F*ck Marriage(13)

“Tomorrow, the rest of the staff are back,” Satcher warns. “Best behavior.”





Chapter Eight





The vibe in the office the next morning is somewhat like the first day of school. Refreshed and ready, the employees of Rhubarb gather in the common area, popping pods in the coffee machine and discussing where they went on vacation. I listen outside the door, anxiety clawing its way up my throat. There are familiar voices: Dee, who attended my wedding. I hired her part-time after her baby was born to cover the Crunchy Mom section of the blog. She probably tried the hardest after I left, sending me update texts even when I didn’t answer. I hear Pearl too, she’s updating them on her wedding planning while they ooh and ahh like good minions. I’m nearly hyperventilating when Satcher appears through the front door, a drink carrier in his hand. Shoot. Shit. I was supposed to get coffee. His eyebrow quirks up when he sees my face.

“It was my turn,” I say when he hands me a cup.

“I knew you’d forget,” he says.

Our eyes meet and I suddenly feel hot under Jules’ Rebecca Minkoff dress. The room has suddenly gone quiet. They’ve heard our voices. I squeeze my eyes shut, but Satcher pushes me forward, forcing me into the open doorway.

“Dammit, you fucker,” I say under my breath.

“Morning.” He flashes a smile around the room, his dimples making a few of their eyes glaze over: men and women.

I smile, smile, smile! So big and so genuine, at least to their eyes. Suddenly, there are arms around my neck, exclamations of surprise. Janelle, our photographer, Dee, Loren ... and Eric, who runs a column called Pretty Gay. Pearl’s smile is frozen on her face like a mannequin. I see that a couple of them glance back to gauge her reaction to my presence. After a few minutes of questions from all of them, Dee goes to the fridge and pulls out the bottle of Champagne, the smile pressed so sincerely to her lips, my chest tightens. The Champagne is a tradition I started when we moved into the building. We always kept a bottle chilled in the fridge ready to celebrate. Now Dee pops the cork at eight o'clock in the morning and everyone holds out their plastic flutes for a swallow. Everyone except Pearl, who demurely declines, saying she’s watching her weight for the wedding.

“It’s just a sip,” Loren presses. “To welcome our Billie back.”

Pearl’s face is strained as she accepts the glass, clutched between her fingers like some dirty object she’d rather not be touching.

“Where’s Woods?” someone calls. “Go get him.”

One of the employees I don’t recognize scurries out. I wait, tensed, the flute sweating between my fingers. I switch hands and rub my open palm down my dress. When Woods follows the girl back into the room, the air stills. He meets my eyes and my stomach does a rebellious flip. Quit it, I want to say.

“You guys are always looking for a reason to drink,” he teases.

Loren makes the toast: “To the best damn editor and blogger that ever was,” she says, raising her glass. “Welcome back!”

There are cheers of Hear! Hear! and then everyone’s tossing back their early morning bubbly. I notice that Pearl has only pretended to sip hers. Her eyes are on the floor near Woods’ shoes. Alert and hard as graphite, they follow him when he walks toward me. He’s opening his mouth to say something when Satcher steps in front of him, blocking his direct route.

“You’ve been coming into the office a lot. I thought the plan was to back out slowly.”

“I didn’t know I needed to ask permission to come into my office,” Woods replies.

There’s something about their exchange that is off. Normally, Woods and Satcher keep up a steady stream of banter; their relationship hinges on their shared sense of humor. But Satcher’s shoulders are tense and Woods’ face is stormy. They both look like they are about to explode. Everyone is either watching them or looking away uncomfortably.

“Do you know the best thing to do in a situation like this?” I ask. Now I’m the center of attention, or at least I should say the center of a tense, ticking silence. “Whip out your dicks and measure…”

There’s a pause and then the laughter erupts. The new people look relieved (the new boss isn’t so bad) and the old people raise their empty glasses grinning like it’s good to have me back. Tension is broken. Even Satcher is smiling and Woods is looking at me with a sort of endearing expectancy. He’s used to my sense of humor; eight years in a relationship will do that. Everyone dissipates after that, plastic flutes hitting the trash, and the common room emptying out as people make their way to their desks. Loren pats me on the shoulder as she leaves, a smug smile on her face.

“You’ve been sorely missed. Welcome back.”

I grin back at her, feeling a sense of belonging. Yes, it’s good to be back. This is my stride, this is what I’ve missed. And that’s when it hits me: it’s not just a man I came back for. I want it all ... every last thing.

After my first day back, Woods initially comes into the office every other day, but by the end of the second week he’s there from nine-to-five like the rest of us. I deduct that he’s either there to keep an eye on me or Pearl. Aside from the hard looks we give each other when we cross paths in the office, Pearl and I give each other a wide berth. If she’s noticed that Woods is in the office more she doesn’t let on; though, every time he comes into my office for anything, she follows within a few minutes, finding some reason or another to drag him away. It was like this before, I think, when we were married. I have memories of Pearl always needing to pull him away for this or that.