F*ck Marriage

by Fisher, Tarryn

  “Didn’t your mama ever tell you that you should never let an old flame burn you twice?”

  “You have more dick in your personality than your pants, you know that, Satch?”

  “What do you think is gonna happen, Billie? Everyone gets hurt in this scenario.”

  I glance at the bar. Jules and Woods are on opposite ends not looking at each other.

  “What scenario, Satcher?” I say his name with the same amount of vinegar he used to say mine. “He’s getting me a drink.”

  I feel like he’s judging me for something I haven’t even done. He shakes his head, disappointed. Before either of us can say another word, Woods returns with my drink. After he hands it to me he stands close, almost protectively. I wonder who he wants to protect me from and my eyes fall on Satcher. There is something happening between them even now, some silent exchange of eyes.

  “Come on,” Woods says, steering me away. “This is your party, you should mingle.”

  I allow him to lead me away from Satcher. Despite the hard dread rolling around in my stomach, the night is a smashing success. Everyone marvels about the restaurant’s ambience, and when the food arrives they ooh and ahh over the presentation. Woods never leaves my side, and it almost feels like it used to when we were together. I make a joke and he laughs, looking at me like I’m the funniest person alive. He makes a joke and I joke that it’s not funny at all, and then everyone else laughs. It’s a thing we’ve always done, and it works—we’re funny together. People always said we had this chemistry that you feel. I’d thought so too until the day he up and left me. During the dinner, when I look over at Jules, she’s glaring at him like she wants to rip his throat out. Satcher, on the other hand, won’t look at me at all. When I’m at the bar grabbing a drink and taking a second to breathe away from everyone, Loren comes up behind me. Resting her elbows on the bar, she grins at me.

  “I’ve had too much to drink,” she says.

  “Me too,” I admit.

  “Is that why it looks like you and Woods are about to fuck?”

  I give her a look, the look that says watch it!

  “Everyone can see it. There’s so much sexual energy between the two of you I think it charged my phone.”

  “Shut up,” I say, laughing. “He’s the boss, I’m the boss—we’re just working the room, making sure everyone is having a good time.”

  “Well, Satcher’s the boss too and all he’s done all night is scowl at you.”

  I frown. “He’s being a dick.”

  “Maybe he’s just worried about you.”

  I pause to consider and then I decide against it. “Please—” My words falter because I don’t know what else to say.

  I glance over my shoulder at the long mahogany table. Jules is leaning into him, nestled like she’s freezing and he’s the only warmth. He has his arm slung casually around her shoulders. I feel a pang of jealousy and push it away. I’d been there, underneath his warm consideration. When he pins his attention on you he makes you feel like the only woman on the planet.

  The bartender hands me my drink, and I lean my back against the bar surveying the scene. I refuse to have a headstone there. I will not let Satcher Gable have any power over me whatsoever. It was ... and then it was over and that is that.

  Part II

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Satcher

  She looks like herself, but she’s somebody else. I make inventory: same legs, same voice, same facial expressions … different words. Bitter? No. Bitterness hasn’t reached her yet; she’s surprisingly staved it off. Her shoulders are undoubtedly thinner, but not as rigid as they were a decade ago. Life does that to everyone, though. I make a point of standing as straight as I possibly can, if only to fool the Fates. Tonight she’s wearing some type of magic garment. My thoughts go back to high school, tearing through the Harry Potter books in ninth grade. Except, instead of invisibility, her dress gives her visibility. The shimmering silver catches my eye every time she moves, even if it is just to pick up her wine glass. I am trying to ignore her, except once you look at the dress, you have to look at her legs ... and her tits, and then inevitably, you are back to her face, which lacks the symmetry of the model types I usually date. On more than one occasion I’ve heard women make comments about her. “She’s not even that pretty…” or “I don’t get what men see in her…”

  If they’d ask me, I could tell them. Billie has sex appeal: you could plump her up, thin her down, put her in those god-awful Martha Stewart dresses she used to wear—and she still has sex appeal. Frank Sinatra knew a woman like Billie; he sang about her in “Witchcraft.” Except I am trying not to look at her, goddammit. Looking at her makes me hungry. I look at Jules instead. We’ve been seeing each other again for two months now. Before she left for Brazil, I’d been certain I could see a future with her. It was a nice surprise to fall for Jules so easily. Maybe it was the right time to fall in love, or maybe she was the right girl; either way, the stars aligned, and for the first time in years I felt happy. Not the same type of happy that I got when I sold a company for a million dollars, or the happy that came with holding my niece for the first time—it was a private happy. A happy that confused me at first. And then when I was at my peak of fucking happiness, Jules announced she was leaving. It devastated me at first—she was the first woman who’d made me consider settling down. When she left, I put it out of my mind. That is the key to being good at anything: the ability to not be so wrapped up in something that you couldn’t put it out of your mind. Be obsessed with one thing and everything else will suffer because of it. But now, as I try to put Billie and her silver dress out of my mind, I can’t. I drain the last of my drink. I’ve had too much, we all have. From across the table, Celeste laughs her braying donkey laugh and her husband stares at her lovingly. Kudos to any man who could love a woman with a laugh like that. I kiss the top of Jules’ head, and when she looks up at me her eyes are swollen with affection. It stings like salt in a wound. Several times tonight she’s whispered her anger in my ear over Woods. She’s a good friend and a good person. I glance at Woods, who is sitting next to Billie’s empty chair. His eyes are trained on something past the table even though someone is saying something to him. I know he’s watching Billie. That infuriates me. I need another drink.

  “You okay, Satch?” Woods catches my eye.

  He’s taunting me. We were like this as boys, always trying to get underneath each other’s skin. It had always been fun, amusing even. But now, there is a new tension, one that isn’t fun or amusing.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” I say it more for Jules’ benefit than Woods’. She’s looking at me with concern and I smile at her reassuringly.

  “You look a little distracted,” Woods says.

  He’s causing a scene. Everyone at the table is stopping their conversations to look at me.

  “How’s Pearl feeling?” I redirect the conversation and Woods suddenly looks guilty.

  He hasn’t even bothered to text and check up on his sick fiancée, though I doubt she’s actually sick. If anything, she has a severe case of I hate Billie.

  “She’s resting,” he says.

  I smirk. I wonder if Pearl has any idea how bad Woods has it for his ex-wife? I wonder if Woods has any idea how bad I have it for his ex-wife? Bros before hoes. I remember the sentiment from high school and college. Dicks before chicks. Turns out, it is a fallible ideal. Billie has come right between my best friend and me, and I’d known she would the first time I laid eyes on her.

  She’d walked into my house party carrying a bottle of expensive wine rather than the jumbo bottles of cheap liquor everyone else brought. I’d known it was her right away, Woods’ new girlfriend. When he told me he was seeing someone seriously I’d slapped him on the back.

  “The great white shark has been slayed.”

  He described her in great detail every time we were together, almost to the point that I was sick of hearing her name. I’d never seen him like this, enamore
d by one girl rather than all the girls. “Something special,” he’d said. “Classy and fun as hell.”

  She was nervous, I could tell by the way she shoved the bottle at me. Her leather jacket was worn at the elbows like she spent a lot of time with her head propped in her hands.

  “You must be Satcher,” she said.

  “Right now I’d prefer to be Woods.” I took the bottle from her, and her lips twitched at my blatant flirting.

  “Speaking of, where is he?” Her eyes darted around the room, trying to unearth him from the clusters of people.

  “He ran out for more liquor.”

  Her gaze traveled to the liquor table where three unopened bottles of cheap tequila sat side by side.

  “I lied,” I told her. “He went for pot…”

  The smile reached her eyes that time. “So the first thing I learn about you is that you can’t lie for shit.” She grinned.

  I shrugged. “Why lie when the truth is so interesting?”

  “So tell me, Satcher, how much does Woods like me?”

  Oh shit. She was already using my weakness against me. I’d stared at her hair, which was short and wavy around her face, one side tucked behind her ear. She was wearing handgun earrings. What type of woman wore Glock earrings? I reached for the wine opener and removed the cork while she watched me.

  “He’s whipped,” I said. “It’s a sad, sad thing to watch.”

  She laughed, a deep throaty laugh.

  “You laugh like a villain,” I said, pouring wine into two Solo cups.

  “Oh, it’s going to be fun getting to know you,” she said, taking the wine from me.

  I tilted my cup toward hers and touched it lightly in a cheers. “Ditto.”

  When I look up, Woods has joined Billie at the bar. Her hair is long, almost to her waist. She still tucks it behind one ear, but somewhere in her twenties she lost her taste for leather jackets and handgun earrings. I miss the old, reckless, unpolished Billie. The one who’d tell Woods to go fuck himself.

  “Ready to go?” I ask Jules, squeezing her knee.

  “So soon? Don’t you need to stay a while longer?”

  My eyes flicker up toward the bar. They’re standing close, only a drink between them.

  “No. Let’s go back to my place,” I say.

  Jules nods. We hardly spend time at my condo, but I don’t want to risk running into Billie tonight. We say our goodbyes around the table and head for the door, Jules’ hand in mine. I hear Billie call my name, but I pretend not to hear.

  “Bathroom,” Jules says, letting go of my hand.

  She veers left and I wander over to the door, hands in my pockets. It’s raining, the street looks oil slick.

  “Satcher…” I hear my name from behind me and I turn slowly.

  “You didn’t say goodbye…” Her eyes are hurt. She looks vulnerable, hands clasped at her waist, hair falling over one eye.

  I don’t say anything and she takes a step toward me.

  “I don’t know that I’ll see you again ... before Christmas…” She looks over her shoulder and then in three birdlike steps she’s in front of me. She takes my hand, gently unfolding my fingers from my palm.

  I watch the dark splay of her eyelashes as she looks down at my hand. She lifts her fingers and places something in my palm. Then she folds my hand closed over it.

  “Merry Christmas, Satcher,” she says.

  I watch her walk away. When she’s gone I look down at what she placed in my hand. At first, I don’t know what I’m seeing: it’s small, the size of a pea, and iridescent white. I think it might be a pearl, but then I see the tiny hoop on the back. It’s a button. I touch it with my forefinger, pressing it into my palm. When Jules finds me, she laughs at my expression.

  “What is that?” she asks, peering into my hand.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly. “It’s raining…”

  I stuff Billie’s gift into my pocket as Jules directs her gaze outside.

  “Let’s run for it,” she says.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Once we’re back at my condo I can’t stop thinking about them: Billie and Woods. How they looked at the bar, their heads bent together like the old days. In the beginning of their relationship they were like that: whispering, touching, trading inside jokes. They made the rest of us feel like outsiders anytime we were around them. But they hadn’t cared, they’d existed in a heart-shaped world of their own.

  I don’t know when exactly their relationship went south, but I distinctly remember noticing the way they started bending away from each other, the sweet looks they used to give each other replaced with arched eyebrow annoyance. Tonight though, tonight had been a flashback of those earlier years, and that made me worry: rosy retrospection.

  Jules has fallen asleep in my bed. The covers are pushed down to her waist and her hands are pressed under her cheek as if they’re engaged in a prayer. She’s wearing the white silk nightgown she leaves at my condo. I can’t help but wonder if she chose the color to hint at the marriage she wants so desperately. The subtlety of women has always confounded me. Where men directly say what they want; women leave Easter eggs, making knowing their hearts a game. I suppose that’s why I’ve always been drawn to Billie; while she can play the games too, before long her directness wins out.

  I get up quietly and move to the living room, making myself a drink.

  We are made to suffer in this life. You can’t tell me otherwise. When we don’t get the things we want, they get us instead, becoming an obsession, controlling our thoughts and behavior. That’s what Billie is, I decided that long ago. I check my email, type up the responses. I think about texting her, but no, that wouldn’t be right, not with Jules sleeping in the next room. I pace across the window, the city sluggish below me. Woods, I could try him, but he probably wouldn’t answer. It’s none of your business, I tell myself. It’s the same thing I’ve told myself for years. And I’ve never been able to keep my hands out of her business: literally and figuratively. I glance at the clock: 4:49. I need to sleep. Billie is probably sleeping, having gone to bed hours ago. There is no need to worry. It’s then that I remember the button she placed in my hand at the party. I find my pants in the dry-cleaning pile and rummage around in the pockets until I feel the round hardness between my fingers. Holding it up to the light I study the button, trying to understand what she meant by giving it to me.

  “Satcher…?”

  I squeeze my eyes closed before I turn around, the button buried in my fist.

  “Why are you up? What’s wrong?”

  Jules leans against the doorframe. Her hair is tousled from her sleep. I watch as she props one foot on the shin of her other leg. I try to summon all the things I used to feel for her. The emotions had come so easily before ... before what? Billie. Billie had leaned against that same doorframe months ago, and when I’d lied to her she’d seen right through me.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just had some things to finish up.”

  Jules nods. We’re both the type who think about work during all the times we shouldn’t be thinking about work. She smiles faintly before going back to the bedroom. Billie would have barked at me. Sent me back to bed. A small smile touches my lips at the thought. When she first found out she’d been surprised ... understanding, but then she’d chide me for not waking her up so she could “help me sleep.” I hate being powerless, especially over myself. I shake my head, trying to clear it. Regardless of what I feel, Billie made her decision. We sparked for a moment, even started to burn a little before that flame was doused out. It was a nice try, but it wasn’t enough. Her feelings for me weren’t enough.

  I’m a businessman: I knew my odds going into it.

  “Satcher ... earth to Satcher.” I jar awake.

  I must have fallen asleep at my desk. Billie is standing in the doorway, her arms crossed like she’s not sure if she’s welcome to cross the threshold. She’s not dressed in one of her usual getups; instead, she’s wearing jeans with rips
above the knees and an old sweater that hangs off her shoulder like it’s tired of hanging on. She looks exhausted and sexy, and if we were together I’d rub her shoulders and kiss my way down her alpine neck. I have a flash of memory: biting that shoulder while she writhed beneath me.

  “What are you doing here?” I frown, more at the memory than her. “It’s the Christmas holidays. You should be holidaying.”

  “Hello, pot, it’s nice to meet you. I’m kettle.”

  She strolls in and glances at the green chair that used to be hers. Then she drags it right up to my desk and folds herself into it. I watch curiously as she leans her elbows on the desk and props her head in her hands, looking at me.

  “Get real, Satch. Neither of us has anywhere to be.” Her fingers drum her cheeks and I am reminded of a night in college when we went to a diner together after a night of clubbing. The others had wanted to go home, but Billie and I were hungry so we visited an all-night chain. She’d propped her elbows on the table and ordered two breakfasts just for herself.

  “You could go home,” I suggest.

  I don’t want her to go home; I like the city better with her in it.

  “I’ve been home for two years and change. I’ve had enough rain and weird parental looks to last me a lifetime.”

  I laugh. “Well, it looks like we’ll be working through the holidays then.”

  She wants to say something. I watch the struggle, her face creasing. Her fingers are splayed across her cheeks and her mouth is quirked up on one side. Her brown eyes meet mine, peat lashes blinking slowly.

  “Spit it out, Billie.”

  The corners of her mouth tuck in and she rolls her eyes. Her next words slice through me.

  “I slept with Woods last night.”

  I try to keep my face neutral, but she catches what’s in my eyes and she visibly deflates.