F*ck Marriage

by Fisher, Tarryn

  “Where are you going?” I ask suspiciously. I don’t want to talk to him, but no matter how fast I walk he’s keeping up. At this rate, I’m going to have to run out into traffic to lose him.

  “I’m walking you home,” he says.

  I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and someone slams into my right shoulder.

  “You’ve never walked me home. Not even when we were married.”

  “Well, I should have,” he says. He says it with so much conviction I blink at him, shocked.

  “What?” I say this dumbly, like my mouth and brain are stuffed with cotton.

  “I should have walked you home. And I should have paid more attention to what you loved, not what I thought you should love. And I should have treated you like you needed protecting even if you didn’t.”

  I look around trying to discern if I’m dreaming or if this is really happening. To my left is a Subway restaurant and across the street is an Urban Outfitters; neither of these things would ever make it into my dreams.

  Woods’ face is undeniably sincere. He has a sincere face, I remind myself. It’s not necessarily that he’s being sincere. Woods is a golden retriever; even if a golden retriever has rabies you’d be tempted to reach out and pet it because—hellooo—golden retriever. My boil calms to a simmer. I let him walk me home. We don’t speak much because it’s hard to have a serious conversation when you’re walking through the mass noise of New York. When we arrive outside of Jules’ building, he bends down to give me a kiss on the cheek, and then he just walks away.

  I swipe at my cheek every few minutes, but the spot he kissed stings for over an hour. I call Jules, who answers on the third ring, her voice sleepy.

  “Sup?” she slurs.

  I can hear her checking the time. She’s only a few hours ahead, but in college we called her the nap queen.

  “Jules,” I say. And it’s all I have to say. She knows.

  “Fuck Woods,” she says before I can get anything else out. “Fuck him to hell and back.”

  That isn’t a bad idea. Woods was a good fuck. I don’t say this out loud—she’d freak out on me. I keep my lips shut against sexual confessions and wait for her rant to be over. As soon as she’s finished, I launch into my story and tell her what’s been happening at Rhubarb: Pearl, Diane ... and then eventually my walk home with Woods.

  “Whatever, Billie,” she says. “You’re back and he’s kicking himself for ever leaving. Don’t get sucked into his dangerous remorse. I’d like to tell him off for walking you home. So slimy.”

  I smile into the receiver. A man walking a woman home is slimy now.

  “It’s harder than I thought. I still feel things.”

  “Of course you do…” Her tone is softer this time. And I marvel at her ability to always make me feel validated. “Unless there are no feelings, you can’t just jump back into your ex’s life. That’s nuts.”

  I agree about how nuts it is while quietly squirming on my end of the line. Maybe it was a stupid idea to take the job. I didn’t really think it over before I accepted Satcher’s proposal. The idea of being that close to Woods and Pearl was too enticing. A train wreck you couldn’t look away from, except I wanted to be on the train.

  “It was stupid,” I say. “But I needed the job…” My voice wavers on the last part. In truth, I could have found a job somewhere else. I probably should have found a job somewhere else.

  “How does Satcher seem?” she asks. Her question is odd. Satcher seems like ... Satcher.

  “Fine. I mean, he’s Satcher. He had his shit together when he was in diapers.”

  She laughs. We’ve all been fringe friends since college. Jules is my best friend and Satcher is Woods’. There has been a lot of social crossover over the years, though the two of them were never particularly close.

  “He seems fine,” I assure her. “He likes to come to my office to gossip about Pearl.”

  She laughs, but then she has to go. We hang up and I feel better right away. I touch the spot on my cheek where Woods kissed me. I don’t feel anything. Perfect.

  Chapter Ten

  It’s the last week of our fall-to-Christmas catalog, which means everyone is under a deadline to present at least four holiday post ideas as well as the photos that will accompany them for our winter spread. They don’t have to be entirely done, but the ideas need to be there and be fairly cohesive with our theme. During weeks like this everyone stays late working overtime, so I’m surprised when Pearl comes into the office and announces she’s leaving early.

  “Early?” I say without looking up from what I’m doing.

  Satcher, who is standing by my desk waiting for me to finish up signing some papers, asks the inevitable follow-up question.

  “What’s so important that you’re missing our quarterly overtime?” He’s wearing his glasses today on account of itchy eyes, and he dips his head to look at her over the top of them. It’s incredibly sexy and I’m still staring at him when she says—

  “We have dinner tonight with our parents.”

  I don’t miss the possessive note in her voice when she says our parents. Which I assume means hers and Woods’. As in ... my former in-laws. I feel possessive too. I had a good relationship with them—great even.

  “Ah well, then I’ll let you two get to it,” I say dismissively. Better they both get out of here, they dampen the mood anyway. But apparently Satcher isn’t done with her.

  “It’s important that you be here for this,” he says. I stare at him wondering why he’s being such a hard ass.

  She opens and closes her mouth, and I can see the mountain of excuses she’s ready to give him. But arguing with Satcher is like arguing with your parents. He makes you feel stupid just by the way he looks at you. Pearl must know this because she clamps her mouth closed and mumbles something about moving the time.

  “Why’d you do that?” I ask him when Pearl’s out of earshot.

  “Why not?” he says, nonchalant. “She takes a lot of liberties because of Woods. We have work to do.”

  “Okay,” I say. “You’re kind of scary sometimes, you know.”

  “I know,” he says.

  I pinch his cheek and he swats me away with a frown.

  “Somehow, I’m never able to scare you though,” he says.

  “I’ve known you for too long, Sasquatch.”

  “Say, you wouldn’t know what restaurant they’re going to tonight, would you?” I ask.

  “I know,” Loren says, walking into my office and dropping a stack of fabric samples on my desk.

  “You wouldn’t.” Satcher raises an eyebrow.

  “I would,” I say, looking expectantly at Loren.

  “They’re dining at The Modern.” She winks at me and I grin as she leaves, a smug smile on her face.

  “What are you doing tonight, Satch?”

  “I presume going to The Modern with you…?”

  “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now work your magic and get us a reservation.”

  Since Satcher has slept with most of the eligible women in New York, he has no problem getting us a reservation.

  For the sake of time, I agree to meet him in front of the restaurant at seven. I arrive five minutes early and stand awkwardly on the sidewalk, my lower back sweating under Jules’ designer dress. I’d chosen a black dress with a collared neckline and left the buttons open low to show some cleavage. The waist of the dress is cinched and the skirt is flared and short. I had to use my own shoes since Jules’ feet are bigger than mine, and settled on a pair of black heels that wrap around my ankles. I’m nervous, my conscience as knotted as my insides. This is a shady, shitty thing to do. But you came back to New York to be shady and shitty, I remind myself. Two women stand a few feet away from me, smoking. I inch closer to them, sniffing desperately at their air.

  “Billie.”

  Satcher comes up behind me and I spin around.

  “It’s Wen—“

  “Nice dress,” he says.

&n
bsp; His eyes linger on my cleavage. I blush, struggling to keep my mouth in a neutral line. In high school, Brett Galloway told me I had nice legs despite the fact that I had braces, glasses, and a unibrow. I’d said thank you and then proceeded to trip over my own feet, skinning my knee in the process. Satcher’s compliment has a similar effect. I stumble slightly over a crack in the sidewalk and thank God he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “I wish I could say I missed the conservative Martha Stewart dresses,” he says.

  “I did not dress like Martha Stewart,” I say, aggravated. But even as the words leave my mouth I know he’s right. I donated most of them to Goodwill when I moved back to Washington, trading my career-girl wardrobe for practical jeans and fleeces.

  I want to tell Satcher that the dress I’m wearing belongs to Jules, but his compliment made me so warm I don’t want to ruin it by admitting I’m not as stylish.

  “So what’s the goal tonight?” he asks, holding the door open for me.

  “The goal?”

  “Pearl ... Woods…”

  “Oh.” I frown. I’d almost forgotten we were here for that. I have a fleeting thought that it would be nice to have dinner with Satcher without anything else on the agenda. Satcher smells like a grown-up: spicy and expensive. I think about the cologne Woods uses; half of the men in Manhattan smell like Woods. I used to catch whiffs of it everywhere.

  “I’d like to make them uncomfortable,” I say. “Woods’ parents loved me.” I lower my voice. “I guess that’s all—I just want to make them uncomfortable.”

  “Puts Pearl at a disadvantage,” he says.

  “Exactly.” It’s not until we’re being led to our table that I realize he meant a disadvantage, as if we are competing for the same man. I’m frowning when I hear my name being called. I look up, suddenly pinning a smile onto my face. Of course. That’s why I’m here! Look happy!

  Denise Tarrow is a tall, willowy woman, elegant in all the right ways. She graduated from Yale and spent a few years teaching at the University of Georgia before quitting to start a family. When Woods moved to New York, his parents sold their house and followed. Currently, she teaches Art History at NYU and my favorite thing about her: she’s a Taylor Swift groupie. She stands when she sees me, her face lit with emotion. It’s automatic, me walking toward her outstretched arms. I let myself be pulled into her embrace and breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume.

  “Billie, Billie!” she exclaims. “I didn’t know you were back in the city … my God, did you know, Woods?” She turns accusingly toward her son who looks like he’s swallowed a goldfish.

  I beam at Denise, noting how her eyes are more crinkled at the corners.

  “I’ve only been back a few weeks,” I say. “I haven’t really had time to contact anyone.”

  “Of course,” she says. “Well, you were missed, my dear girl.” She holds me firmly by my upper arms, looking at my face like she’s trying to see the last two years of hurt. I stare into her grey eyes, my emotions trembling under the surface. I’d loved Woods’ family, it had been easy to love them. From the moment we met, his mother treated me like I was the daughter she’d waited for her whole life. It had been the biggest rush of my life since her son treated me like the woman he’d waited for his whole life.

  Denise looks over my shoulder and gets an eye full of Satcher. Her expression goes from surprise to realization. She releases me, her eyes pinned on my face, the sound of his name jarring everyone at the table to look away from us and at my dinner date. With everyone distracted, I’m able to get a look at their expressions. I scan the table, my eyes roving over six faces, trying to take everything in. Woods is staring at Satcher, a shocked expression on his face, while Pearl looks like she wants to throw up.

  I’m jarred from my thoughts by Denise, who once again is saying my name.

  “Why don’t you two join us?”

  I’m already shaking my head even as she says it. To my enjoyment, Pearl’s face is frozen in mortification. I hear myself saying, “Thank you, but Satcher and I have some things we need to go over for Rhubarb.”

  Denise looks disappointed. “Lunch then. Next week.”

  “I’d love to.” I smile.

  We leave in a flurry of goodbyes. Satcher places his hand on the small of my back as he steers me away from the table. I feel their eyes hot on my back. Small victories, I think.

  “Well, that was ... awkward,” Satcher says, sipping his drink a few minutes later.

  “You think?” I’m still riding the high of Pearl’s expression.

  “Your ex-husband’s mother asked you to lunch.”

  I take a sip of my lemon drop. “I’m aware.”

  He looks incredulous. “How far are you going to take this revenge thing, Billie?”

  “Wendy,” I correct him. “And it’s not revenge to have lunch with your ex-mother-in-law. We were a part of each other’s lives for years.”

  “You could have called her if you wanted to see her.”

  “Okay, fine,” I hiss. “I wanted to fucking hurt Pearl. Are you happy?”

  Satcher’s head jerks back. “The real question is: are you?”

  I down the rest of my drink and stare at him.

  “Fuck you, Satcher. You have no idea what I went through.”

  “Don’t I?”

  We’re interrupted by our server who comes to take our order. As he scribbles things down on his pad, I consider my options. I could just ask Satcher what he means. Or I could ignore the comment. He’s probably just goading me anyway. My curiosity wins out.

  “How do you know?”

  It’s the first time I’ve seen his dimples tonight. “What—you think you’re the only one who's had a broken heart?”

  I should have known. A man as unattainable as Satcher Gamble must have been hurt somewhere along the way. Hit in a way that left him raw enough to never have a serious relationship again.

  “I’m the only one who has had my kind of broken heart.”

  “Fair enough,” Satcher says. “My kind was named Gretchen.”

  “Oh God,” I say. “That name didn’t give you a hint?”

  “At least she stuck with the name she was given…”

  We’re both still laughing when our second drink arrives. I happen to look over at that moment and see Woods watching me from across the restaurant. I give him a weak smile before turning back to Satcher. I miss Woods. I miss him so much.

  After dinner, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. I’m washing my hands in a bowl sink with flowers trapped in the plexiglass when Pearl empties from a stall behind me. She falters when she catches sight of me and then proceeds to the sink next to mine like a woman approaching a snake. I eye her in the mirror expecting her to say something, but she simply finishes washing her hands, shakes them over the sink, and leaves the bathroom without a word. It throws me off, her lack of reaction. I was prepared for something sharper than cold indifference. I finish up in the bathroom, drying my hands. When I walk out of the door, I almost collide with Woods.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey yourself…” There’s an awkward pause before Woods says—“So you guys just talking about business or is there something more?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He bounces on his heels, hands in his pockets.

  “Just give it to me straight, Billie.”

  “Like you gave it to me straight when you started fucking Pearl?”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “But you did.”

  He drops his gaze, the muscles in his jaw working. He takes a step closer to me so someone can pass behind him. We’re at lover’s distance, our air mingling. I look at his lips and he looks at mine. When we used to kiss I’d feel drunk. He was just that good. His voice is low when he says, “I know you, Billie. It feels like you’ve come back to make trouble.”

  I smirk, raising an eyebrow. “Does it now?”

  “Woods?” Pearl rounds the cor
ner. When she sees me, her face pales.

  Woods’ eyes don’t leave mine. “I’ll be right there,” he says.

  I hold his gaze, my chest heaving. “Go,” I say firmly.

  His nostrils flare as he holds my gaze for five more seconds, then he turns abruptly and follows Pearl back to their table. I go back into the bathroom to calm down. I’m shaking. I’m a snotty mess when the door to the bathroom swings open. I try to hide my face, embarrassed by my sloppy emotion, but then I see Satcher standing in the doorway. He points to a stall and we both cram in.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Why? What do you think happened?”

  “You’re crying.”

  “Am I? No, I’m not. I don’t cry.”

  We’re practically pressed together, our chests touching.

  “Goddammit, Billie…” I smell beer on his breath. I used to love it when Woods’ breath smelled like beer.

  It’s like the finest hairline crack suddenly expands into the Grand Canyon. I start sobbing, my fists pressed against my eyes like a child. Satcher has to wedge his arms up around me, and I cry harder because the backs of my calves are touching the toilet and it’s so gross.

  “Satch,” I heave. “Why ... did ... I ... come ... back?”

  “Billie…” he says it like Billeee. “This is where you belong. You can’t let anyone chase you from where you belong.”

  Satcher is right. I had a friend in Washington whose husband slept with her neighbor. Creepy situation, the woman only bought the house next door to them because she was obsessed with the family. There was some stalking involved. When the entire situation imploded, my friend refused to leave even though she’d have to always see the woman who’d broken her family apart.