When I pulled into our parking lot, she finally turned toward me. "You're quiet," she said, as if she'd only just noticed I was there. I told her I was tired and that it would have meant something if she'd thanked me instead of treating me like a driver who had appeared on command. She said, "Of course I'm grateful," and kissed my cheek, then checked her phone before I'd even taken off my seat belt.
A week later I overheard her speaking to Tasha while she folded laundry in our bedroom. I was in the hall reaching for my laptop charger when I heard my own name and stopped without meaning to. Marissa said I was going through a jealous phase and needed to learn how to share her time better. Tasha responded with something I couldn't hear, and Marissa laughed before saying that I took everything personally.
I walked into the room and asked whether she'd been telling her friends I was jealous. Her face changed in a second, surprise hardening into indignation because I'd overheard a conversation she thought was private. She said Tasha had asked how we were doing and that friends were supposed to be able to talk to each other. I agreed, but I asked her to describe our arguments honestly instead of making it sound as though I resented her friendships.
"You do resent them," she said. "Every time I have plans, you act like I'm leaving you behind."
"I act disappointed when we already have plans and you cancel them," I answered. "That's not the same thing."
She folded a shirt into a tight square and placed it on the bed without looking at me. "I can't keep defending myself every time I want to see people I've known longer than I've known you," she said. I wanted to tell her that time was not a contest, that loving somebody wasn't a system in which the oldest claim automatically won. Instead, I asked whether she thought we'd have enough room for a future together if every ordinary need of mine felt like a threat to somebody else.
She said we were fine. She said she loved me and didn't understand why I was turning normal friendship into a crisis. When I asked what she'd be willing to change, she told me she'd make more time for us, then hugged me so tightly I could feel her heart beating through her shirt. I hugged her back because I loved her, and for a few days I let myself believe the answer had finally reached her.
The next Friday, she invited the squad over without checking with me first. It wasn't the fact that our friends came over that bothered me; it was the way our conversation vanished without ever being acknowledged. We spent the evening finding extra chairs, cooking food I hadn't budgeted for, and listening to Finn describe a dating problem that apparently required a panel of five people. At midnight, while I washed dishes alone, Marissa came into the kitchen and told me what a great night we'd had.
I asked whether we could have a quiet Saturday the following week. She smiled and promised we would, then tapped a reminder into her phone. That next Saturday became Tasha's birthday pregame, and the reminder never became a plan. By the time I noticed the conflict, I already had the anniversary tickets in my pocket.