Page 11 of Inflame

“Should be obvious,” he says dryly. “If I’m going to be carrying the weight of earning the money, then the least you could do is bear some of the household burden and make dinner.”

“I do work.”

He sighs heavily. “It’s part-time, Claire, at a gym. You have a hobby. It’s not the same thing as actually having a career and you know it.”

He’s right. But I really don’t need another reminder. “I know,” I say sadly. “I’ve been applying for jobs and putting my résumé out there. It’s not like Portland has the opportunities like Los Angeles would have to build up my portfolio and add to my work experience.”

He steps back from me and his eyes go cold. He tosses his hands into the air. “If you keep bringing up the dream job you left behind, then we are never going to be able to progress forward in this relationship. You have your mind set on feeling sorry for yourself over declining that internship and keep throwing it back in my face. Enough’s enough. I’m simply asking you to do some more chores around here and tidy up the place. No need to have a hissy fit over it.”

I glance around the space. It doesn’t even look like anyone lives here. My townhouse belongings are shoved into the spare room and anything that wasn’t in great condition got sent to the thrift shop for donation. For someone who is a day trader, I would expect more luxurious living conditions. Everything here is builder-grade basic. He doesn’t even have kids’ toys lying around for when Finn is scheduled to visit. Ethan just ends up taking him out to a restaurant, park, or on some other type of excursion—making some excuse that kids like high-energy activities. They are not wall starers, he tells me. I don’t know much about kids, but I bet they just want attentive and loving parents. Everything else is just sauce.

I move into the kitchen and pull open the fridge. “Want me to make you—” I don’t even know if we have ingredients to make anything fresh. I open up the freezer. “Some lasagna?” It is the kind served in a black tray with plastic across the top that gets removed prior to going into the oven. He obviously bought this at one time for himself because there is no way I would pollute the environment with that amount of nonbiodegradable trash.

Ethan moves up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “Did you blow through the grocery budget money?” He kisses my neck. His touch is sweet and in direct contrast to his patronizing tone.

I turn in his arms and look at him with confusion. “Three hundred dollars a month for food and essential items is—”

“Plenty if you ask me. Maybe start being wiser with how you decide to use it.”

I hate when we do this. And it keeps happening more and more. I take a step back. “Okay,” I agree, plastering a fake smile onto my lips, just to end the misery. He accepts my answer at face value and runs his eyes down my body.

“You look nice today,” he says smoothly. “I much prefer these softer colors on you, but try to wear less of these wild patterns.”

It’s stripes, for fuck’s sake. I bite my tongue and resist lashing out. I have never needed to restrain myself as much as I do around Ethan. He is very charming in public, but behind closed doors, I find myself quivering back from his watchful gaze. I hate myself for allowing a man to make me feel less than what I deserve. I know this is just a season in time though. Everyone has always told me relationships have highs and lows. We have had a ton of highs, so a low here and there is expected.

I wrap my arms around his neck and massage my fingers into his skin. He loves when I do this and instantly relaxes into my touch. “So, you have your plane ticket booked for joining us in Vegas?”

“My assistant verified the purchase this morning. I’m all set.”

“I’m so excited.”

“I’m looking forward to hitting up the casinos and getting out of Portland. Should be a fun trip.”

“Am I allowed to get a little more spending money on the debit card to use while I’m there?” I ask. I’m in between paychecks from the gym, and with needing more professional looking clothes for interviews, my savings account is basically nothing.

He nods. “I’ll add some more onto what is left from the month.”

There’s rarely anything left at the end of the month. “Thank you.”

“How about we order some takeout and hang out under the sheets?” he suggests. “I’m going to miss you when you leave tomorrow.”

“That sounds perfect, but I have a class to teach in about thirty minutes down by the river.”

Ethan’s face drops with disappointment. “I hate that you choose exercising over me sometimes.”

“It’s my job,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. Or to him, a hobby.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says with defeat. “Go. I’ll order, and if there’s any left over, you can help yourself to it when you come back home.”

I run off to my room to change into long gray yoga pants and a bright blue off-the-shoulder long-sleeved shirt. Working out is therapeutic for my mood, and instructing others into their zen state gives me an even bigger endorphin rush.

* * *

The sun is about to set while I unroll my yoga mat in the grassy area near the river. The lights surrounding the walking path have yet to turn on, but the area is bright enough from the neighboring park and the fact that we aren’t caught in the shadow of the buildings. The one cool thing about being an instructor at the gym is that I’m able to use the facility without having to pay the hefty membership cost or fees. Exercise is my outlet. It gives me strength and helps me center my focus, even when my mind seems to be in disarray.

The first members arrive and pick a spot facing toward the water. Riverboats float downstream. Some are decorated with twinkling lights, while others have the American flag blowing in the breeze from long metal poles. It’s hard to live in Portland and not appreciate the dedication to having greenery and parks. It is a very likable and livable city—much different than my own hometown on the East Coast.

I set up my portable speakers and slide my headset into place.

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