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This I sent at 6:14, forcing myself to wait a few minutes before answering. I didn’t want to look too needy. Not that it matters as that message is still on unread.

Maybe his phone is flat, I’d thought while still in my good and gracious mode. Except, he made it sound as though he was still in his office. I mean, maybe he went out to dinner with the team. Or his friends. That’s allowed—it is Friday night.

But why wouldn’t he have just said so? Communicated something!

It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve eaten dinner alone since I moved in, though it has been a while. It’s the first time I’ve found myself at my go-to stress response of a gummy bear dinner, though. And I am not having fun. I didn’t even bother biting off their feet to stop them escaping.

By nine, anger irrationally consumes me, and the apartment feels desperately empty. I pull back the plastic tarp from the forbidden side of the apartment to see if there’s anything lying around that I might smash. Thankfully for my extremities, and maybe also for Troy’s, there are no power tools lying around. The urge to smash is short-lived, vanquished by a stray nailhead I almost tread on.

By ten, steam is coming out of my ears and I’m at the point of believing I imagined our growing closeness—that it’s all been pretend. A big fat fakery fake. We’ve made no promises. I’m only his wife on paper. The marriage isn’t real.

It feels like he’s not the only one bracing for something.

In my case, it’s disappointment, I think.

Disgusted with myself, I begin to trace my fingers on the arm of the chair, swirling patterns on the velvety nap. I will not pick up my phone. Yet I somehow find it in my hand again. The screen flares to life, and I swipe to my messages again.

I want to send him another, a reminder that I’m here.

Hello—remember me, your fake wife?

Real marriage, fake sentiment. His words come back to me like a slap to the forehead. Good God. I really have been delusional. I huff out an unhappy laugh. Of course, it’s been easy for him. He got to decide the terms. He set the boundaries. And I just went along with it for my trust fund. Or so I told myself.

I told myself I could handle it, that feelings wouldn’t come into it. But look at me now, incandescent with this . . . this frustration that I’ve brought this on myself.

My jaw tightens. His lack of thought aside, none of this is his fault. How I feel is on me. I allowed myself to go there. I tap my phone to my chin and, because I clearly have no self-respect, I run through a list of reasons I might message him again. Okay, excuses.

I’m off to bed. Which bed shall I take?

I’ve decided to hit a club with Chelsea. Don’t wait up!

I could go to an actual club.

I flatten the idea immediately. A club would require clothes and makeup and socializing. It would also require a girl called Chelsea who works most Friday nights. Also, what would be the point? He’s not going to get jealous.

I return to texting thoughts.

I hope you’re having a good night!

And by good I mean awful.

Hey, Troy, how is it you’ve taken over my heart in less time than it takes a season to change?

But that’s a question I should be asking myself.

I go to bed without texting him. I won’t be the woman who asks where he is. I can’t be her. I’m the wife without wifely rights.

I hate how my mind continues to spiral. I can’t go on like this. So I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and begin to run through a therapy script.

Recognize.

This tight, angry, and humiliated twist inside me has a thought underneath: I walked into this marriage knowing exactly what was expected.

Real marriage. Fake everything else.

He said it, and I said yes to it. No one forced me. I brought this on myself.

Restructure.