What Love Isn’t

Chapter 5

After the party, things got better. Marcus was extra attentive, extra sweet. He brought me flowers, wrote me long texts about how much I meant to him, and promised he'd work on his jealousy.

"I'm going to be better," he said. "I'm going to be the boyfriend you deserve."

And for a while, he was. We fell back into our routine—lunch together, studying together, spending every free moment wrapped up in each other. I convinced myself that the party had been a fluke, that everyone had fights, that this was just part of being in a relationship.

But then came the day I wore a new dress to school.

It was nothing special—just a sundress I'd found at the thrift store, yellow with little white flowers. But it made me feel pretty, and I'd been excited to wear it.

Marcus's face when he saw me was not the reaction I'd expected.

"What are you wearing?" he asked, his voice flat.

"A dress. Do you like it?"

"It's kind of short, don't you think?"

I looked down. The dress hit mid-thigh—not scandalous by any stretch. "It's fine."

"Julia, I can practically see your ass."

"No, you can't. Marcus, it's just a dress."

"Just a dress that every guy in school is going to be staring at." He grabbed my hand, pulling me aside. "Go home and change."

"What? No. I'm not changing."

"Yes, you are. I'm not having my girlfriend walk around looking like—"

"Like what?" I pulled my hand free, anger sparking. "Say it, Marcus. Like what?"

He had the grace to look ashamed. "I didn't mean it like that. I just... I don't want other guys looking at you."

"So I'm supposed to dress like a nun because you're insecure?"

"I'm not insecure. I'm protective. There's a difference."

"No, there isn't. You're being controlling."

"I'm being your boyfriend. I'm looking out for you."

"I don't need you to look out for me. I can dress myself."

We stared at each other, the tension thick between us. Finally, Marcus sighed.

"You're right. I'm sorry. Wear whatever you want." But his voice was cold, and he didn't look at me for the rest of the day.

That night, he texted: I'm sorry about today. I was being an i***t. Forgive me?

It's fine, I typed back, even though it wasn't.

I just love you so much. Sometimes I don't know how to handle it.

I know. I love you too.

Good. Because you're mine, Julia. Don't forget that.

There it was again—that possessive edge that made my stomach twist. But I pushed the feeling aside. He loved me. He was just being protective. That was normal, right?

The dress incident was followed by other small things. Comments about my makeup ("You don't need all that—you're prettier natural"). Suggestions about my friends ("Grace seems kind of shallow, don't you think?"). Questions about where I was and who I was with, all the time.

"I'm just at the library," I'd say.

"With who?"

"By myself."

"Send me a picture."

"What? Why?"

"So I know you're really there."

And I'd send the picture because it was easier than arguing. Because I didn't want him to get upset. Because somewhere along the way, I'd started walking on eggshells, trying to keep him happy.

James noticed, of course.

"You seem stressed," he said one day in English. We were supposed to be working on our essays, but I'd been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes.

"I'm fine."

"Jules, come on. It's me. What's going on?"

I wanted to tell him. I wanted to say that Marcus was getting more and more controlling, that I felt like I couldn't breathe sometimes, that I was starting to feel trapped. But the words stuck in my throat.

"Nothing's going on. I'm just tired."

James studied me with those gray eyes that saw too much. "Is Marcus treating you okay?"

"Of course he is. Why would you ask that?"

"Because you seem different lately. Quieter. Like you're always worried about something."

"I'm not worried. I'm just busy."

"With Marcus."

"Yes, with Marcus. He's my boyfriend, James. I'm supposed to spend time with him."

"Not all your time. Not to the point where you're neglecting everything else."

"I'm not neglecting anything."

"Really? When's the last time you came to movie night? Or hung out with Grace? Or did anything that wasn't Marcus-approved?"

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" James leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Jules, I'm worried about you. You're not yourself anymore."

"Maybe this is myself. Maybe I'm just growing up, and you can't handle it."

It was a low blow, and I knew it. James flinched like I'd slapped him.

"If that's what you think, then I guess there's nothing more to say." He turned back to his essay, his jaw tight.

I felt tears prick my eyes. "James, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It's fine. Forget it."

But it wasn't fine, and we both knew it.

That night, I cried into my pillow, feeling like I was losing everything that mattered. My friends, my independence, myself. But I had Marcus. Marcus loved me. That was enough, wasn't it?

My phone buzzed: Come over. I need to see you.

It's late. I have school tomorrow.

Please, Julia. I miss you.

I saw you three hours ago.

That's not enough. I need you.

And because I didn't know how to say no, because I was afraid of what would happen if I did, I snuck out of my house and drove to his apartment.

Marcus answered the door in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair messy. He pulled me inside and kissed me hard, his hands already reaching for the hem of my shirt.

"Marcus, wait—"

"I've been thinking about you all day." He backed me toward his bedroom. "I need you, Julia."

"I can't stay long. If my parents find out I snuck out—"

"They won't find out." He kissed my neck, my collarbone. "Just stay for a little while. Please."

And I did, because I loved him, because I wanted to make him happy, because I didn't know how to say no.

Afterward, lying in his bed with his arm heavy across my waist, I felt empty. Used. Like I'd given him something I couldn't get back.

"I love you," Marcus murmured against my hair.

"I love you too," I whispered.

But for the first time, I wasn't sure if I meant it.