***
One Friday morning, she found me at the kitchen table, sorting bills before work.
“Ari,” she said, setting a cup beside my laptop, “is Scott helping with rent this month?”
I kept my eyes on the screen. “He has that paid gig coming up. He needs to focus.”
“He’s been focusing for nine years.”
“That’s not fair.”
Chelsea leaned against the counter. “What’s not fair is you working yourself into the ground while he rests his hands for a dream you keep funding.”
“Is Scott helping with rent this month?”
I shut my laptop halfway.
Chelsea looked around the apartment, her eyes landing on Scott’s guitar stand in the corner where my reading chair used to be.
“You bought most of this, didn’t you?” she asked.
I picked at my sleeve. “Most of it.”
Chelsea gave me a tired look. “Ari.”
Chelsea looked around the apartment.
I hated when she said my name like that.
“What?” I asked.
She pointed toward the guitar stand. “You moved your chair because he needed space. You picked up extra shifts because he needed money. When does he give something back?”
I looked at the rug instead of her.
“We’re building a future.”
Chelsea’s voice softened. “Then why are you the only one carrying bricks?”
I had no answer.
“When does he give something back?”
