Over the next few weeks, Julian started being everywhere. He was at our apartment when I got home from work, brainstorming content with her. He was in the passenger seat of my car while I drove them to shoot locations on weekends. I became the third wheel in my own relationship.
I tried to bring it up. I told her I felt disrespected. I told her I felt like an ATM with a pulse.
She twisted it immediately: she told me I was insecure and jealous of her growth. She said Julian was gay—he wasn't. Or asexual—he wasn't. Or just like a brother—he definitely wasn't. She told me that if I loved her, I would support her dreams, and part of that dream was looking the part.
"You have to dress for the life you want, Mark," she told me once, criticizing my polo shirt and jeans. "And right now, you're dressing for a life of mediocrity."
I swallowed it. I swallowed it because I loved the version of her I met three years ago, and I kept hoping that girl was still in there, just buried under a pile of filters and hashtags. I thought if I just supported her enough, if she finally made it, she'd relax and we'd go back to normal. I was an idiot.
The breaking point didn't happen in a scream. It happened on a Saturday in mid-July.
Elena had been talking about the Solstice White Party for a month. It was an exclusive, invite-only event at a vineyard about sixty miles outside the city. It was the "it" event of the summer; everyone was going to be there: local influencers, brand reps, people she needed to impress.
"I need you to drive," she told me three days before. "I want to drink, and Julian's license is suspended."
"Why is Julian coming?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Because he's shooting the content, Mark! God, why do you have to make everything a fight? Do you want to come or not?"
I should have said no. I should have stayed home, ordered a pizza, and changed the locks. But I wanted to see it. I think subconsciously I wanted to see how far she would push it; I wanted to see if there was any limit to the disrespect.
"I'll drive," I said.
The day of the party, the temperature was 90 degrees. I wore a crisp white linen button-down and tailored beige chinos—exactly the dress code she had specified. I thought I looked good.
When I walked into the living room, Elena and Julian were already there. They looked like they belonged on a magazine cover: she was in a flowing, backless white silk dress that probably cost more than my first car; Julian was wearing a white mesh shirt and wide-legged trousers that dragged on the floor.
Elena looked me up and down, her lip curled. "You're wearing that?" she asked.
"It's white linen, like you said."
"It looks corporate," Julian chimed in, adjusting his sunglasses indoors. "It's giving 'IT guy at a company retreat.'"