F*ck Marriage(15)

“Yeah, I’m super excited.”

Super: a word used in copious amounts by anyone under the age of twenty-seven. That’s super great, I want to say. Super awesome.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to work.”

She smiles without teeth and turns back to her computer.



At lunch I find myself in the common room heating up leftovers from the night before and listening to a woman named Diane give explicit details about her C-section. Diane is one of Pearl’s friends, and for this reason, she never makes eye contact with me. I’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to test my theory, once stepping in her way so she’d bump into me, knocking my water bottle out of my hand. She’d picked up the water bottle and mumbled, “Sorry,” before rushing off to her desk. No eye contact.

She ends her story with “and he fainted.” I take the he as being her husband, Victor. She glances at me before reaching across the table to pat Pearl’s hand. “Don’t worry. Woods will do great. He’s so into taking care of your every need. Vic is such a baby.”

Something flares in my chest: shock, panic, pain. And then Pearl quickly announces to the room that she’s not pregnant and Diane is referencing “the future.” Their laughter trills like the barking of a tiny, angry dog.

Needless to say, several sets of eyes flicker to my face, gauging my response. I try to hide what I’m feeling, but I’m afraid I’m not fast enough. Woods having a baby with someone who isn’t me. Why does it still feel like he’s cheating on me? Diane looks pleased with herself. I can tell by the way she smirks at Pearl. Woods hadn’t wanted children. We both loved kids, but he was deathly afraid of messing his own up. Clearly, his opinions have changed. Or maybe he wants them with Pearl. Pearl knew Woods and I hadn’t planned on having kids; we had a discussion about it way back when.

“We can’t wait to start a family,” she asserts. “Woods wants kids really bad.” I turn my back to the microwave so they can’t see my face.

As they start discussing baby names, I think about how I can leave without looking obvious, until Peter the computer guy makes the most awkward statement of the day.

“Won’t it be weird that your child with Woods will have the same last name as Billie?”

Play it cool. I raise my eyebrows and pin my gaze on Pearl, waiting to see what she’ll say.

She’s been thwarted, by Peter of all people. She blinks rapidly, obviously annoyed.

“We can’t blame Billie,” she says finally. “Tarrow is a desirable surname, while her maiden name ... what was it again, Billie? Bolster…?”

“Yes, Bolster.” I nod.

“Right,” says Pearl. “Billie Bolster…” She snickers. “I’d want to keep Tarrow too.”

“It would be Wendy Bolster,” I say, dumbly.

“Changed your first name and not your last,” she says. “Interesting.”

It’s a small victory for Pearl, who wiggled her way out of embarrassment by embarrassing me. I smile wanly and stir my tea with the tiny red straw. Okay, Pearl, I think. If you want to play it like that…

“Hey, Diane,” I say. “You should write a piece about your C-section for the blog. I’d love to publish it.”

Diane looks stricken. She’s never been asked to write anything, but I know that’s what she wants to do. I pulled her application last week; she wrote journalism under her interest section.

“Really?” She stumbles. “I mean, I think I could do a great job if you’re being serious…”

“I am.” I smile. “If you could email it to me before the end of the month…”

“On it.” She’s trying to play it cool, but her hands are shaking. The moment she’s been waiting for. I don’t look at Pearl before I walk out, but I can feel her annoyance radiating from her body. Diane belongs to her and I’ve just crossed a line.

As soon as I’m back in my office, I cradle my arms on my desk and drop my head into them. I thought that for the most part the hurt had receded, but hearing Pearl talk about having children with Woods has scratched open a long-closed wound. How is one man able to want different things depending on who he is with? I’m not very maternal, maybe that’s why he didn’t want children with me. I’m work-obsessed, extremely driven, and often tense and snappy, and that was especially true in the last year of our marriage. There’s the rapping of knuckles on my door and I straighten up quickly.

“Come in,” I call. Why do people always choose my lowest moments to pay me an office visit? Pearl walks in carrying the proposal she owes me. Her timing, I feel, is planned.

“Thank you,” I say curtly when she sets it on my desk. She studies my face and I wonder if she’s looking for the tears I was so ready to shed a minute ago.

“Do I let you or Satcher know what my vacation days are?”

I’m caught off guard by her question.

“Um ... I guess you can give the dates to me,” I say. I pull a notepad toward me so I can write them down.

“October tenth through the twentieth,” she tells me. And then she adds, “We’ll be in Portugal for eight days.”

Portugal. My stomach turns. Woods and I had always planned on going to Portugal together. It was our thing. I swallow the lump in my throat and say, “The tenth to twentieth. Got it.”