer Pressure

Clarissa

Fall Semester Senior Year

Bronwynwonthebattlewith her father and remained in Pennsylvania. I'm selfishly glad of it. Our friend Sydney also moved in with us, which means, including our cook, Jeanine, every bedroom in this house is spoken for.

I am super excited about that little development. And it's not just because I adore Sydney, though I do.

Mostly it's because when James comes to visit this semester and meet my friends, where is he going to sleep without giving away that we aren't having sex? Oh, hmmm, let me think…. That's right. He's going to be sleeping in my bed.

Sydney's a junior chemical engineering major, and I love her to pieces. She's tall, with tan skin and long brown hair that's usually in a single French braid down her back. She's athletic, blunt, and completely no-nonsense. She and Bronwyn are polar opposites in everything from looks to attitude. But they're both fierce and loyal friends.

Sydney's an uber-serious student. She's also got a lot of financial burdens, which is a sticking point with James. Given his own personal history, I can't help but find that a little hypocritical. But he doesn't seem to see it.

He's convinced Sydney is conning me and manipulated me into letting her live here. He sicced a private investigator on her—who found nothing, of course. And he wants me to charge her rent, on principle, to make her prove she isn't using me.

As if. It's okay not to charge Bronwyn because she can afford it, but I'm supposed to charge Sydney because she can't? Pffft. No.

He thinks I don't know it drives him crazy that he can'tmakeme do it. Last semester, he could have yanked the financial reins or made threats to have Sydney evicted because he controlled where I lived.

But Iownthis cute little four-bedroom house. It's in my name, bought with my money, even though James had to approve the purchase initially.

And the expenses here don't even come close to exceeding my financial allowance, even with staffing and security. There's really nothing he can do about Sydney, except complain about her. Poor guy.

So James doesn't trust Sydney. And she can't believe he had the gall to have her investigated.

Then there's the whole thing where I let slip to Sydney that I'm still a virgin. She immediately decided that James isn't really in love with me and is using me for money.

He doesn't realize she knows about our sex life, necessarily—though I think he suspects. However, I did accidentally admit that she believes he married me for the tax break on his inheritance.

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