F*ck Marriage Page 11

  “Will you drop this fucking Wendy shit already?”

  I’m so startled by his tone that I stop walking and stare. The light has changed again and there’s a fresh round of honking as Satcher blocks an entire lane of traffic.

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t become a different person by changing your name. You’re still the same spiteful, childish, ridiculous woman you were.”

  “Fine,” I spit. I am sick of Wendy anyway, always so fucking put together. I lob my ice cream cone at his car and it connects with a wet thud.

  “Seriously, Billie?” He shakes his head, a look of utter bewilderment on his face.

  “Wendy was the mature one!”

  He peels off and I stare at the melting puddle of mint chocolate chip wistfully.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’m somber that night at The Viable Vine, my fight with Satcher hanging heavily on my heart. I pick at the appetizers they order and only half listen to their conversation. There are five of us, nix Courtney who claims she doesn’t drink but always carries a bottle of water around that I’ve long suspected is vodka. The girls are giggling, already on their third drink and getting sloppy. I’m toying with the stem of my glass, my lemon drop tepid, and wondering if Woods is actually going to show up. I’ve had a headache for the better part of four hours, one I feel like I deserve, which is probably why I haven’t taken the Tylenol in my purse. At nine thirty they stand up, looking at me expectantly.

  “Billie,” Annalise says. “Earth to Billie…”

  “What? Oh. Sorry.”

  “We’re heading back to the hotel, you comin’?”

  “I’m going to stay a bit. You go ahead.”

  Annalise looks unsure, but then her phone starts ringing and she walks out with it pressed to her ear, waving at me. I throw back my lemon drop and order another.

  I’m getting ready to close my tab and head out when Woods saunters in. He’s already buzzed and I realize he must have been out with Pearl before this. Where did he tell her he was going? Surely not to meet with me.

  “Hey.” He slides into the seat Annalise had occupied not thirty minutes ago.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  He takes a sip of my lemon drop. “Like candy.” He grins.

  “So,” I say casually, “what’s up?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I stare at him. “You said you needed to talk to me about something.”

  “Oh, right,” he says. “Let’s just visit for a minute.”

  Visit. I forgot that he used to say things like: Let’s visit. It’s painful when you remember good things about the person who broke your heart. It’s better to remember the things you hated, if only to keep the anger stronger than the sadness. He asks about how my parents are and if I dated while in Washington. I tell him about Keith Gus.

  “You dated a guy named Keith Gus? Wow. Tell me the part about the crying again…”

  I roll my eyes. “He used to sob when the Seahawks lost. One time he was so depressed, he wandered drunk into the woods in his boxers and didn’t come out till the next morning.”

  “And where were his boxers?”

  “Oh my God, Woods.” I can’t help but smile. “They were gone.”

  He doubles over at the waist he’s laughing so hard. When he comes back up, there’s a curl hanging over his eye and I have to stop myself from touching it.

  “Wow,” he says. “I forgot how fun you are.” His eyes are glowing warm like honey.

  “You’re drunk.” I shake my head, pressing my smile into a tight, disapproving grin.

  “Keith Gus…” He shakes his head.

  “So,” I say. “You and Pearl…”

  He pulls out his pack of Juicy Fruit and offers me one. “Had to go and kill the mood…”

  “That’s not happy in love speak,” I say. “What gives?”

  Woods grimaces. “She’s not happy you’re back.”

  “I don’t imagine so.”

  He rubs his forehead. “She wants me to talk to Satcher. Ask him to let you go.”

  Heat rises to my face and I feel a tightness in my chest. “Are you fucking kidding me? Rhubarb is my—”

  “—was,” Woods says. “It was yours. You sold it.”

  “I only sold because you fucking cheated on me. You and I both know I never would have left if I didn’t have to.” I’m practically standing now, ready to storm out.

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “You didn’t have to go. I took your trust away, not your business.”

  I’m so angry my vision blurs. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? You just pulled the rug out from under me. I had no idea there was even something wrong between us.”

  “That’s exactly right, Billie. Because you were too busy to notice.”

  “You’re not going to put this on me,” I fume.

  But despite my anger, a familiar prickle of guilt works through me. Something I’ve already considered. Something he probably told our friends and family. Always working ... neglectful wife ... doesn’t want to start a family. Career-obsessed. I snatch my clutch from the table.

  “You can tell Pearl I’m not going anywhere,” I say. I pause, a lie brewing in my mind. “I’m fucking Satcher, he’s not going to fire me.”

  I enjoy the way the shock hits him, fills his eyes first with disbelief then anger. It’s so satisfying that I wish I’d recorded it on my phone’s camera so I could watch it again and again. I start marching for the door then remember my lemon drop, the one that just arrived at the table. I circle back to the table and drink it in three large gulps with Woods watching.

  “Thanks for the drinks,” I say.

  I go straight to Satcher’s room when I get back to the hotel. He opens the door on my fifth pound, wearing only jersey pajama pants. I stare, I do. His chest is the eighth wonder of the world.

  “We have to have sex,” I say, pushing past him into the room.

  “Say what?”

  “It’s freezing in here.” I stop at the thermostat and see that he’s set it on sixty.

  “I like cold.”

  I walk over to the window rubbing my arms.

  “Woods met me for drinks. He told me that Pearl wants me gone. He’s supposed to talk to you about it.”

  Satcher frowns. “Ah. So why are we having sex?”

  “I told Woods we were fucking and I couldn’t be fired.”

  Still holding the door open, Satcher shuts it. He takes a moment to close his eyes and sigh. “Billie…”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry, all right? I just didn’t want him to think he could sway you.”

  “And what makes you think he could?”

  I purse my lips and pull uncomfortably at the neck of my shirt. “Could he?”

  “No.”

  “Can we say we’re sleeping together then?”

  He tilts his head back and squints at the ceiling. “Are you really asking me that?”

  “Absolutely. A hundred percent.”

  A whisk of a smile. Satcher is amused.

  “We won’t tell your girlfriend,” I say. “It’ll strictly be an office lie.”

  “And tell me what exactly this lie of yours accomplishes?”

  I sit down on the edge of the bed. “It’ll get Pearl off my back. She’s not going to suggest you fire your girlfriend.”

  “My girlfriend?” His hands are on his hips. “I thought we were just fucking in this scenario of yours.”

  I chew on my lip as I think. “Yeah, but it’ll be more effective if we’re together-together.”

  I’m pacing back and forth between the bed and the dresser. I sigh at the pained expression he’s wearing. Is it really that terrible to pretend to be with me? I’m not a Brazilian swimsuit model, but I’m not exactly ugly either.

  “Or I could just say no when Woods brings it up…”

  “Half the staff is friends with Pearl. She’s going to use them against me. But if they think I’m your girlfriend, they’
ll back off.”

  “You want to make Woods jealous,” he says.

  “That too.”

  Satcher sighs; it’s a deep, weary sigh, and I immediately feel guilty.

  “Oh God. I’m doing it again. I’m sorry—”

  I make for the door. Oh my God, what am I turning into? Using Satcher for my benefit.

  He hooks me around the waist as I try to walk past. Warm hands graze my skin. My face is hot from embarrassment. I’m ashamed of myself, ashamed of what this is doing to my brain. I cover my face with my hands so he can’t look at me, but Satcher gently pulls them away. He doesn’t let go, and holding my fingers between his, he forces me to look at him.

  “You’re hurting.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  “I know you, Billie…”

  I want to ask him how he knows me when I don’t even know myself.

  “You don’t,” I tell him. “Whatever you think you know is wrong. I’m not the same person I used to be.”

  “I hope not,” he says.

  My head snaps up, and I search his eyes for meaning.

  “We aren’t meant to stay the same. Life hits us from every direction, and we build thick skin in those places ... calluses. It’s the way we survive.”

  “I don’t have a callus yet,” I blurt. “In that spot ... where my marriage was.” I look away so he can’t see the saltwater pooling, ready to spill out and make me look weak.

  “No, you don’t.”

  I stare at him. He’s so ... together. And I am not. By comparison, he’s completely different than Woods, who is big and rugged and has puppy dog eyes. Satcher is chiseled and composed and his eyes are mischievous. But there’s always been an element to Satcher that puts him in a league of his own.

  “I’ve always been intimidated by you,” I tell him.

  “What?” He laughs—a short, bewildered laugh—like he can’t imagine why.

  “You’ve always seemed older than the rest of us. More mature. I’m thirty years old, and I still feel like a little girl when I’m around you.”

  “I don’t know how I feel about that.” He frowns and now I laugh.

  “We were getting trashed and skipping class while you were already working on your master’s. By the time we moved into our first apartment, you were already buying your first company. We got married; you made your first million. I don’t even know why you hung out with us, you were always on a different level.”

  “Come on…” His dimples are out now as he shakes his head at me.

  Whenever his dimples show I have to look away or I stare.

  “Remember the water park?”

  I laugh. How could I forget? I’d been dating Woods a little over nine months, and things were starting to get serious. Six of us decided we needed some well-deserved fun—thus the water park. Satcher had just been accepted into his master’s program and we were celebrating. The day was bright and so were our moods. Satcher smuggled in a bottle of cheap vodka that we passed around, the kind that hits you hard in the back of the throat and makes you gag. My memories are blurry: I remember having three shots to Satcher’s six. I remember standing in line for the big slide, joking with him about his lack of a tan, when his eyes suddenly went blank. He’d opened his mouth, his comeback ready, when he looked at me and said: “I don’t feel right.” The next thing I knew he was falling backwards, his face white. The lifeguard called the ambulance and we all stood wide-eyed until they came for him, loading him onto a stretcher. Satcher spent a night in the hospital for dehydration and exhaustion. We had no idea there was something wrong, that he was overworked or otherwise ... because Satcher always had his shit together. It goes to show that you can never tell who’s struggling or not.

  “That wasn’t your fault,” I say. “We made you drink too much and you had a lot on your plate.”

  “As I recall, I was the one who brought the vodka. You’re forgetting that I was just as reckless as the rest of you. I was just ambitious in my spare time.”

  “Understatement.”

  He shrugs.

  “We got offtrack. You always do that—steer the conversation in a different direction when you get uncomfortable.” He reaches up and holds my upper arms in his hands, squeezing a little, and I stare into his face. “You’re going to figure this out.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  “Because you want to be happy. You may not know it yet, but it’s why you came back.”

  “I came back for revenge,” I say flatly.

  “Yes, because you think that will make you happy.”

  I don’t have anything to say to that. I suppose he could be right. I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Good night, Satch. Safe travels home, yeah? Let me know how your mom is doing.” I make for the door and this time he doesn’t stop me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  F*ck Marriage launches on the Monday after we get back. My first post is the most honest thing I’ve ever written, and for that reason, I lock myself in my office, turn off the lights, and drink half a bottle of wine for breakfast. I’m sitting in the dark when Loren slips into my office doing a victory twerk. I try to hide the bottle under my desk, but she points out that my teeth are stained red.

  “What do you mean you haven’t checked?” Her face is incredulous as she pours some of my wine into her own Solo cup.

  “I’m scared,” I admit.

  She steps around my desk and leans over me to turn my monitor on. I can smell her shampoo, her hair still damp from her morning shower. I squeeze my eyes closed as she jiggles my mouse, summoning the screen to life.

  “Look,” she commands.

  I open one eye and then the other.

  “Three thousand comments, Billie. Three thousand.”

  My jaw drops.

  “They. Are. Loving. It.”

  I shove her away so I can get a look at the screen.

  “Look.” I point to one of the comments.

  This is unbelievably brave. Why don’t we have more blogs like this? Life is not perfect and we have hurt to conquer. Thank you, Billie!

  “You published under Billie!” she says, surprised.

  I shift in my seat uncomfortably, remembering the fight I had with Satcher on a public street. “Yeah, I guess I’m going back to that.”

  Loren hugs me. “I’m so glad. Truly.”

  We read through the rest of the comments, and by the time she leaves my office, we both have red teeth, and I’m on a high that has nothing to do with the wine I drank. I lean over my desk burying my head in my arms. It worked. It actually worked.

  I haven’t seen Satcher since we got back. He sent me one text after he got home saying the lump in his mother’s breast was cancer. They’d caught it in time and she’d chosen to have a double mastectomy rather than just removing the cancer.

  His plan is to work from his parents’ house until she is back on her feet. But he sends a huge bouquet to the office to congratulate me on the success of my new column. I’m buzzing like a pollen-high bee when Woods strolls in.

  “What the fuck, Billie?” He closes the door behind him and I steel myself for a fight.

  I knew Woods wouldn’t like what I had to say, but the truth is the truth, after all. If he didn’t want me to write about it, he shouldn’t have done it. Simple as that.

  I sigh. “What the fuck indeed.”

  “That’s our personal story. How could you air our dirty laundry like that?” He jabs a finger at the computer and then levels a particularly nasty look at me.

  I can see the vein popping out on the side of his forehead. I am familiar with that vein. It used to show up when we had a bad fight.

  “No, Woods, our personal story ceased to exist after you walked out of our marriage. Then it became my story. My post-divorce story. And it’s mine to tell.” I sit as still as I can, hands propped on the armrests of my chair. I don’t want to give him any tells that he’s frazzling me. Like his vein.

  �
��Holy shit, Billie…”

  “If you don’t want your dirty laundry aired, live a life you’re not embarrassed of,” I say, standing up. I walk over to the door and hold it open for him. “Now, if you please. I have a lot of work to do.”

  He looks furious as he heads for the door, his eyes drilling into me like he has much more to say.

  “Woods…” I call after him and he stops but doesn’t turn around. “Read it again. And read it like Pearl isn’t pissed and breathing down your neck.” I shut the door before he can respond.

  The post goes viral on Facebook, and Rhubarb’s following doubles overnight. Pearl takes a sick day, and Satcher gives me a raise. Every time I leave my office, Team Pearl glares at me and Team Billie gives me high fives. Life is weird.

  F*ck Marriage

  I have to tell you something real. I’ve told you things that aren’t real; in fact, I’ve told you blatant lies: that a certain brand of yoga pants can change your life, that the perfect recipe can make your man happy, that if you use the right moisturizer (at $94 a bottle) you’ll always feel beautiful and young. I’ve written blogs about the necessity of Kegels (you’ll be a sexual goddess if you follow these five rules!), and I’ve told you in no uncertain terms about the power of positive thinking (if you want to be successful, already believe you are!).

  You counted on me, and I delivered snake oil; a topical salve for a deep wound. Forgive me.

  My husband left me for another woman. Here’s the thing: I thought it could never happen. I thought that we had a bond and our commitment was impenetrable. That somehow the vows we took were a magic spell that would ward off reality. Imagine my surprise when I realized that the yoga pants failed me, and the perfect beef tenderloin with the red wine glaze couldn’t save my marriage. Even my dewy, youthful skin (at $94 dollars a bottle) couldn’t keep his eyes glued to only my face.

  The distance between us took a while, and it would be unfair to rest the burden of our failure solely on him. I was too busy to notice the things I was stacking between us: my success, my business, my exhaustion, my excuses. Every once in a while I’d notice it, that the little things weren’t making me smile. Or that his presence made me feel guilty and annoyed rather than blissful. I used my new feelings about him and myself as a wall; it was a wall of subconscious guilt. He’d walk into a room and I’d think: What do you want from me now? Why can’t you just figure this out on your own? Why do you keep giving me wounded looks?