“I already did,” I say.
He bends down to rip a piece of toilet paper from the roll. Bunching it up, he dabs at my cheeks and nose. I feel pathetic. He’s technically my boss, and I’m having a nervous breakdown in a toilet stall in front of him.
“But you won’t again. Never again. No one has a right to your happiness. It’s a private thing and you have the right to defend it.”
I nod, mostly because I don’t know what to say to that. Satcher is a fairy godmother when it comes to words. It’s probably why the blog has done so well without me. I straighten my shoulders, determined to salvage what is left of my pride.
“I’m going to clean myself up a little.”
He looks at me hard before reaching behind his back to slide the latch open. As he does so, his arm brushes against my breast and I catch my breath. Luckily, Satcher doesn’t notice my reaction. I hear him greet someone as he leaves the stall and I smile despite how rotten I feel.
When I emerge from the bathroom ten minutes later, Satcher is handing his credit card to the server.
“This was supposed to be on me,” I say.
He lifts the last of his drink to his lips. “Welcome back to New York,” he says dryly.
I glance over at Woods’ table and see that they’re gone. A server is setting the table for the next reservation. I’m disappointed.
“Want to get another drink at the bar?” I’m looking toward the bar to see if there are any available seats.
“No.”
My head jerks back around. Satcher is signing his receipt, scribbling in the tip amount. He won’t look at me.
“Why not?”
“Because I did my good deed for the night,” he says. “You needed me for whatever this was and now we’re done.”
“Satch…” I say. “It’s not like that.”
“Yeah, it is.” He stands up, tucking his money clip back into his pocket. I want to reach out, grab him, tell him he means so much to me, but instead I just stand there dumbly.
“Night, Wendy.” His lips meet my cheek and then he’s gone.
I feel it. My selfishness is growing inside of me like a mass. It’s starting to pool out. I look at my feet where all my ugly should be in a puddle; instead, there’s only concrete floors and my cheap heels.
I leave The Modern, my dinner sitting heavy in my stomach. I’m making a mess of everything. Satcher is currently my only friend and he’s angry with me. And can I even blame him? I used him tonight, and no matter how aloof and detached I view him to be, he is a human being with feelings. I remember where he lives and decide to rush him with my apology. I head there now, still a little buzzed from my last drink. I’ve always been impressed by his apartment.
While the rest of his friends (me) were bottom-feeding, Satcher had already bought his first place. Always two grown-up steps ahead of the rest of us. And it isn’t that he comes from money—he claims he was at the right place at the right time, which happened to be New York City before the financial crash. He’d gotten out just in time, his bank account lush, and his heart set on buying his first start-up company.
Satcher is smart and he can turn things to gold simply by investing in them, which is why I’d sold him my half of Rhubarb. If I was going to walk away from my beloved blog it would be to sell it to someone with the Midas touch.
The sidewalk outside of his building is empty, aside from a cab idling against the curb. I wonder if it’s waiting for Satcher, but then the door swings open and a pair of long legs unfold onto the asphalt.
“Woods,” I breathe.
He doesn’t see me right away. His eyes are trained on Satcher’s building, a strange expression on his face. I come up behind him not knowing exactly what to do. Do I call out to him? Tap him on the shoulder? What is he doing here anyway? I decide to wait until he notices me. I flit up the sidewalk behind him, dodging an overturned paper cup spilling neon blue slushy. Satcher has a doorman and he eyes us both as we approach. Woods senses someone behind him and turns. I process his look of shock, which turns to appreciation as he eyes my legs.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
I wouldn’t exactly call his voice cold, but it is definitely suspicious.
“Fuck off. What are you doing here?”
My switcharoo works. He looks flustered.
“I need to talk to Satch,” he says.
He waits for me to announce why I’m here, but I set my jaw to let him know it’s not going to happen. We breeze past the doorman and into the foyer and then we freeze, awkward.
“Where’s Pearl?” I ask.
“Home.”
“Did you fight?”
He frowns, looking annoyed. “How did you know that?”
“I know you,” I say. “Like the back of my hand.”
He purses his lips and nods.
“So,” he says. “Want to skip this place and go get a drink?”
I glance at the elevators, unsure. I really need to talk to Satch. Make sure we’re okay.
“And be the girl you left me for? Not a chance.”
I’m so proud of myself I don’t even notice Satcher stepping off the elevator. Not right away at least. His eyes widen when he sees us both standing in his lobby, and reluctantly, he heads over, a frown marring his face.
“Satcher,” I say before he can speak. “I came to apologize. And ask if you’ll get a drink with me.”
Satcher raises an eyebrow and looks at Woods.
“I wanted to get a drink too,” he says.
“We came separately,” I explain, glancing at Woods out of the corner of my eye.
“I was actually just heading out.” Satcher glances at his watch.
“I’ll walk with you…” I offer.
Satcher looks annoyed. “It’s a date,” he says. “I have a date.”
“So you two aren’t a thing?” Woods motions between us.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Woods? That’s why you came here? To ask him that?” My hands find their way to my hips.
“He’s my best friend. I have a right to know what his intentions are with you.”
“No. No, you don’t have a right.” My chest is heaving and tears are burning my eyes. I can’t believe that after everything he did, he feels like he has any right to my life. I look at Satcher, my gut rolling. “Can we get out of here? Please.”
He only hesitates for a second before nodding. And in that moment, I feel like he’s made a choice between his best friend and his best friend’s ex-wife.
He nods at Woods and I grab onto his arm, walking quickly to keep in stride. I don’t look back. If I look back I’ll turn back.
Chapter Eleven
He stops abruptly once we’re out of sight and I teeter forward on my heels. Satcher reaches out a hand to steady me. His fingers brush the underside of my breasts and I hear myself suck in my breath.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m an asshole. I shouldn’t put you in the middle of ... whatever this is.”
“Revenge,” he offers.
My bottom lip pushes out when I nod.
“Forget it,” Satcher says. His eyes scan the street; he’s already dismissed me. I feel awkward. Clearly Satcher doesn’t want to talk about it and I didn’t have a plan past apologizing. I’m about to fall back so that I’m not trailing behind him like a lost puppy when he throws me a bone.
“Though I don’t know how I feel about being a key player in my best friend’s demise.”
I bite my lip. “I didn’t mean to put you in that position … I was being selfish.” And then I ask, “Are you guys still ... close?”
He isn’t looking at me when he answers; his head is turned toward traffic. “Not really.”
“Why not? What happened?” My interest is genuine, but I can tell Satcher is annoyed.
“I really do have a date.”
“Of course, yeah. Do you need a cab?” I ask feebly.
He glances at his watch. “We can walk it.”
I�
�m empowered by the word we as we set off, the autumn air just a hair too cold to be without a jacket. Glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, I notice that he’s changed into more casual clothes: jeans, and a polo shirt that fits tight across his chest. I don’t know where we’re headed and I’m too afraid to ask—Satcher looks like a storm cloud waiting to burst. I want to reach out and touch him. Press my fingers into his skin to gauge his anger. I also don’t want him to be angry with me.
“Who’s the girl?” I ask finally.
When he turns his head it’s like he’s shocked to see me walking next to him.
“What?”
“Your date ... who is she?”
“Just some girl. It’s not our first date.”
“Oh,” I say. “Do you like her a lot?”
“I like her enough.”
We walk in silence for a few minutes, the city burning her energy around us. Satcher holds out an arm, stopping me from stepping into the street, and a motor bike whizzes by a second later.
“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I’m just…”
“Distracted?” he offers. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes and that bothers me. I’ve always been really good at making serious, professional Satcher smile—from the eyes. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah,” I say. Though I don’t mean it. Satcher asks raw questions, the kind that make you think uncomfortable thoughts.
“Would you take Woods back, if he really wanted to be with you again?”
I have to talk around the lump in my throat. “I don’t know. Is it okay that I don’t know?” I frown. I’ve thought about it a million times, haven’t I? Fantasized about the possibility of Woods realizing he still wants to be with me, but I never know if it is because I really want it or because I’ve been wronged.
“I don’t know,” Satcher says, looking at me. “Is it?”
“He was my first love,” I say. “There’s something that ties you to your first love, don’t you think? Something that won’t let go.”
He looks at me strangely.
“You’ll find someone and you’ll feel that way about her,” I say.
Satcher looks amused. “Will I now?”
“Yeah. Maybe you’re spending tonight with her. You never know…”
He laughs. “God, I hope so.”
I sneak a look at him, his beautiful jawline shaded by stubble, dimples at full moon. She’s lucky, whoever she is. Satcher has eclectic taste in women. I can’t even imagine who is waiting for him. It could be anyone from a supermodel to a math genius, both of which he’s brought to our dinner parties.
Five minutes later, we stop outside of a trendy bar on Second and shuffle our feet like two teenagers who don’t know what to say to each other.
“Well,” I announce comically, looking around his shoulder into the fancy hipster bar where he’s meeting his date. “It’s no Pimbilly’s Pub…”
For a minute I think he doesn’t remember, the joke flying over his head like the football two teens are tossing back and forth on the sidewalk. But then he laughs—nothing crazy. It’s just a tiny little laugh. The real joy is in his eyes, which are lit up as he looks over the memory.
“Pimbilly’s Pub,” he repeats.
Back when the group of us were broke and in college, we’d meet up at Pimbilly’s every Friday night to celebrate surviving another week of the semester with three-dollar drafts. It was a hole-in-the-wall dive, situated in the same building as a laundromat and one of those nameless food marts that charged five dollars for a half gallon of milk. Outside was one of those giant bins that sold bags of ice bearing an even bigger sign that said: DON’T FORGET THE ICE. We’d shut down the bar and then the group of us would stumble out yelling, “Don’t forget the ice!” as we marched back to the dorms through the snow, or rain, or an especially muggy summer.
“Don’t forget the ice,” Satcher says quietly.
I smile, my foot lifted to take the first step away. I don’t want to leave ... or maybe I don’t want to leave him.
But, then he says, “Do you think it’s still there?”
“Pimbilly’s?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been out that way in ages.”
He pulls out his phone and I watch as his fingers move quickly across the screen.
“It’s still there,” he says, pocketing his phone. He seems comforted by this fact. “Hey, thanks for walking me to my date.”
I’ve been dismissed. Our nice moment, short-lived, pops like a soap bubble.
“Chivalry is alive.” I position my hand for a fist bump, but he laughs at me and pulls me into a hug instead.
“See you tomorrow at work,” I say.
Satcher hesitates. He hasn’t let go of me, and I stand frozen to the spot unsure of what to do. If you’ve just apologized for something, it is in bad taste to pull away from the person, even if it’s to allow them to be on their way.
“You sure you’re up for this, Billie? Working at Rhubarb ... seeing them every day?”
I’m not. I may be in over my head. I am in over my head. But it would take me weeks and maybe months to find another job, and there is something comforting about being back at the blog I created. It reminds me of who I can be if I try.
“Yes,” I say confidently. “One hundred percent.”
He lets me go and nods, slowly looking toward the bar. “All right then.”
“I can handle it.”
He looks less than sure, but I pin on my most dazzling smile.
“I’ll bring the coffee tomorrow,” I say for good measure.
I hear someone say his name and we both turn toward the voice. Walking toward us on the sidewalk is the type of woman who induces fear into other women. It’s a given she wasn’t born that way, I can tell by the slight way her lips stick out, pumped full by a doctor with a ready needle. But her tits are real—small—and her hair is thick, hanging almost to her waist.
“A blonde,” I say to Satcher.
The last woman he dated was a Brazilian fitness model.
“Red, yellow, black, brown—what difference does it make?”
“Clearly none to you. The man who doesn’t have a type.”
She’s almost on us now.
“Oh, I have a type,” Satcher says. “My type has a type. That’s the problem.”
I don’t have time to ask what he means because she’s kissing Satcher on the cheek and looking at me with unveiled curiosity.
“This is Willa,” he says to me. And to Willa he says, “Billie, the friend I was telling you about…”
“Oh, right, Billie.” She looks relieved. “Welcome back to the city. How are you settling in?”
“Oh, you know, it’s an adjustment being back. I still have a layer of moss growing on my back from Washington.”
She laughs, a graceful and polite tinkering. Ha ha, you’re so funny. Why are you crashing my date?
“I better get going,” I say. Willa’s eyes tell me that’s exactly what I should do.
I’m suddenly exhausted, wanting to slink away to my apartment far from these two beautiful people who have their shit together and are probably in the process of falling in love. Willa waves and then latches onto Satcher’s arm as they head for the door. Between his broad shoulders and her narrow waist, they make the most beautiful couple. Right before they walk through, Satcher turns back. I pause, unsure of what’s happening. Did he catch me staring? Am I being weird?
“Billie!” he says it loud enough that everyone in the near vicinity turns to look. “Don’t forget the ice!” And then he’s gone.
I stand on the sidewalk feeling out of place with my huge grin and inhaling someone’s cigarette smoke. I’m New York debris—a paper cup, an empty chip bag, the stub of a cigarette—empty, salty, and stubbed out. A fixture and yet a nuisance.
Chapter Twelve
I drink too much, not just recently ... probably always. I drink about as much as I feel sorry for myself. My
self-pity has the personality of a toddler: loud, demanding, erratic. Your husband cheats on you and suddenly you’re blaming the downfall of your marriage on your thick thighs, you know? Or maybe your double chins—of course he cheated with someone who has fewer chins. But once I lost the weight, I blamed my boring personality, my oppressive personality, my demanding personality. I’m still stuck there, trying to prove to everyone that I’ve changed. Trying to prove to myself that I have.
I get ready for work slowly, my head throbbing. I have to stop drinking, but the thought makes me depressed. Some days are harder than others, though hard is the new normal. I remember a different version of myself: slightly shallow ... busy—so, so busy. I was the type of woman who didn’t slow down because if I did I’d have to think. Thinking was for philosophy majors, depressed people, and activists. I was a lifestyle blogger who liked to juice my meals and never commented on politics. The articles I wrote: The Best Tennis Shoes for Your Buck! And Cheese Dip Recipes That Will Have Your Friends Swooning! Divorce cured me of some of that. When your perfect world crumbles there’s nothing left to do but think.
“I want to take Rhubarb in a new direction,” I say in the staff meeting on Monday morning. I look around at their faces and clear my throat as eyebrows raise. Pearl’s face, however, remains stoic even when Zoe shoots her a look. “When I started the blog four years ago, I wanted to be relatable, but now looking back, the only type of woman I wanted to relate to was the upper middle class white woman.” Several people glance at each other, shifting in their seats, uncomfortable. “We tell women how to shop, how to cook, how to organize their pantries, but what we’ve failed to do is be honest.”
Satcher appears in the doorway; he leans against the frame, arms crossed, eyes roving over their reactions. I’d discussed this with him yesterday and he’d showed neither disapproval nor enthusiasm.
“This is your baby,” he said. “Do what you think is best.”
“Will you be in the meeting to support me?”
F*ck Marriage Page 7
