F*ck Marriage Page 10

  An hour later when I walk into the luncheon, I know I’ve made the right decision. The vendors greet me with happy surprise and several of the other bloggers run up to welcome me back and to tell me I look great. I’m riding high on all of the affirmation when I grab my first mimosa from a serving tray and make my way over to one of my old blogger friends, Annalise. She yells in excitement when she sees me. We remove ourselves from the bustle to talk, standing next to the drink table where I pluck another mimosa from the tray.

  “It wasn’t the same when you left. Satcher did a great job holding things together, but I assume he brought you back for a reason.” This from Annalise; she started the Fab, Fit, Five blog around the same time I launched Rhubarb. She has five kids, all of them blonde and blue-eyed, and her blog is basically a recipe for depression if you’re not a size two, don’t breastfeed for a year, and throw peanut butter and jelly into a paper sack instead of making healthy gourmet school lunches.

  “I assume so too,” I say, noting that Annalise has a new, upgraded engagement ring on her finger. Goodbye to humble beginnings. Her husband, Ned, is a developer. He recently built them a new mansion, which Annalise posts regularly on the blog’s decorating section. Despite my stint with depression when I was in Washington, I always kept up with what Fab, Fit, Five was doing; there’s something endearing about Annalise, right down to the way her finger and toenails always match her lipstick.

  Once we’re done covering business, she lowers her voice considerably and asks, “So how has it been working with Pearl?”

  If Annalise ever swore, I imagine the offensive word would be said in the same tone she says Pearl’s name.

  We both look up at the same time to where Pearl is arm in arm with Woods, talking to a vendor. She has chosen a white ensemble—probably to remind everyone of her upcoming wedding— with teal heels and a chunky gold chain around her neck. Her diamond ring can be seen clear across the room.

  “Ow-ow,” Annalise says. “Her bling is blinding me.” Annalise’s ring can rival Pearl’s, but I appreciate the support.

  “You don’t need a ring like that when you start out,” she says. “You earn the larger carats by being married and having to put up with their bullshit.”

  I laugh. “You cussed!”

  She blushes. “Yeah, sorry. I just get worked up sometimes. And there’s always been something about you that makes me feel free to say what I want.”

  “Ha!”

  “He still loves you, you know.” She looks at me sideways, a slight brightening of her eyes. “See, there I go again…”

  “Woods?” I ask, surprised.

  “Who else, dummy? He can’t keep his eyes off of you.”

  I follow Annalise’s gaze to where Woods and Pearl are, and true enough, his eyes are trained on me. It both thrills and mortifies me—him being with Pearl and watching me so blatantly.

  “He’s a cheater,” I say. “Maybe he’s bored with Pearl and remembers how flexible I am.”

  Annalise lets out a chortling laugh that draws the eyes of several bystanders. She covers her ruby red lips with a hand and makes surprised eyes at me. I laugh because her eyes are already so big.

  “You know not every man who cheats is a cheater.”

  “The fuck, Annalise?” I say. “Did you read that in the Positive Southerner handbook?”

  She swats me playfully on the arm. “It’s the same for women. And I wouldn’t be lying if I said that when I was mad with Ned when he was working all the time, I didn’t consider finding me a twenty-two-year-old with a six-pack.”

  “Of beer or muscle?”

  “Girl, don’t be dumb. Beer.”

  I shake my head. Wherever I go, women have different opinions of cheating and how it should be dealt with. I have a feeling Annalise would sweep it under the rug as long as Ned bought her a new bauble.

  “For real though, Billie. Woods always looked at you like you were a cold glass of something he wanted to put his mouth on. You were just too busy to notice.”

  I immediately deflate. She’s not saying anything I haven’t thought myself. I have a tendency to have tunnel vision, and back then I was solely focused on Rhubarb—aka myself.

  “He’s gonna flirt with you tonight,” she says. “Mark my words. In those liquid sex pants of yours. You’ll see. If he mentions the pants, you’ll know his mind is in them.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but Annalise’s expression changes. “Shh-shhh.” Annalise grabs my arm and squeezes. I watch in fascination as her features rearrange to resemble an entirely different woman.

  Pearl and Woods are walking toward us. Woods, I notice, is staring straight at me. Annalise greets them first in her southern drawl, which is heavier than it was just five seconds ago. I’m preparing for her to “bless their hearts,” which causes me to giggle nervously.

  “Hey, y’all. So glad you decided to come out this year. I was wondering when I’d see you again.” I’m inordinately grateful for her in this moment, the ease with which she glides through the awkward situation.

  Pearl is trying to act normal, but I see the way she eyes me when I’m not looking, cataloging my hair, my outfit, my demeanor. I know her well enough to know that when she’s insecure, her eyes grow even wider than normal, and she stops making eye contact. We chat about the blogosphere for a few minutes, and they catch me up on some of the drama: the bloggers who’ve sold, the ones who are making twice as much as what they used to. While Pearl and Annalise splinter off into their own conversation, Woods turns to me.

  “Pants,” he says.

  My mouth wants to drop open, but I keep it smugly turned up; an indifferent grin.

  “The way they look on or taking them off?” I ask.

  Now it’s his turn to look shocked.

  “I suppose one thing leads to the other…”

  I can’t help but laugh. Still the same charming, flirtatious Woods.

  Pearl is struggling to stay focused on what Annalise is saying while also trying to eavesdrop on us. I remember this about her from the old days: we’d go to an event and she’d come back with gossip from almost everyone who was there.

  “How do you know all of this?” I’d ask her.

  “I’m always involved in five conversations at once, even if people don’t know I am.”

  I wonder if Woods knows this little detail about his soon-to-be bride.

  “You going to be around tonight to get a drink?” he asks under his breath.

  I lift my eyebrows in surprise. Is he really asking me to get a drink with his fiancée right there?

  Is it me or does her whole body stiffen?

  I lick my lips before I speak, trying to buy time to formulate a good answer. “I ... uh ... no. I’m having drinks with Annalise and a couple of the girls.”

  His disappointment is palatable. “Where?”

  I glance at Pearl. “Are you shitting me right now, Woods?” I hiss.

  “Where?” he asks again.

  I sigh. “The Viable Vine. Woods…?”

  “Hush,” he says. “I wasn’t asking permission.” His voice is low, but there’s something in his eyes that causes me to bob my head in a brief nod.

  I am fairly good at reading my ex-husband. Two years has done little to change the slight tells in his body language. And by the look in his eyes, the slight puckering of his full lips like he’s just licked a lemon, I know something is up. I can’t use it to my advantage if I don’t know what it is.

  At lunch, Rhubarb shares a table with Chic Creek (we call it Shit Creek for laughs). We all congregate around the table, holding our cocktails and asking polite questions. When we’re told lunch is being served, we sit, and I somehow end up between Woods and Courtney, Shit Creek’s founder and main gal. Courtney used to look like the girl next door, but Shit Creek made a shit ton of money and now she looks like a woman who’s made a ton of money and put it all in her face. She has lipstick on her teeth when she smiles at me.

  “Back so soon?” She
has a country twang even heavier than Annalise’s. I flinch, but halfway through I try to redirect it and end up twitching like I have a goddamn tic.

  “I hardly think two years is soon,” I say.

  “Well, I thought you’d settle down in the PNW. Find a lumberjack and have a few babies…”

  Pearl, who’s listening from across the table says, “Don’t be silly, Court, her taste is Woods. Definitely not a lumberjack.”

  Court? Of course they are friends now. Pearl is marrying Woods, which gets her an invitation into the blogger wife club. I distinctly remember her bitching about being shunned by Courtney just a few years ago. She’d suggested making a burn book, Mean Girls’ style, and featuring Court.

  They’ve planned this—I see the exchange they make with their eyes.

  “I think we all have the same taste in men, actually,” I say. I look at Courtney innocently. “Remember when you made a pass at Woods when you were getting divorced?”

  The rule is that you can be as mean as you like without being direct. Cut, but with underhanded sugar. When someone like me comes along wielding the truth as a knife everyone is up in arms. There is a stunned silence around the table. Woods looks like he needs another drink. Pearl looks away, a disgusted look on her face.

  “I’m sure you’re mistaken.” Courtney smiles tightly. “You always seemed to think Woods was cheating on you. Honestly, it’s probably your insecurity that drove him away.”

  I gasp. I open my mouth and palm at the same time. I’m about to give Shit Creek Courtney a lashing with tongue and hand when I hear Satcher’s voice behind me.

  “Sorry I’m late. Billie, there’s a problem back at the office. Can I borrow you for a minute?”

  When I turn around, he’s smiling obliviously at me. Every woman at the table flutters their eyelashes at him. I’m annoyed. Shit was about to go down and now Satcher is pulling me away.

  I scoot my chair back, and excusing myself, I snatch my drink from the table to follow Satcher out of the banquet hall and through the open doors of the patio.

  “You okay, Billie?”

  “Is Wendy okay? Hell, no. Is it just me or was the bitch level high in there?”

  “Ehhh... ” He scratches the back of his head, squinting at me. “It was what was expected.”

  I round on him. “You’re Team Pearl now?”

  “I’m on your team; that’s why I’m out here. You’ve been gone a long time. Pearl’s worked hard at that relationship.”

  “Yeah, well, I never had Courtney’s loyalty anyway. Bitch.”

  “From what I heard, you were equal parts bitchy.”

  “Whose side are you even on?” I have to set my drink down to throw my hands on my hips. Satcher eyes me, amused. “Listen to yourself. A few years ago no one messed with you, you know why?”

  I shake my head.

  “Because you didn’t engage with petty. You were the queen and you never stooped to their level.”

  He’s right. I was a chubby queen but still the queen.

  “Well, the queen has fallen on hard times. And now I’m here to play bitch ball.”

  Satcher rolls his eyes. Eye-rolling is something he doesn’t typically stoop to, so now I feel extra childish.

  “You’re hypersensitive, and you think everyone’s out to get you.”

  “They are.”

  “Exactly.”

  I fold my arms across my chest, looking closely at him for the first time. He smells like a bucket of hundred-dollar bills soaked in cedar wood and whiskey. He’s for real wearing a navy blue waistcoat under his tailored blazer. I get the fuss, I do, but he’s annoying the shit out of me with his hoity-toity attitude.

  “Nothing works out for me.”

  “Nothing ... really? Woods encompasses everything? Because I can think of plenty that works out for you when you actually try.”

  He’s looking out at the water now, elbows resting on the railing. No sign of the dimples; he’s frustrated with me. Maybe I am being a brat. Maybe.

  I move to stand next to him, both of us admiring the water in silence.

  “My glass is almost empty,” I say, holding it up. “Literally and figuratively.” That gets me half a smile, a flash of dimple.

  “I hate to say this, Billie, but this whole feel-sorry-for-myself thing is getting old.”

  I roll my eyes. Only Satcher could say something like that to me without me getting raging angry. I still pout.

  “Your marriage ended. Lots of marriages end on account of a cheating asshole—”

  I shrug.

  “You’ve had your time to grieve, you deserved that after what happened. But now you’re back, and it’s time to live. If you don’t live now, then when?”

  “I don’t remember how to,” I admit. I’m ashamed of how sulky my voice sounds. “Living after a broken heart isn’t like riding a bike. You genuinely forget how to go about doing it.”

  “I respect that. But it’s do or die, isn’t it? And you’re too spiteful to let Pearl and Woods kill you.”

  Satcher rubs his hands across his face. He looks tired. I’m a bad friend.

  He’s beautiful. He’s my ex-husband’s best friend, but he’s beautiful.

  “You okay?” I ask. I know from experience that we often mistake put-together people for happy and emotionally healthy, when it is all a guise.

  He’s still leaning against the railing, but he turns his head to study me like he’s truly surprised I’m asking. I make a mental note to not be so damn self-centered all the time.

  “Tell me,” I urge.

  He hesitates for a moment and then says, “They found a mass in my mother’s right breast. She finds out her biopsy results today.”

  “And you’re not there…” I nod in understanding.

  Satcher is a family guy. He doesn’t have one of his own yet, but I remember how close he used to be with his sisters.

  “Yeah…” he says, flatly.

  I’m not sure what to do. I don’t want to tell him I’m sorry even though I am; it feels like a weak word.

  “Go.”

  “What?”

  “Go to New York. Go home and be with her. You shouldn’t be here.”

  He looks surprised at my suggestion, and I wonder if he even considered it or if he felt that obligated to be here.

  “This is my business. I should—”

  I grab both of his hands and force him to look at me. “It may be your business, but it’s my blog,” I interrupt. “I’ll take care of everything as if I still own it. Promise.”

  He purses his lips. We’re facing each other, holding hands. I imagine we must look like a couple having a romantic moment on the terrace.

  “Are you sure?” Satcher’s brow is creased, and without thinking, I reach up to smooth it, thinking of the day he spotted me on the street and came running after me to offer me a job. He always shows up when I need help.

  “I’m a hundred percent sure.” I feel puffed up about this ... good. Being able to do something for the man who is always doing something for me.

  What I do next I blame on the Champagne.

  Leaning up on my tiptoes, I aim for his mouth. By the time I see the look in his eyes it’s too late. He turns his head and my mouth meets the stubble on his cheek, startling my lips. It’s a sharp rejection, and I take an immediate step back. I spot the pity on Satcher’s face, and I’m suddenly sober. I look away quickly. Paired with what went down inside I feel pathetic. A fool.

  Embarrassment burning my throat, I touch Satcher’s hand, which still rests on the railing.

  “I’m so sorry, Satch. Go home, okay?” And then I do the only self-respectable thing left to do: I run.

  I don’t know if I’m running from Satcher, my embarrassment, Woods and Pearl, or myself—down the stairs that lead to the boardwalk, checking my watch as I head toward the pier. Lunch will just be letting out. I don’t need to be anywhere for another few hours, which gives me some time to lick my wounds and compose myself.
r />   Ugh, Billie.

  My self-hate revs into overdrive as I dodge tourists, licking my lips where the salt from my tears is gathering. Really fucking pathetic. And the worst part is I’m hungry. I wish I’d been an idiot after I ate. I look around for something to eat and see a hot dog stand and ice cream cart back-to-back. I linger at the hot dogs for a minute and then round the cart to join the ice cream line. If I can’t be at home with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, I’ll eat my way through as many scoops as they’ll give me here.

  My plan is to walk back to the hotel, but ten minutes into my walk I realize that I have no idea where I am. I merge with the tourists looking for a landmark I recognize when I hear my name being called. Satcher pulls up beside me in what I presume is a rental. Rolling his window down, he calls my name again.

  “Billie!” and when I don’t respond—“Wendy!”

  “I’m fine, Satcher,” I say without looking at him. “I just need some time…”

  I keep walking and he drives slowly beside me. Cars pull up behind him and honk, but Satcher doesn’t pay attention to them even when they speed around him, yelling out the window.

  “Let me drive you back to the hotel.” There’s an onslaught of traffic as cars race by, and I don’t hear the rest of what he says.

  “No. I’m fine,” I say again. A gust of wind lifts my hair and whips it into my ice cream.

  “You're upset…”

  No, I’m embarrassed. I lift my chin a little, crush my lips together. I wish he’d just leave me alone, leave me to my embarrassment.

  “If I did what you wanted me to do, I’d be just like him,” Satcher says.

  It takes a minute to realize who him is. I feel dizzy and sick; I’m crashing down from a pretty great buzz.

  “Ugh,” is my only response. I’d not considered Willa in all of this. Willa and her perfect body. Willa and her symmetrical face. I suppose that was selfish of me, that the girl he’s seeing didn’t even come to mind when I tried to drunk-kiss her boyfriend.

  “Billie—”

  “It’s Wendy,” I bite back. “Wen-dee.”