“You okay, chiquita?” asks a gentle, concerned, accented voice from my right.

I break out of my reverie, blinking in surprise as I jolt back to reality and look over at Chef Alonso, who’s standing next to me on the assembly line.

He’s got one dark, bushy eyebrow quirked and his head tilted to one side, looking at me like I’m some fascinating science experiment. Or like he’s a curious bystander trying to make sense of a car accident as he drives by.

I shake off the layers and layers of deep-seated anger covering my whole body like a gigantic cobweb at the moment. Forcing an awkward smile to my lips, I nod, feeling my cheeks grow warm. “Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

He gestures to the chopping board and knife in my hand. “Because you’re chopping esa cebolla like you have a personal grudge against it,” he quips. “What is it? Did an onion steal your identity and plunge you into credit card debt?”

Despite how frustrated and down I feel, I can’t help but chuckle at the bizarre imagery he just put in my head.

“Oh yeah,” I nod, playing along. “This onion is personally responsible for every jury duty summons I’ve ever received.”

Jorge chuckles, a deep belly laugh that makes everyone happy. Although he can be a little sarcastic or harsh sometimes, I know he’s a good man underneath it all. A good friend.

He pats me on the shoulder. “Well, whatever it is, better you take it out on that onion than on a person. So, let it all out, my angry little mujer. Just don’t get carried away and chop your own finger off or anything, okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” I assure him, giving a mock salute.

“Perfecto,” he says with a wink.

He trods off to plate yet another dish for a customer, leaving me to stand there stewing over my admittedly brutalized onion. I heave a sigh, feeling heavy and exhausted.

I’m physically wiped out from the long hours in this kitchen and from the stress of having to rush out for last-minute ingredients, but my heart is in much more in pain than the rest of me.

I just can’t seem to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do in regards to this increasingly strange and difficult situation with Ben.

On the one hand, I adore him. I’m really starting to fall for him. When we sleep next to each other at night, when we kiss in the morning, when we hold and caress one another in the shower—all of that feels so natural. So right. Like we were destined to find each other. Like maybe it really was the mystical hands of fate that caused us to accidentally sign a domestic partnership form instead of the business form.

But then I remember that he never went back to unravel the mess we made. He just stuffed the evidence into his dashboard compartment and went on his merry way without even telling me.

As much as he seems to genuinely care for me, I’m starting to get the sense that he won’t make me a priority. He’s married to hos job, and I’m his mistress.

He leaves me out of all the important decisions, refusing to let me help at work, refusing to let me weigh in on how to break the news of our relationship to our parents.

He ignores me and does what he wants, then doesn’t seem to understand when I get rightfully upset about it. Ben promises to do better, to communicate better, and then he just goes on acting the same way as always.

I wanted him to treat me like a regular employee at work and like, well, I guess like a girlfriend when we’re not at work.

But instead, he treats me like a nuisance at work and hides all kinds of secrets from me when we’re supposed to be an item—a two-sided item. Not just this weird, one-sided situation in which I give my all and he holds back.

This is not how a true partnership is supposed to work; not romantically, and not professionally, either.

If he doesn’t think I’m trustworthy or competent or important enough to truly share his life, if he wants me to just stick to being a silent side character, then maybe we shouldn’t be together.

It’s a good thing I’m chopping onions. Because the more I think about how messed-up and unfixable my relationship with Ben is, the closer and closer I come to tears. I can feel it burning and stinging in my eyes as I stand hunched over the counter.

Soon, my vision is so blurry that I can hardly see what I’m doing. I sniffle and swipe at my eyes as one of the sous chefs, Rita, walks over to ask if I’m alright.

“I’m great!” I lie, forcing yet another unconvincing smile. “Just these damn onions.”

“Ah, okay. Yeah, I hate those things. Sometimes I wish I had safety goggles stowed in my locker so I can protect my eyes from the stuff,” she says, giggling. She flounces away, none the wiser.

I’m relieved to have the onions here as an excuse for my tears, but I can’t lie to myself. I know why I’m crying, and it has nothing to do with the pungent odor.

Before long, my shift is over.

Usually, my habit is to stay long after my work is done, just to hang around and help clean up after a long, messy day. But tonight, I can hardly wait to get out of here.

Taking care to be quiet and stealthy so as not to arouse suspicion or, God forbid, run into Ben, I clock out and slip out the back of the building.

I don’t want to go home with Ben tonight. I’m too hurt and upset to be around him. I just need to be alone. In my own apartment.

So I call a cab and give the driver my address. When he shows up a couple minutes later, I slide into the backseat, already feeling my chin quivering as I fight to keep from crying again.

Luckily, my driver seems totally fine with giving me my privacy, so I just roll up the partition, lean back against the seat, stare out the window at all the bright, flashing neon lights, and let the tears roll down my cheeks.

I just don’t think I can handle this anymore.

It’s not fair. I didn’t go out of my way to try and build a romance with Ben.

Hell, neither of us wanted this in the beginning, anyway. It was all just one huge, ugly misunderstanding.

Sure, there were some lovely parts in between. There have been moments when it really felt like we might actually have something beautiful. Something real, for once.

But there are just too many lies, too many secrets, too many slights against my character.

I’m strong. I’m smart. I’m capable. And I don’t deserve to be shunted aside and kept on the back burner.

If he doesn’t think I’m worthy of being an active and equal participant in all these important decisions, then clearly I’m not worth fighting for either.

On the way home, I make a difficult choice. I’m not going to sit around twiddling my thumbs and waiting for him to figure out what to do.

Now that I know he hasn’t filed for a dissolution of our stupid fake domestic partnership, that means I can go ahead and move on with it myself. I’ll get it done.

Maybe it doesn’t matter to him, but it matters to me.

It’s time I stop waiting around for Ben Graham to do the right thing. He only thinks of himself, not me.

So I’ve got to do what’s best for me. Nobody else is going to.