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We settled across from each other, and I let him go into the details of his day, making sympathetic noises about the difficulties of running a public high school. Funding shortages, staffing problems, troubled students who might not graduate.
“You have so much on your plate,” I told him. “You do so much for so many people. Including me.”
He nodded and picked up his knife and fork.
“Let me help,” I continued. “I feel like all I do is take. I live here for free, I eat for free, you buy me expensive computers and love me…let me do something for you.”
“You do plenty for me,” he said, giving me a wink.
I pulled myself straight in my chair and said, “To be honest, it’s starting to make me uncomfortable. I’ve always been independent. Paid my own way and taken care of myself.” I crossed my arms and looked into the living room. “I know you mean well, and I appreciate everything you give me, but this isn’t how I was raised.” I looked back at him, my expression serious. “It makes me feel cheap.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.
“I need to feel like an equal partner here. I know you think I’m young and naive.” He started to speak, but I kept talking. “I hear how you and Nate talk about me. And it’s fine, you’re not wrong. I don’t have as much experience in the world as you do; I don’t make as much money, but I can afford to contribute something. I can make life easier for you if you’ll let me.”
He thought for a moment. Finally, he said, “What did you have in mind?”
“Let me buy the groceries. Imagine how nice it’ll be to have that errand done for you. To come home to a hot meal.” Under the table I tugged the hem of my shirt so the V of my top would sink lower. “Maybe I’ll wear an apron.”
I could see him imagining it—me in something skimpy, serving him. “I suppose we can give that a try.”
I smiled and leaned over the table to kiss him.
***
The following week, I made a big show of assembling a list and checking for staples that needed to be replenished. “By the time you get home, the cupboards will be filled and dinner will be ready.” I grabbed Cory around the waist and hugged him. “This feels good,” I whispered into his ear. “Thank you.”
He slid his hands under my shirt and caressed my stomach. “I’ll be home at seven.”
***
I’d given myself a $100 budget for the weekly groceries, but I wasn’t going to spend it at Cory’s high-end designer market. Instead, I headed for the major retailer with plenty of coupons. This time when I unloaded groceries, they were items from my childhood. Campbell’s soup. Velveeta cheese. Cheap white bread and instant coffee. A large log of ground beef and a $7 bottle of wine. Nothing organic, everything generic.
I threw some ground beef into a pot, dumped a jar of sauce over it, and set it to simmer. Then I got another pot of water boiling for the pasta and waited for Cory to get home.
I met him at the door with a glass of wine. He took a sip and grimaced. “What’s this?” he asked.
“It was on sale,” I said, looking proud.
He took another exploratory sip and handed the glass back to me. “You’d have been better off tossing that money into the trash. I’ll have water.”
“Dinner in five,” I said. “Go get changed.”
I’d assembled two large bowls of spaghetti with meat sauce, and a plate of flimsy white bread buttered, salted, and broiled to a crispy brown. When he arrived at the table, he took in the twist-top wine bottle and the steaming bowls of pasta. Then he picked up his fork and took a tiny bite, chewing carefully.
I watched with an expression of anxious anticipation, until he said, “It’s different.”
“Different good?”
He took a large gulp of water and said, “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I’ll get better,” I assured him. “I’ll look up recipes. Maybe watch a few of those cooking shows on TV.” I smiled at the idea and dug in to my meal, wondering how many weeks of generic groceries Cory could handle.
***
Three weeks. Three weeks of hot dogs, tomato soup, and grilled Velveeta cheese sandwiches. Three weeks of Folgers ground coffee from a giant red can. Three weeks until he finally spoke up. “Meg,” he said. “No offense, but I can’t keep eating this shit. My sodium is probably through the roof, and your pants are looking a little snug.” He pinched my waist hard.
I covered my eyes, embarrassed. “I know what you’re going to say,” I started. “I went to your market, you know. Parked the minivan next to the Teslas and Audis. I walked around, dodging Lululemon ladies and hipsters, filling my cart with all the things you love. The fresh pressed juice, the organic veggies and meat.” I looked up at him, letting my eyes water a little bit. “I didn’t have enough money,” I whispered. “So I went back to what I know—coupons and bargain baskets. But it’s awful.” I gave a short laugh. “I really wanted to do this for you. I love taking care of you. Feeding you.” I knew he loved it too. I’d overheard him bragging to Nate about how well my training was going. Seven o’clock on the dot. I come home now and she’s got food and sex ready. Every night. An exaggeration for sure, but he’d grown attached to the idea of it, which was all I needed.
