The Lies I Tell(21)

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.

“Why don’t we compromise,” he said. “You continue to shop for the food, but let me pay.”

I shook my head and pulled back. “But that’s the whole point,” I argued. “I want to contribute.”

He gave me a patronizing smile and said, “Don’t make it about the money; make it about the act. Taking on a chore that’s a huge hassle for me matters more than who ends up paying for it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, and I had to work hard to keep my face neutral as he handed me the ATM card. “You’re now in charge of all things house related. Groceries, hardware store, all of it. It’s a big responsibility,” he lectured. “I’m going to need you to be reliable. When I tell you something needs doing, you need to do it.”

I took the card and traced my finger across his name embossed on the surface. “Will they let me use a card that doesn’t belong to me?” I asked.

“The PIN is 5427. And Cory could be a woman’s name. I don’t think you’ll have any problems.”

I shook my head and handed it back. “I’d feel better if you’d call the bank to authorize me,” I said. “One time, when I was a kid, my mother gave me her credit card to buy new shoes, and the store clerk called security on me. I had to wait in this tiny, windowless room while they tracked her down so she could confirm I had her permission. Apparently, she should have written me a note or something.”

“How about I do both,” he said. “I’ll call the bank tomorrow, put your name down as an authorized user, and I’ll write you a note.”

I hooked my finger through his belt loop and gave it a playful tug. “Are you teasing me?”

“You make it so easy.”

I took the card back and tucked it into my pocket, feeling the thrill that came along with a plan well executed.

***

I let another two weeks pass—filled with high-quality produce, grass-fed meat, organic everything—before pushing forward again. This year, Cory’s high school was hosting the county’s annual robotics tournament, and in the weeks leading up to it, there had been many late nights and weekends spent preparing. I waited until the day of the tournament to act, knowing Cory would be distracted, knowing he would be grateful for my help.

“The card won’t work,” I said when I called him, just past lunchtime. I’d spent the morning at Home Depot, buying several hundred dollars’ worth of potted plants for the backyard, which now sat in the driveway.