“I know…” she says softly. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”
But she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that her words have nudged my heart into a painful whine that is reverberating through my chest. Or that I want to stand up and shake her. Or that I’ve started pitying myself for pining. The big, bad bachelor with the broken heart.
I stay silent because I have nothing nice to say. Billie takes my quiet as a go to spew everything she’s thinking and feeling.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. Or maybe I did. I don’t even know. One thing just led to another, you know—”
I know about one thing leading to another: I am a thirty-three-year-old male with a big dick and great face.
“So you did to Pearl what she did to you. Does this mean the end of your vendetta, or do you plan on stealing her fiancé entirely?”
She straightens up, her back touching the back of the chair.
“She stole my husband,” she says.
“So you’re going to steal her fiancé. Is that why you came back?”
She doesn’t confirm or deny.
“I don’t like your tone.” She tilts her chin up defiantly, but her bottom lip tugs out with emotion, giving her away.
“Why?” I challenge. “Is it the tone of a man speaking the truth?”
“You’re supposed to be my friend, Satcher. Friends should be able to tell each other things about themselves without the fear of being stoned.”
“Friends should be able to tell each other the truth when someone is being an ass,” I say. Also, I don’t want to be her friend.
She stands up in a huff. I can visibly see her chest rising and falling beneath her thin sweater. “This was a mistake,” she says, heading for the door.
“Only the part with Woods,” I call right before she slams the door.
I didn’t need to be such an ass. But I want to be one. Men don’t really grow up. We’re mean when we hurt women; we’re mean when women hurt us. It’s our go-to. But as soon as she’s out of the door, the guilt worms its way through the mean hurt I’m still holding up. It made her vulnerable to tell me that. She came in here possibly wanting me to help her sort through both her guilt and her feelings, and I’d told her to go to hell. I stand up and sit back down. No. I don’t need to go running to apologize. I am tired of Billie’s games. She has no clue what she wants, and in my experience, women like that are dangerous: flipping back and forth with decisions, having one foot in, one foot out. I turn back to the humming comfort of my three monitors and squirrel the mouse around aggressively. I’d say it was all a mistake, hiring her to run Rhubarb, but the numbers don’t lie. Billie is good for business, bad for the heart. I think Woods would probably agree with that. I need to move on and focus on what is good for me. My days of pining for an emotionally unavailable woman are over.
Chapter Thirty
When I get back to the hospital several hours later, showered and in clean clothes, Denise has been replaced by a woman I don’t immediately recognize. She’s slight with a short, neat haircut that doesn’t quite reach her shoulders. Her cardigan is purple and so are her shoes. When she hears me come in, she turns her head without standing up. There’s something about her profile, the aquiline nose and pouty lips…
“Mrs. Bolster?”
Billie’s mother stands and I see that she’s clutching a purple purse in both her hands.
“I’m Satcher,” I say. “One of Billie’s friends.”
She smiles faintly. “I remember,” she says. “From the wedding…”
That’s right. How had I forgotten? It had been the one time I’d met Billie’s parents.
“Has she…?”
She shakes her head. “No change,” she says.
I walk over to the bed and stare down at Billie, wanting to touch her but also not wanting to freak her mom out.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say, and I mean it. Billie may claim that she has no close family ties, but in light of the accident, support is important.
“I saw Denise.” Her eyes are glassy and I feel like she’s just looking for something to say.
“Yeah. She was here before I left. She really cares about Billie.”
“That’s nice,” she says. “That things could stay so civil after…”
“After…?”
“After Billie wanted a divorce.”
“Right,” I say.
So Billie had lied to her parents. I don’t exactly blame her. It makes things easier for sure. When you are the one left in the relationship, you experience a level of pity and coddling from your loved ones that makes the whole situation feel worse. If she is the one who supposedly left Woods, she can shut down the questions, be aloof. Billie hates to be pitied, hates undue attention. The divorce equals a level of personal hell that is separate from the actual heartbreak.
“Has Woods been to see her?”
The question is fairly mild. It’s her tone that’s heartbreaking: hopeful. I wonder what type of relationship Woods had with her parents. Knowing him, he probably charmed the shit out of them.
“Yes,” I say.
Her face lights up and I wonder how hard that part is for Billie, taking the fall for the end of the marriage, being the bad guy to her parents.
“That’s nice,” she says again.
Her voice sounds far away, like it’s not part of this room, or Billie, or even New York. She’s here because she has to be, I think. This is what Billie grew up with, this person ... this parent. I think about my own childhood, my own parents.
Jennifer and Jeff Gable, who have an abundance of emotion, especially when it comes to their children. We are a talk-it-out family, and I can guarantee that if I were the one lying in the hospital bed, my entire family would have flown in the first night, including all six of my sisters. They’d all be fighting, but they’d be here.
“Is Mr. Bolster here?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “He had to stay behind to take care of the house.” Her voice is airy, barely there.
The house. Weak. Not a dog, or an ailing parent, or even a job—none of which are worthy of not being here for your daughter. The house. Something that doesn’t need taking care of. I glance at Billie and my gut twists into a knot.
I have a dozen more questions for her, but I can tell she’s already checking out of the conversation. I want to stay with Billie, but I feel awkward being here ... especially since I’ve just discovered how much I dislike her mother.
“Are you staying nearby?” I ask finally.
She shakes her head. “I have a red-eye flight tonight. I’ll stay here with her for a few more hours.”
“Tonight? But Billie hasn’t even woken up…”
She frowns at my proclamation like she doesn’t care to hear it.
“I can’t stay away for much longer ... Steven…” Her voice trails off at the end of her excuse, too weak to verbalize.
I say the only thing I’m thinking, the only thing that matters. “Billie needs you.”
She looks at Billie then and I notice that she’s still clutching her purse, the knuckles of her fingers white like she’s afraid someone is going to rip it from her grasp right here in the hospital. Big, bad New York. Always the villain to outsiders.
“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head.
And I don’t know if she’s saying sorry to me, or Billie, or the room in general. I glance at my watch, a ploy to leave the room before I tell this woman what I think of her.
“I have to go,” I say with a brief nod.
And then I leave before she can respond. It’s the holidays, I tell myself. She probably doesn’t want to be away from home for the holidays. But even as I try to smooth over Mrs. Bolster’s transgression, I can’t. Billie is her family.
I decide to go back to my condo and wait it out. The fact that Billie hasn’t woken up yet is a heavy weight around my heart. I want to be there when she does wake up. A couple of hours after I leave Mrs. Bolster at the hosp
ital, I meet Jules for dinner. I didn’t want to come, but with Jules leaving for home in the morning, I feel obligated to see her one last time. I’m so distracted I can’t focus on anything she says to me.
“Satch, did you hear me?”
I set down my fork, which I’ve been holding without actually eating anything.
“No. I’m sorry,” I say.
“You’re worried about Billie, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer. It seems fairly obvious. We have plans to go to the hospital after our meal, but I’m dreading it.
I’ve become accustomed to holding back my feelings about Billie—careful constraint, an aloof tone when I speak to or about her, the way I’ve trained my eyes to only spill over her slightly so that no one notices. With her lying bruised in a hospital bed, it’s harder to remain neutral. The only way I know how to deal with her question is to ask one of my own.
“Aren’t you?”
“Of course,” she says.
I tell her about seeing Billie’s mother at the hospital, how she said she had to get back home instead of staying with her daughter who is in a coma.
“Maybe there’s something we don’t know,” she suggests. “A family sickness, or Billie’s dad may not know how to use the microwave.”
She’s trying to lighten the mood, but I flinch anyway.
“You’re probably right about the microwave,” I say. I’ve drunk more than I’ve eaten. “Fuck,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “I’m drunk.”
Jules looks nonplussed. She looks at her phone. “Satcher…”
“Yup…”
“She’s awake.”
I stand up so suddenly the table wobbles, spilling my full glass of water. I toss bills on the table ... forty ... sixty ... eighty. Our dinner didn’t cost that much, but I don’t want to wait for the check. Jules grabs her jacket and scarf, and we’re out the door less than four minutes later.
When we get to the hospital, Woods is already there waiting outside Billie’s room. I tense up. I shouldn’t have drunk as much as I did. I peer through the glass and see several nurses around her bed. I can’t see anything but Billie’s feet, a lump underneath the sheet. My mouth carries the bitter aftertaste of bourbon.
“What are they doing?” I ask gruffly. And then—“Where’s her mother?”
“They’re checking her vitals. The doctor is supposed to be here in a minute. And she left for the airport an hour ago. I texted her.”
He texted her. Like he’s still her husband. I’m being irrational. I try to shrug it off, wishing for the dozenth time that I hadn’t had that last drink. I’m not an angry drunk exactly, but I’m irritable ... less tolerant. In college, Billie told me that I’m too controlled in my normal life, and when I drink I lose some of that. I want to fucking lose it on Woods.
The doctor nods at us on his way into Billie’s room. He looks like a mad scientist: wiry, white hair poking up at odd angles, and a droopy face that looks like it’s melting off his skull. We stand in the hall, tense and impatient. Woods glances down at his phone every few minutes. I want to ask him if Billie’s mother is coming back, but I know I’ll only be disappointed by his answer. Finally, the room clears out and we’re allowed to see her. The doctor steps into the hall.
“Mr. Tarrow?” He looks at me.
“I’m Woods Tarrow.” Woods steps toward the doctor with an air of importance.
“Billie’s husband?” he asks.
Woods’ face colors. “No ... I’m her ex-husband…”
The doctor frowns. “I’m afraid I can only release information to her husband.”
“That’s me,” I say.
“She married brothers?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer; instead, he launches into Billie’s diagnosis. Concussion, sprained wrist, broken ankle, three cracked ribs, and severe bruising to her face. “She’s going to need to take it easy. No stairs. We’re going to keep her for another day to monitor her concussion.”
“Thank you,” I say when he finishes his spiel. “Can I see her?”
“You can,” he says, eyeing Jules and Woods. “One at a time.”
I nod. I ignore the stares Jules and Woods give me and push through the door. Billie is sitting up, but her eyes are closed. When she hears the door, she cracks open an eye.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi.” Her voice is raspy. She licks her lips as I approach the bed. “They think you’re my husband,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, ducking my head. “I may have told them that.”
She starts to laugh then immediately flinches. “Ow…”
“Lucky for you I’m not really that funny, so that was a one-time thing.” I pull the chair up next to her and sit on the edge of it, leaning toward her.
“I can’t believe I married a guy with such a sucky sense of humor.”
I can’t hide my smile. Here she is lying in a hospital bed cracked and bruised and she’s making jokes.
“We were really worried about you,” I say. “Took you a while to wake up.”
“It takes me a while to do everything,” she says. “I’m a slow learner.”
“Apparently. Anyone ever teach you how to cross a street?”
Her chest heaves. “Stop being funny,” she says. “It hurts.”
“Your mom was here,” I say. “She left to go home before she knew you woke up.”
“Ah,” is all she says.
“Listen, Billie, before they come in here I need to say sorry…”
“For what?”
“Well, I don’t like your mom. But also for the argument we had. I was out of line.”
This time she holds her ribs while she laughs. “It’s fine, Satch. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. You were right to be pissed.”
“No. It’s none of my business.”
“Okay,” she breathes, “so let's just forget about it. Fighting isn’t good for our marriage.”
“Speaking of marriage,” I say. “Woods is outside.”
The smile drops off her face. “Oh…”
I perk up immediately. “Do you not want to see him? I can tell him to—”
“No, it’s fine, Satcher,” she says. “I suppose I need to put an end to all of this.”
“Jules is here too.”
“Okay. Maybe send Jules in first. Buy me some time so I can figure out what I’m going to say to Woods.”
“I have a notebook. I can write something out for you.”
“Shut up,” she says, a grin on her face. And even with the black eyes, and the yellow bruises grazing her cheekbones and jaw—she’s alarmingly beautiful.
I’m on my way toward the door when the words burn a path from my heart to my mouth. “Billie…”
She looks up from her lap, the smile still on her lips.
“I was scared. Scared I’d lose you forever. I don’t know that I’ve ever been truly scared before this.”
I can’t tell if her eyes fill with tears or if it’s a trick of the light.
“You’re a good friend, Satcher,” she says.
I force a smile. I don’t want to be her friend.
The next day is the first day I feel like I can finally breathe in weeks. Jules leaves early for the airport. I see her off outside of my building, still wearing my pajama pants as I tuck her into a cab. She texts me from the airport to say she spotted Woods and Pearl heading to their gate.
I thought they left last night, I text back.
Jules’ text comes back quickly and it’s just one word: delayed.
It’s a week till Christmas and the city has emptied out as New Yorkers make their pilgrimages home for the holidays. They’re letting Billie go home tomorrow, but she will have to have surgery on her ankle right after Christmas. She grumbles at that news and I have to make jokes about the doctor’s ear hair before she smiles again. I get my condo ready for her even though she doesn’t know she’ll be staying with me. The doctor gave me strict instructions that she’s to take it easy to allow her ribs to heal.
No stairs. Since my building has an elevator and hers doesn’t, I made the executive decision to take her home with me. When I pick her up from the hospital the following afternoon, she’s wearing a pink Adidas hoodie and sweatpants. I toss my beanie at her and she gently pulls it over her hair, flinching when her fingers graze the cuts on her forehead.
“How do I look?” she asks jokingly. She still has two bruised eyes and a split lip, but her smile is bright and beautiful.
I answer her honestly. “Like beautiful hell,” I say.
Her laugh rings out in the hospital lobby, and heads swivel to find the source of joy.
Once in the cab, Billie stares out the window, her head propped on her fist, breath frosting the glass. Last-minute shoppers stream up and down the sidewalk, jackets pulled up around their faces as their gloved fingers grip shopping bags. When we stop outside of my building, she frowns.
“Why are we at your place?”
“This is where you’re staying for a few weeks,” I say, ignoring her sour look.
“Why? What’s wrong with my place?”
I list off the reasons she can’t go home yet and her frown only deepens.
“Doctor’s orders,” I say. “Besides, we’re both here for the holidays, so we might as well make the best of it.”
That seems to appease her. I carry her small bag into my building, walking slowly as she navigates her crutches over the cracks in the sidewalk. Her face is pinched in concentration and possibly pain, but when I ask her if she’s hurting she shrugs it off like it’s no big deal. My apartment is ready for her. I’d spent every moment I wasn’t at the hospital doing things like stocking the fridge and changing the sheets on my bed. When I lead her into my bedroom, she stops abruptly in the doorway, shaking her head.
“No way. I’m not sleeping in your bed.”
“Why not?” I ask.
Her face flushes and she mumbles something about Jules.
“You’re injured,” I argue. “Sleeping on the couch isn’t an option.”
She hesitates. “I can go home.”
“Not an option either,” I say. “Until you’re walking without crutches.”
F*ck Marriage Page 18
