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Chapter 2: The Art of Living Realistically

Nolan arrived home on Thursday evening.

He wheeled his Tumi luggage into the entryway, unzipped the front pocket, and pulled out a small, crinkled paper bag. He tossed it onto the kitchen island.

“Here you go. The magnet.”

Then, he reached into his heavy overcoat and pulled out a massive, pristine Neiman Marcus shopping bag, placing it gently on the console table.

“What’s that?” I asked, leaning against the counter.

“For Daphne. A scarf. She said the cold air was drying out her skin, and I found this great boutique.”

The tissue paper was slightly parted, revealing a dark crimson scarf made of pure, heavy cashmere.

Last winter, the heating in our apartment had broken for three days. I had mentioned wanting a high-quality cashmere scarf. Nolan had rolled his eyes. “What’s the point of blowing hundreds on a scarf, Clara? Don’t you already have five scarves in the closet?”

Every scarf in my closet was acrylic, and I had bought every single one of them with my own money.

“Did you buy that with your own card?” I asked.

“Yeah, she asked me to grab it. I’ll just eat the cost, it’s no big deal,” he said casually, kicking off his shoes and dropping onto the living room sofa with a heavy sigh. “I’m exhausted. That flight was brutal.”

“When are you going to take me to Switzerland, Nolan?”

He froze. His head snapped toward me. “Why are you suddenly bringing this up right now? I just walked through the door.”

“It’s not sudden. I’ve been asking for five years.”

He rubbed his temples in performative exhaustion. “Clara, let’s just get through this busy season with the house move and the wedding prep. Maybe next time, okay?”

Next time. That was the seventeenth time he had used that exact phrase. I had kept count.

I didn’t say another word.

An hour later, as I was plating a cold dinner, his mother called my phone.

“Clara, sweetie, is Nolan back yet?”

“He’s here, Evelyn.”

“Wonderful. Listen, you two really need to finalize the caterers. The extended family is breathing down my neck about the invitations.”

“I’m still finalizing the menu,” I replied mechanically.

“Well, Daphne came over to the house last week to help me taste-test! We picked out four amazing hors d’oeuvres options. I’ll send you the pictures to see if you approve.”

My hand, holding a fork, hovered in mid-air. “Daphne helped you pick our wedding catering?”

“Oh, yes! She said you were so swamped with corporate life that she wanted to proactively step in. She is just the sweetest, most thoughtful girl.”

I glanced into the living room. Nolan was aggressively scrolling through his phone.

“Evelyn, you can just call me directly about the wedding. You don’t need to bother Daphne.”

“Oh, it’s no bother at all! She comes over for tea three or four times a month anyway. She’s more diligent about visiting than Nolan is!”

In our second year of dating, I had suggested bringing a bottle of wine and visiting his mother every Sunday. Nolan had immediately shut it down. “You don’t need to try so hard, Clara. My mother hates loud company. Once every two months is plenty.”

It wasn’t that his mother hated company. It was that she didn’t want my company. Daphne visited weekly, and nobody found her bothersome at all.

“Alright, Evelyn,” I said quietly. “Send me the photos.”

I hung up and walked into the living room. “You let Daphne go to your mother’s house to pick our wedding food?”

“She offered,” Nolan said without looking up.

“Did you know she was going?”

“Of course. My mom texted me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What is there to tell, Clara?” He finally looked up, his tone laced with irritation. “She was just doing us a favor.”

“Why on earth is another woman picking the menu for my wedding?”

“Because you’re always busy!” he snapped.

“When have I ever told you I was too busy for our own wedding?”

He scowled, throwing his hands up in defeat. “You work fifty hours a week! I assumed! Look, fine. You do everything from now on, okay? I won’t accept any help. Happy?”

It was always the same toxic script. First, “don’t overthink it.” Then, “what’s the big deal?” And finally, the aggressive, victim-playing “fine, whatever you say is right.” It bypassed accountability entirely.

My phone buzzed. Evelyn had sent a photo.

It was Daphne, standing in Evelyn’s immaculate kitchen, wearing a floral apron, holding a tray of puff pastries, and smiling warmly. The caption read: “Daphne’s baking tastes exactly like my grandmother’s!”

Daphne looked more at home in that kitchen than I ever had. She knew where the good silverware was kept. She knew which cabinet held the exotic spices. In five years, I still had to ask where the water glasses were, because Nolan actively discouraged me from visiting.

A second message from Evelyn popped up.

“Clara, I’m just going to be honest with you. I’ve watched Daphne grow up. She knows Nolan’s soul. You’re a very successful woman, but you are very cold. You don’t know how to take care of a man. You could really learn a lot from Daphne’s warmth.”

I set the phone face-down on the counter.

Nolan walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He pulled open his coat, and a small, crimson velvet jeweler’s box fell out of the inner pocket, clattering onto the hardwood floor.

It popped open.

Resting inside was a stunning, delicate silver chain. The pendant was a perfectly crafted edelweiss flower, and right in the center, paved in tiny diamonds, was the letter ‘N’.

“What is that?” I asked.

Nolan hastily picked it up, a flash of genuine panic crossing his face before he smoothed it into indifference. “Oh, this. It’s a birthday gift for Daphne.”

“You had a bespoke diamond necklace commissioned for her?”

“It took two months to arrive,” he said proudly, before catching himself. “I mean, it’s just a small token of appreciation.”

When he proposed to me, he had ordered the engagement ring online. When the cardboard shipping box arrived, he didn’t even wrap it. He just opened it in the kitchen and handed it to me. When I had previously mentioned wanting to go to a jeweler together to pick out a setting, he had scoffed. “Diamonds are all the same, Clara. Why waste a Saturday sitting in a showroom?”

“You spent two months customizing a diamond necklace for Daphne,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “What did you get me for my birthday last year, Nolan?”

He paused. His eyes darted toward the ceiling as he actively struggled to remember. “I… didn’t I send you a Venmo for dinner?”

“You didn’t.”

“Well, work was insane. I forgot. I’ll make it up to you next time.”

Next time. Always next time.

“Nolan, look me in the eye. Do you think our relationship is normal?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he asked defensively.

“You custom-order jewelry for Daphne, but you buy me airport magnets. You throw surprise birthday trips for her to Aspen, but you don’t even remember my birthday. You let her play daughter-in-law at your mother’s house, while I am treated like an intruding business partner. Do you honestly believe this is a normal marriage?”

He slammed his water glass down on the counter. “You’re starting this again? She is my childhood best friend! What is wrong with treating her well?”

“What about how you treat me?”

“Do I not provide for you?!” he yelled. “We’ve been together for five years! We just bought a massive house in the suburbs! We are planning a wedding! Is that not enough for you?!”

He pointed a finger at me, his face red. “Clara, stop obsessing over this frivolous, romantic nonsense. Stop comparing yourself. Just live realistically. That is what adults do.”

No frivolous things. The luxury hot springs in Switzerland were frivolous. The diamond edelweiss necklace was frivolous. The surprise getaways were frivolous. And he willingly poured every ounce of his frivolity, his romance, and his passion into Daphne.

The only thing he reserved for me was the cold, sterile command to live realistically.

“You’re right,” I said quietly, turning off the kitchen light and walking toward the bedroom. “We will live realistically.”

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