"You're seriously leaving because I have friends," she said at last.
"I'm leaving because I can't keep feeling like an afterthought in my own relationship."
"That's not fair. You knew who I was when we started dating."
"I knew you loved your friends," I replied. "I didn't know loving them meant I had to keep giving up the things that mattered to me."
Marissa stood so abruptly the letter slid to the floor. She said I was asking her to cut off everyone who had been there before me, and she wanted to know why she should be punished for being a loyal friend. I told her I had never asked her to stop seeing anyone. I said I'd asked her to show up for my graduation, my brother's wedding, one night at the hospital, and our anniversary, and that each time I'd been told some version of why somebody else's needs came first.
"You're listing all the times I disappointed you," she said, and her eyes filled. "Do you hear yourself?"
"I'm telling you why I've stopped believing your promises to change."
"I said we'd celebrate Sunday. Why isn't that good enough?"
"Because Sunday wasn't something we chose together. It was the leftover space after the plans you wanted more."
She looked away, breathing quickly. For a moment I thought she might understand, because her expression softened and she glanced at the empty side of the closet with real sadness. Then she said that if I had simply agreed to go to Tasha's birthday, we could have celebrated our anniversary as part of a group. I felt the last small hope I had brought to the conversation settle quietly to the floor.
"That's exactly what I'm talking about," I said.
She asked whether I was jealous of Finn, and I told her Finn had nothing to do with it. She asked whether my friends had convinced me she was a bad girlfriend, and I told her the decision was mine. She asked if I expected her to sit home waiting for me every night, and I said no, that I expected both of us to want some nights together. Each answer seemed to make her more certain that I was avoiding the real problem, though neither of us agreed on what that problem was.
After twenty minutes, the same sentences had gone around enough times that I could predict the next one. Marissa had begun crying and was angry at herself for crying; I was tired of sounding calm when I felt anything but calm. I sat on the bed, rubbed my hands over my face, and admitted that I had spent weeks trying to decide whether wanting a partner who showed up made me selfish. Saying it aloud made me realize how far away from myself I'd traveled.
"I am done arguing about this," I said.
She stood in front of me. "Done arguing or done with us?"
"Both."