F*ck Marriage(10)

Afterward, I’d gone home, crawled into bed fully clothed and damp from the rain, and sobbed harder than I ever had in my life. I never told anyone about the accident, and at that point in my life there really wasn’t anyone to tell. My parents were away to Rock Island for the week with friends, and by the time they got back I had a brand new car, no questions asked. Not even a: Hey, daughter, I like your new ride. Despite my parents’ lackluster attitude, and despite the fact that I was pretending to be all right, the jarring impact of metal crashing into metal had nested something in my mind; a dark thought, edges tined in regret. I let it all go without fighting for it. My mind clenched onto the realization as if I were sober for the first time in two years. Gone, gone, gone. My love, my best friend, my beautiful life. Why? Because he’d come to me with his unhappiness and I’d plugged up my ears. I remember it now that there’s some distance between me and the initial hurt. Woods wanting to take me to Aruba on our one-year anniversary and me saying no. The blog was new and doing fairly well and I hadn’t felt like it was a good time to leave. He’d made reservations at the Ivy Room instead, but then I’d had to work late and completely forgot about dinner and our anniversary. After that, he was different. No matter how much I apologized, he never lost the hurt look in his eyes. And eventually, I grew bored with it. It’s emotionally lazy to know you’re hurting someone and try to forget the fact because it makes you uncomfortable. Marriage as a whole is uncomfortable. Two people from two different worlds trying to stuff all of their emotional belongings into one joined life. As it turns out, I was accustomed to being left alone, and Woods was accustomed to being smothered. One of us always annoyed and the other always hurt. That’s the way we lived for a long time until I guess Woods did something about it.



I pull clothes from Jules’ closet and lay them on the bed. She left ninety percent of her wardrobe behind when she left for her new job in Sao Paolo. For the first time in my life, I am her size: a four.

“Wear it,” she said before she left.

And so I will. I don’t really have another option since the only clothes I brought with me from Washington are my flannels, ripped jeans, and rain boots. My bank account has dwindled down, only allowing me necessities for some time now. Jules’ wardrobe is a blessing. I settle on an olive green sheath dress and nude heels. Woods is a leg guy and the nude heels will make my legs look longer. I’m ashamed by that thought but not so ashamed that I put away the dress. This is war and I am weaponizing every asset I have. It’s why I came back and I am going to follow through. Woods isn’t married yet. I have time.





Chapter Seven





Satcher’s assistant shows me to his office on Monday morning. He introduces himself as Bilbo, and I have to ask him to repeat himself three times before he sighs deeply and tells me that his parents were huge fans of the Tolkien books.

“Bill-bow,” he says, pinching the air with each syllable.

I note that most of the cubicles are unmanned and mention it as we walk the wide circle to where the main editorial staff have their offices.

“Satcher goes down to a skeleton crew in the summer. Everyone is due back this week.”

Good idea. I never thought to do that. My payroll was always gargantuan.

“—Back-to-school posts,” Bilbo finishes.

Bilbo is in the habit of singing the last word in every sentence. As he sings the word posts he makes big eyes to indicate the importance of the back-to-school frenzy. I remember all too well: posts about what to put in your child’s lunches, where to shop for school supplies, and the best recipes for back-to-school cocktails for Mommy. Bilbo leaves me with a bottle of water and tells me that Satcher is on his way. With a smug smile, I settle into a velvet green chair that I’d bought for the office two years ago. He’s kept things much how I left them, only replacing my slimline desk from Ikea with a much larger wooden desk. I raise my eyes at the three monitors, wondering how much Satcher has taken on, on top of Rhubarb. The door opens; I’m expecting Satcher but Pearl walks in instead. She’s wearing her hair pulled back and twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck—her signature style. Loose pieces of hair frame her face in what’s supposed to be an “effortless” look, but I know she spent thirty minutes perfecting it.

“Billie,” she breathes, “I guess I should say welcome back.” Pearl sets her coffee down on the desk, swiping a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She looks on edge, but maybe I’m searching.

“I guess you should,” I echo. I don’t, under any circumstances, feel the need to be polite to Pearl. “It’s Wendy now, actually.”

She raises an eyebrow, but before she can say anything, Satcher walks in carrying two coffees.

“Pearl.” He looks surprised to see her. “I thought you were taking the morning off for your appointment.”

Is it just me or does her face flush?

“It was canceled,” she says quickly.

Satcher stares at her thoughtfully for a moment, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Just as suddenly, he looks away. He’s rifling through his desk when he says, “Coffee’s for you, Bil—I mean, Wendy.”

“Hey, thanks, Sasquatch,” I say. “Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to set up?”

“There’s a cubicle open down the hall,” Pearl offers. She’s made herself at home in his office.