Every Wednesday, we got pizza from Giovanni’s. Through extensive research, Missy discovered that their Wednesday special of two large one-topping pizzas for just $5.99 beat any other deal around town. If we got the pizzas for lunch and had two pieces each, we could freeze the rest and get a total of eight meals for $6.25, including tax.

“That’s seventy-eight cents per meal, as long as we each only eat two pieces at a time,” she said. “If they ever raise the prices, we’re in trouble because nothing comes close to that.”

I put Missy in charge of making ends meet when she decided not to look for a job after we moved here. Since I worked at the newspaper from 4 p.m. until around midnight, she thought we would never see each other if she got a job during the day. I tried a couple of times to tell her that she could find a part-time job in the late afternoon or evening, but she found plenty of excuses. The night copy editor job at a small newspaper had the same pay as all the jobs at a small newspaper – crappy. So I hired her as our budget consultant to make sure that $26,500 kept the bill collectors away and put food on the table.

That didn’t leave much for entertainment. Once we paid off our student loans, the car payment, rent for our horrible apartment and the utilities, we had to do things like search for the most economical pizza deal around town. Missy had all her research crammed into reporter’s notebooks that I brought home from the office for free. Every night when I left for work, she would walk to the library – she never drove because we couldn’t afford the gas or a health club membership so the walks saved the car and served as her workout – and research recipes and tips to help us save as much money as possible.

Every once in a while I just had to get out. I couldn’t sit in that apartment, thinking about how little money I made. I could only take so many domestic disputes throughout the apartment complex. I could only call 911 so many times. I tried to save my trips for Sundays. The best thing about living on the border of one state was finding all the good deals across the line on a map. If I drove 20 miles roundtrip, I could save a dollar on The New York Times for some strange reason. We argued a bunch of times about the tradeoff with using the car to save that money. I could read the paper at the library, she told me. But having my own copy would give me some sense of validation, some measure of pride.

I climbed out of bed one Sunday morning to make the trip. I always rationalized by scheduling a few other errands along the way, but that didn’t stop Missy from complaining. The last thing I heard was something about keeping food off the table for a “stupid newspaper.” She just didn’t get it. I surrendered so much. Couldn’t I just have one newspaper? No matter how stupid she thought it was.

I wondered if I should change jobs. Maybe I could find something that paid more. When I came to the paper, people in the newsroom joked about how I had taken over a cursed chair. The guy before me skipped town after his fiancé left him without warning. He came home and found all of her stuff and some of his stuff gone. She took the stereo she gave him as a present. She even took his hamper. I glanced at the gas gauge as I drove down the street. I had plenty of gas to get to the newsstand. I loved Missy. But the thought of driving off for a while crossed my mind. I had plenty of gas to get a lot further than the newsstand. No more nagging. No more paper-thin budget. No more Giovanni’s pizza.

I approached the entrance to the newsstand. Instinctively, I pulled into the turn lane and slowed down. Before I knew it, I had pulled into a parking space. I turned off the ignition and sighed. I wanted more than a newspaper. I wanted more from life. But I didn’t know what else to do. I bought The New York Times and climbed back into the driver’s seat without even looking at anything else in the store. Maybe I’d have three pieces of pizza for dinner. One step at a time.