Page 2 of An Acquired Taste

So why ishethe one breaking up withme?

“It seems like you have no time for me anymore,” he says, and I look up. “For us, I mean,” he corrects himself, as if that makes it better.

“Dec,allof my time is spent on us,” I say, still too confused to be angry yet. “I work for us. I clean for us. I cook for us.”

He grimaces at his plate of soggy spaghetti, and it finally sparks some anger through the haze of my shock.

“Because that was our deal,” I say, my voice rising. “That I would take care of everything until you were finished with school, and then…” And then he was supposed to take care ofme. I was supposed to have time to actually write, instead of scribbling ideas on napkins between pours of coffee.

And more importantly, he was supposed to help my sister. I paid our rent, did all the chores. I wrote his goddamn résumé. All for… this?

“I know we made a lot of plans,” he says. He’s still using that mild, oh-so-reasonable tone that makes me want to fling my plate of terrible spaghetti at him. “But things change, you know? Feelings change.We’vechanged. We’re not the same people that we were when we first got together five years ago. At least, I know I’m not.”

I flinch because it’s true: I’m still stuck in the same dead-end waitressing job, still wearing the same thrifted clothes. He’s the one that’s going to come out of this with a degree and a future. The future that was supposed to beours.

If it were just me he was screwing over, then… fine. I’d deal with it. But it’s not just me. I think of my sister, who already accepted her offer at USC and hasn’t been able to stop talking about how excited she is to get out of our parents’ stiflingly religious house and come live with me. How am I supposed to tell her that it’s not happening anymore? How am I supposed to watch her struggle the same way that I have, all because I couldn’t keep my promise to support her?

“Right,” I say. My anger is still growing, sharpening, and I’m thankful for it. On the verge of drowning in despair, I cling to the lifeboat of rage. “Because when we met you were living on Mommy and Daddy’s dime, and now you’re living on mine. Suchprogress. Suchmaturity.”

The look he gives me is so full of condescending pity that it makes me feel sick to my stomach. “Jealousy isn’t a good look, Amelia.”

“Jealous—” I bite off the word, grimace down at my plate of food, and then raise my eyes to glare at him again. I’m done trying to make myself small and push away my anger. I deserve to be angry.

I focus on that splotch of red on his collar, trying to feel some petty glee at his expense. But upon a closer look, I realize it isn’t spaghetti sauce at all.

“Is thatlipstickon your shirt?” I ask.

Declan flushes as he follows my eyes to the damning red against his white collar. “No, it’s—” He pauses, fumbles, seems to think better of the lie. “Listen, Amelia. We haven’t slept together inweeks.”

“Three months and six days,” I say. There’s a faint but growing buzzing in my ears, and I feel like I’m watching this scene play out on a television screen rather than living it. It’s just so… socliché. Like something that would happen on one of thoseshows he makes fun of me for watching. “Because you reject me. Constantly.”

He winces. “I was going to tell you, I swear…”

The rest is lost in the buzzing. My mind is somewhere far away, wondering how the hell I got here. The past is easier to think about than the vast, dark expanse of my unknown future alone. A future where I’m stuck in dead-end jobs and never have time to write again. A future in which my sister has to suffer and struggle the same way I have. Declan goes on, talking about some woman he met in his program, and how he cares about me but isn’t in love with me anymore, and blah, blah, blah.

“I’ve wasted my life on you,” I blurt, cutting him off halfway through a thought. He stops with his mouth open, blinking at me, and I slowly raise my eyes to meet his. “I… I can’t believe I was so stupid.” I know I’m not a perfect person. I can be messy and forgetful and easily distracted. I’m a god-awful cook. But I know that I deserve better than this. “Get out,” I say. The words come quietly, but they’re enough to earn a startled look from Declan.

“Huh?”

“Get out,” I say again, louder. “Get out of my apartment.” I’m the one who’s been paying the rent all year, after all.

The look he shoots me is wounded, but there’s something else underneath. Something smug. “Actually… I’m sorry, I wasn’t going to bring this up, but… The apartment is in my name. Remember?”

I blink at him, ready to argue. I’m the one who pays all the bills and deals with the landlord, but… oh Jesus. This isstudenthousing. Wehadto put it under his name because he was the only one enrolled at the university, and this was the only place we could afford that was close to campus.

“Oh, God,” I say. I sink down in my chair and put my head in my hands.

“I’m happy to let you sleep on the couch for a couple weeks,” he says. “But…”

I let out a small, helpless, defeated laugh.

I am well and truly fucked.

Chapter Two

God, I’m such a cliché: sitting on the LA metro with no destination, a single, sorry suitcase clutched on my lap. I’m still too numb for the sadness to really hit, so instead, I mostly feel… lost.

My phone buzzes and I’m reminded that there isonething that’s certain: I have to tell Maisy that I don’t have a place for her to stay anymore. Just seeing her name light up my screen makes me feel sick. I decline the call, lean my head back against the window, and try not to panic.

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