He Said I'm Not His Wife, So I Stopped Acting Like One
I met Scott when I was 23, in the back corner of a crowded bar. He was onstage with a borrowed guitar, singing like thousands of people were watching instead of 27 tired strangers. That's how we started. Scott was talented—he could make a plain room feel softer when he played. But talent didn't pay rent. So slowly, I did. At first we split things. Then he had a slow month. Then a gig fell through. Then he needed new strings, studio time, a phone that stayed on for venues. "It's temporary, Ari," he always said. He called me Ari when he wanted me gentle. I worked in client support for a software company—long hours, polite emails, constant patience. At home, I stayed calm too. Scott forgot the electric bill, so I paid it. Scott was short on rent, so I covered the rest. Scott left dishes in the sink before rehearsal, so I washed them. I told myself I was loyal. My best friend Chelsea called it something else. Nine years of this. Nine years of carrying us both while he rested his hands for a dream I kept funding.
