Andrés made it clear from the night of our first date that he would not be generous with his money.
“My sisters get pissed,” he admitted, “but I only want to support my future wife. I don’t pay for dates.” I appreciated the blunt communication, understood the sentiment, and nodded.
“It’s an outdated social standard that men pay anyway,” I reassured him.
I did not mind at all that Andrés and I split each bill—dinners out, movies, drinks, pedicures, event tickets. I happily paid my share, feeling it was equal and modern and fair. With a bit of financial anxiety of my own, this arrangement was, in a way, relieving; there was no tracking expenses over time, no guilt or concern around who was shouldering the economic burden of our partnership.
Our only money-based confrontations in the early days were related to tipping. With plenty of friends and relatives in the service industry, I had a firm 20-percent-tip-or-more personal policy and expected that he tip equally well.
It is possibly important to note here that Andrés worked for a Bay Area tech giant and was not struggling for money. He made a hefty income, almost certainly more than double mine, and was gifted all the meals and snacks and small electronics he wanted via the workplace. I visited the campus once, and it felt like Disneyland—but for adults, and everything was free—and it was worlds away from my own shabby office just up the highway.
Throughout our eight months together, Andrés was moonlighting as an aspiring Michelin-star chef, feeding friends. He was incredibly talented in the kitchen. Spaghetti carbonara, cheesecake, gallo pinto, ice cream mochi, pisco sours, shrimp scampi, chocolate chip cookies, lomo saltado. All from scratch. He was proud of his creations, and I admired his desire to feed people. It was one of the ways in which he showed his friends and family love.
I came to expect a Venmo charge whenever Andrés would cook for a group. He would shop for ingredients, bring them to his apartment kitchen, combine them in various ways to make something delicious, send invites to friends, host them, and collect money afterward. I was not fazed much by this pattern, although I sometimes bemoaned having limited input with regard to the meal or its cost. And, occasionally, I simply did not want to pay for a fancy meal, having a full refrigerator and pantry back at my own home. But I always participated without complaint; I wanted to support my boyfriend in this passion of his which clearly brought him so much joy. And, besides: the food was incredible.
On one occasion, I joined Andrés and three of his friends for an afternoon of food, drinks, and soccer viewing. We lazed on the back patio, enjoying the early signs of spring and consuming seafood and plantains and specialty cocktails. I laughed when they showed me the fancy hookah they had purchased earlier in the day; I tried it once, when they passed the pipe to me, and I coughed frantically after inhaling.
At home the next day, I heard the familiar “cha-ching” of my Venmo app. I was surprised to see a notification for a large charge. Surely there had been an error? I opened the application to see details and found that Andrés had charged me for the food, and the drinks…
And the hookah pipe.
I jumped to conclusions and replayed old narratives in my head. Was my boyfriend taking advantage of my reticence, my tendency to avoid conflict? Was he charging others the cost of their portions and also his? Was he profiting from these ventures with friends?
Luckily for us both, what Andrés lacked in financial generosity he made up for in his willingness to accept feedback. I called him and, nervously, explained my frustration. Namely, that I had no hand in the decision to buy the hookah pipe and that, if I had, I would have voted solidly against it to preserve our wallets and our lungs. Yes, I had taken one breath of fruity nicotine, and was willing to pay for that involvement. I had no intention, however, of paying for a big, glamorous pipe that I would never use again. I was braced for an argument, but instead Andrés listened to me, heard me, saw my reasoning, and amended the Venmo charge.
I recognize now that this exchange was not about the money. Sure, I saved some. But, more importantly, I learned that I can trust myself to speak up for what is fair and right. I am not at the mercy of others to be either exploited or defended. I have the skills and the voice to take care of myself. Interestingly, this revelation lessened, slightly, my anxieties around money. And for that, I will always be grateful.
