Claimed

by Portia Moore

  I try to hold on to my excitement, signaling for him to join in with me, but he isn’t.

  He looks like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Like I haven't shared with him my dreams of becoming an author, how he didn’t promise to pay for my tuition when I was accepted into my program. I want to say all of this but my patience is so short right now. This day—this moment—is going nothing like how I imagined it would.

  “Vincent, why are you acting as if you don’t know what I’m talking about? This is the school I was referring to when you said you were going to cover tuition if I agreed to leave Funbags, remember?” I say with a smile, taking his hand.

  He squeezes back but looks perplexed. “Yes, but all that’s changed now, right?”

  What?

  I can feel my heart sinking all the way down to my toes. “What do you mean, that’s changed? Vincent…I left my job. I moved in. I let you pay for things. I gave in about the accounts. I’ve done everything you wanted, and I’m about to be your wife! Why aren’t you excited about this for me? I’m finally getting something I’ve wanted so badly.”

  He just glances at me as he walks to the bar and pours some scotch into a glass.

  “So the ridiculously high salary at the boutique, not having your ass pinched nightly by

  disgusting men, moving into a luxury penthouse with me…those are all things you didn’t want?”

  I can’t believe this is happening. Who is this person in front of me?

  Not the man who told me I could do anything I wanted to, who loves me and encourages me to have the best, who tells me that I am the best. Who is this cold, indifferent man in front of me? Why is he being mean? I’m so confused. It takes everything in me to speak without crying.

  I shake my head, baffled. “No…Vincent, of course I wanted them. I want this life with you. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have said yes when you proposed.”

  “Why aren’t you excited?” I ask again, but it’s more like a plea. Maybe he’s had a terrible day at

  work and isn’t reading me right. He’s grumpy, but the least he can do is give me this moment.

  “This is a huge thing for me, Vincent. This is my dream.”

  “You’re going to be my wife, Poppy. I make more money than you could ever dream of making as a writer. You don’t need a job, or a career, and certainly not school. I can take care of us both, and that’s what I’ve told you over and over that I want to do, Poppy. Do you not believe me?”

  “Of course I believe you,” I protest. “But this is what I’ve always wanted.”

  “It’s a silly dream,” Vincent says, tossing back the scotch. Tears are coming to my eyes. When I

  first met him it wasn’t a silly dream.

  His face softens just a tad, and his eyes lock on mine.

  “Fine Poppy, if you want to write a book, go ahead, write the fucking book. Write ten. Just don’t let it interfere with our time and your duties to me as my wife, okay?” He says this so dismissively, my lips begin to tremble.

  “Vincent, you don’t understand. It’s not about writing a book. It’s about having a career as a writer. Maybe I’ll write a book, maybe not, but writing—having something of my own that I earned—is what I want.”

  I’m trying to explain this without sounding bitter, ungrateful, and angry, but he just rolls his eyes at me, visibly exasperated. “I’ll take care of you. We’ve discussed this already. You want to go to school and get a degree? That’d be four years of classes, homework, projects, time away from me, away from us. All for you to possibly land a shitty job making—optimistically—forty grand a year, if that!” he says, condescension lacing his tone.

  “It’s stupid Poppy, and I won’t let my wife be stupid.” Tears are now trickling down my cheek. He lets out a frustrated groan before he sets his glass down.

  “I’m not the bad guy! We have to support one another. I’ve given you everything you could ever want. There’s no need for school or a job. In fact, I was going to talk to you about leaving the boutique next week. I’ll need you to start helping with things like planning business dinners and entertaining clients’ wives and girlfriends. You should probably sit on the board of a charity; it looks good for me. You’ll have plenty to occupy your time.”

  I can’t think of anything to say. I stare at him as he’s speaking. He keeps going on and on, ignorant to how he’s obliterating my feelings. I can see my dreams slipping away, everything I’ve wanted, everything I’ve been hinging all of my hopes on. I think of my mother’s warnings, her concern, the concerns Mallory had, and I feel like a fool. Like the rug has been yanked out from under me and I’m falling, flailing. I have no idea what to do next. Vincent promised me he’d pay for school. I would never have left my job or let him control my account if I knew he wasn’t on board with it. He’s lied to me, and I’ve never felt so betrayed.

  “We have a dinner tonight at eight. You should start getting ready,” he tells me, giving me a brief glance before he takes out his phone. Soon he’s talking to one of his associates, and I’m virtually dismissed. I stand from my seat and run to our bedroom, feeling more like a scared, panicked little girl than the grown, sophisticated woman I thought I’d become. I throw myself on the bed and cry.

  I need to get away to think. From all of this, from Vincent. I try to think of where I can go, where I won’t hear an “I told you so” or “I’m overreacting,” where Vincent won’t know to find me. To talk to someone who won’t judge me so I can decide what to do. The only person I can think of who doesn’t know anything about any of this and who will give me good, unbiased advice is Marcus.

  I grab my phone and call him, unsure if he’ll pick up since we haven’t spoken since he started school, but I’m relieved when he does.

  “Hello?” he says. I smile when I hear his voice, which is a little deeper than I remember it being.

  “Hi, it’s Rain—” I say, and before I can finish, he’s interjected.

  “Rain, I’m so glad you called me! I’ve felt terrible about everything, how it all happened. I was selfish and a shit friend.” His apology brings fresh tears to my eyes.

  “Want to make it up to me?” I ask. With a little luck, guilt-tripping, and a brief explanation, Marcus says I can come and crash at his place for a few days. I pack a small bag of my things. As I’m putting on my shoes, my heart rate skyrockets when I see Vincent scowling at me in the doorway. It doesn’t matter. I’m doing this, regardless of what he says. I can’t think around him, and after everything that he’s shown me today, I know I have a lot of thinking to do.

  I zip up my bag and pull it on my shoulder. “Going somewhere?” he asks, his arms folded, and his voice almost steels me.

  “I’m leaving for a few days, Vincent. I need time to think. I need space.”

  “Think? Space? What the hell is there to think about?” His voice is completely even not even the slightest bit raised but there ice in his tone.

  “I offer you the world, and this is the thanks I get? All because I want you to be my wife, and not run around chasing your tail, trying to be something you’re not?”

  I narrow my eyes. “I don’t think we should fight when we’re both upset. Now let me go. If I want to talk to you, I’ll call.” His eyes narrow on mine, and I hesitantly approach him waiting for him to move out of my way. Vincent is several inches taller and he’s pure lean muscle, which has always turned me on, but right now it makes me feel small and weak, and I know if he doesn’t move out of my way, I won’t be able to push past him if he wants to stop me. I avoid his eyes and wait for him to say something. I prepare myself for another argument.

  “Well then,” he says flatly, “go.”

  I’m surprised by his casualness.

  It’s almost more unsettling than anger, in a way. I almost stop and put the bag down and tell him we should talk about things more, but I push past the fear of really losing him, of him giving up on us, because if it’s that easy for us to be pulled apart then we probably aren�
��t meant to be after all. His reaction to everything today has sucked something out of me, some sense of rightness that I had had about us, and I’m trying to figure out if there’s anything left to fight for. There are so many thoughts in my head as I ride in the Uber to Marcus. I’ve always wanted a marriage better than the one my parents have. I envisioned Vincent and me as a kind of power couple in the future—me an acclaimed author and him the shrewd businessman. The together-no-one-can-stop-us kind of couple, driving each other to succeed, celebrating each other’s accomplishments. I thought that is what Vincent and I would eventually be with time, but after today it seems that he just wants me to fade into the background, to raise him up while letting go of everything else I’ve ever wanted.

  But what if keeping the other things I want means losing him? I love Vincent, even after how cruel he’s been today. I wish I could say I hate him for the things he’s said to me, that I don’t love him and I never want to see him again, but it’d be a lie. I want to be with him. I just want him to keep the promises he made to me. To be who he’s showed me he can be. The best-case scenario for me, what I’m still holding on to, is that today was just a really bad day and tomorrow everything will be better. He’ll apologize and realize how ridiculous he’s being and we can go back to who we were.

  When I walk into Marcus’s studio, it’s exactly what I’d expected from Marcus—artfully messy, with a full-sized mattress towards the back of the large room with a faded grey duvet thrown over it and two squashed pillows, one with a Star Wars pillowcase. There’s a laundry basket in one corner, a scratchy-looking brown couch with a Rastafarian print throw blanket over the back of it, a television with a game console—and the only piece of furniture that doesn’t appear to be thrifted and takes up most of the space: a huge desk with a high-powered, self-built computer sitting on it that is stacked with sketchbooks and canvases, pens and brushes, and so many bottles of paint. Marcus is going to school for design and illustration, minoring in fiction writing, and he’s so good. The drawings taped all over the walls are proof of that. Re-draws of movie storyboards and fan art. The apartment is clean, not a speck of dust in sight, but very cluttered, and clearly the living space of someone who pinched pennies on a regular basis.

  This will be your life again if you leave Vincent, I think. Thrift-store couches and tiny apartments.

  He’s lost weight since the last time I’ve seen him and upgraded his clothing style. He’s wearing jeans with patches sewn artfully onto them, a bright neon blue t-shirt with a few strategic holes—I can see that he’s starting to get abs through one of them—and bright yellow Doc Martens. In true Marcus fashion, it’s an outfit that would look horrific on anyone else, but that he pulls off perfectly. He pulls me into a big friendly hug; I relish in it.

  “I missed you,” I tell him, and he tells me the same before closing the door.

  I set my Louis Vuitton duffle bag down next to the couch and flop onto it, immediately wincing as I feel the springs poke into my backside. I should buy him a new couch as a thank-you, I think, then remember I can only do that if I stay with Vincent. If I don’t, I might have to ask to crash on this uncomfortable springy couch.

  “How is everything going?” I ask brightly as he sits next to me. He smiles widely, looking happier than I’ve ever seen him as he tells me about his classes, his part-time job at an art deco store, and washing dishes at a bar and grill near the school. He tells me how much dating is easier here than when we were back in high school and mentions he’s meeting up with a girl he met on Tinder tomorrow night.

  “So enough about me…what’s going on? Last I saw on Facebook you were engaged. Crazy!” He laughs, and I try to smile.

  “Yeah, my mom thinks it’s crazy…and I’m starting to think she might be right,” I admit. His jovial expression softens.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, his face full of concern, so I tell him everything…the PG-13 version. I start with me shoplifting to pay our rent and Vincent saving me down to him vetoing me going to school. He listens attentively; by the time I’m finished, he looks shocked.

  “Shit, Rain, that’s a lot!” he says, letting out an exasperated breath. I nod and wipe a tear from my eye.

  “I don’t know what to do. There’s a part of me that says run, that he’s lied to me about how he really feels and maybe I’m not ready to be married because I don’t really know him…but another part of me is thinking, what if he’s right? What if I break up with him and go to school and end up with a shit job, miserable, wishing that I would have just kept my mouth shut and lived the good life?”

  Marcus goes to his “kitchen”—which is really just a tiny stove and dorm-sized refrigerator with one countertop and a tiny sink—and fills up a glass with water and brings it to me. “Here,” he says, handing it to me.

  “Crying makes you dehydrated,” he says with a lopsided grin.

  I take the water gratefully and sip it.

  “To be honest…based on what you’ve told me, this guy could be the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you…” He trails off, and I’m hanging on to his every word.

  “Or a piece of shit that will be the worst mistake you’ll ever make in your life if you stay with him.” He shrugs, and I frown.

  “I’ve never met him, so I don’t know which, but to tell you he’d pay for school and then switch up on you after he puts a ring on your finger is a little concerning.” I nod, knowing he’s right.

  “But on the other hand, when he told you all that, maybe he meant it at the time, and now that you’re going to be his wife, things are different.”

  “You’re not making this easy, Marcus,” I say.

  He smiles. “You know you’re talking to a Libra, right? It takes me hours to decide what toppings I want on a pizza.” His expression is totally serious, but it makes me laugh. I let out a deep breath and sink back deeper into the couch.

  “You look phenomenal, though. I’ve got to say that.” He gives me a wink and squeezes my hand. I’m reminded of how he became such a good friend when we were in high school.

  I sigh. “Remember when we thought a few years ago that we had problems? Look at us now.”

  “Yeah, the good ol’ days,” he says sarcastically.

  “Do you love him?” he asks, looking me dead in my eyes. I think of everything I’ve been through with him, all that he’s done for me. I do love him. I know that he loves me, even with how he acted today. I know he does. The question isn’t about love, it’s about respect. Will Vincent ever respect me? Can I make him understand me, see things my way? I’ve never really given him any pushback about his plans and the things he wants for me. They always seemed logical, however, I know just being his wife and not having a life outside of him isn’t what I want. Can I be with someone who wants that for me, even one I love as much as him?

  “I just don’t know if that’s enough,” I say quietly.

  Marcus and I go and get pizza. We have it with cheap beer while watching reality TV trash. He does a good job of keeping my mind off Vincent until the evening.

  Marcus is a sweetheart and gives me his bed, and takes the spring-filled couch, saying he’s used to it. As I lie in the comfortable full-sized bed, I think of what my choices are. If I leave Vincent, I will be back where I started. Maybe even worse off, because when I met him, I had the apartment with Dena and Mallory. I had a job. Now, if I leave, I won’t have any of those things. No money, no home of my own, no job. I’d have to hope that my friends would help me until I got back on my feet—and who knew if they even could?

  Before today Vincent has been amazing, and my life extraordinary. I know without a doubt that I have the heart of one of the richest, most handsome, and sophisticated men in the city. And it makes me feel sophisticated and a little powerful as well. I don’t want for anything. Also, I can be there for my family, give them anything they need. Sure, Vincent will have a say in it somewhat, but I know that I can do much more with him than without. If I leave him…I’ll be dati
ng men like Marcus. Men my age—flighty, afraid of commitment, searching for hookups on Tinder.

  The next morning, before Marcus leaves, he asks if I’ve decided what to do yet. I tell him I still don’t know, but I am going to call Vincent to see if he’s upset or changed his mind at all. Marcus leaves me his key and heads off to class.

  Before I call Vincent, I take the L train to what would be my campus if I started school. The sector is full of students and city life, and I can feel the dreams and hopes and aspirations in the air. It’s the entire reason I came to Chicago. I can’t believe I let myself get so sidetracked. Even if I choose not to stay with Vincent, unless I win the lottery, I won’t be able to afford to attend.

  I head back to Marcus’s apartment. As soon as I sit my things down, I see my phone buzzing with Vincent’s name across the screen.

  “Poppy?” He sounds frantic…and more than a little angry. “Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m with a friend,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and even. “Vincent, we need to talk.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m with a friend,” I repeat.

  “What friend?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I can feel myself wavering, but I’m set on remaining firm. I have put my foot down to see if he will be the one to compromise this time, if he will support me in a way that isn’t financial. “But what does matter is my degree, having a career of my own. You knew that. And you acted like it was nothing. Like nothing I could do or want outside of marrying you matters. And I don’t—I can’t—live that way. I love you. I love you so much, and I want to be your wife, but I can’t change who I am, what I want out of life…” I wait for him to become angry, to tell me I’m being ridiculous or that the marriage is off. Instead, he sighs. He sounds tense, like he’s been worried out of his mind.

  “Poppy, I’m sorry. So sorry,” he says, his tone soft. “I didn’t mean to dismiss what you want. You’re right. I knew that when we met you wanted those things, I just thought that being with me was enough.”