in with him.
Thanks to some personal connections, he had a rent-controlled apartment on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. It was a really nice place, too, not some falling-apart, mold-infested rattrap with the shower in the kitchen. The apartment was a large, sunny one-bedroom in a clean, quiet building on a nice block. It was the kind of place that the average, law-abiding New Yorker would cheerfully have murdered him to get their hands on, especially if they knew how low the rent was. I’d loved that place ever since the first time Bryce brought me there. (To be honest, the sex that first night wasn’t good enough to distract me from admiring the polished hardwood floors, spotless bathroom grout, and new stainless steel oven.)
Bryce didn’t want me to help with the rent after I moved in. He insisted on covering it by himself. I felt a little weird about being there without paying my way, but Bryce had a good salary, and the rent was amazingly low. We agreed that what would be fair would be for me to take over the household chores. So that’s how I contributed.
Living in the city meant I could sign up for an additional night class, since I wasn’t spending so much time and money on that commute to Jersey any more. I was finally getting close to completing my degree, and I was eager to reach the finish line. And when I wasn’t at work or in class, I cleaned the apartment, did the laundry, ironed Bryce’s shirts, took his suits to the dry cleaner, and shopped for groceries. I painted the bedroom and living room to get him to stop complaining about how drab they looked. I learned to cook gluten-free meals, since he thought he might be allergic, or at least have a sensitivity. And I caught up on my studying when Bryce went up to Connecticut on the weekends to play golf and visit his parents.
But after a few months, I realized that with both of us being so busy, we were growing apart instead of closer even though we were living together. That really worried me. This was the most serious relationship I’d had with a guy, and I wanted it to work.
So I asked to go with him to Connecticut the next weekend. But Bryce explained that those visits were “guy time” and “family stuff,” and a girlfriend tagging along for the weekend would just be bored. Then I tried to convince him to stay home one weekend so we could do something together, but he got grumpy and accused me of being too possessive.
I thought about dropping one of my classes, though it was too late in the term for me to get a refund, so we could have one guaranteed night together each week.
But when I suggested it, he said, “I wish you were more serious about getting your degree, Cathy.”
“I am serious, but—”
“Anyhow, I’m usually at work when you’re in class. There’s a lot of pressure on me! Come on, Cath. I don’t need you pressuring me to guarantee I can be available to you every Wednesday night just because you want an excuse to quit your class.”
That stung so much I dropped the subject.
But I still felt we were drifting apart, so I thought maybe reviving our sex life would set things right. Although I’m no expert, it seemed to me that our physical relations were pretty infrequent for a young couple who’d only been together a few months. So maybe that was the problem. I was certainly available to him, but maybe that wasn’t enough. Perhaps Bryce needed to feel encouraged, desired, wanted in bed. I needed to show him that I was hot for him.
After my initial overtures met with distractedly negative responses (he was tired, he wasn’t in the mood, he had to pack for the weekend), I got more creative. When he came home from Connecticut that Sunday, I was lounging on the bed (in what I hoped was a seductive pose) in a filmy negligee I’d splurged on while he was away, with an open bottle of wine on the nightstand in our candlelit bedroom.
Bryce stormed into the room, turned on the lights, and complained bitterly to me for the next twenty minutes about his weekend. An incompetent caddy had ruined his golf game, a colicky newborn nephew had repeatedly disrupted the family dinner at his parents’ house, and the traffic coming back into the city was murder. Then he