F*ck Marriage(20)

I smirk, raising an eyebrow. “Does it now?”

“Woods?” Pearl rounds the corner. When she sees me, her face pales.

Woods’ eyes don’t leave mine. “I’ll be right there,” he says.

I hold his gaze, my chest heaving. “Go,” I say firmly.

His nostrils flare as he holds my gaze for five more seconds, then he turns abruptly and follows Pearl back to their table. I go back into the bathroom to calm down. I’m shaking. I’m a snotty mess when the door to the bathroom swings open. I try to hide my face, embarrassed by my sloppy emotion, but then I see Satcher standing in the doorway. He points to a stall and we both cram in.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Why? What do you think happened?”

“You’re crying.”

“Am I? No, I’m not. I don’t cry.”

We’re practically pressed together, our chests touching.

“Goddammit, Billie…” I smell beer on his breath. I used to love it when Woods’ breath smelled like beer.

It’s like the finest hairline crack suddenly expands into the Grand Canyon. I start sobbing, my fists pressed against my eyes like a child. Satcher has to wedge his arms up around me, and I cry harder because the backs of my calves are touching the toilet and it’s so gross.

“Satch,” I heave. “Why ... did ... I ... come ... back?”

“Billie…” he says it like Billeee. “This is where you belong. You can’t let anyone chase you from where you belong.”

Satcher is right. I had a friend in Washington whose husband slept with her neighbor. Creepy situation, the woman only bought the house next door to them because she was obsessed with the family. There was some stalking involved. When the entire situation imploded, my friend refused to leave even though she’d have to always see the woman who’d broken her family apart.

“I already did,” I say.

He bends down to rip a piece of toilet paper from the roll. Bunching it up, he dabs at my cheeks and nose. I feel pathetic. He’s technically my boss, and I’m having a nervous breakdown in a toilet stall in front of him.

“But you won’t again. Never again. No one has a right to your happiness. It’s a private thing and you have the right to defend it.”

I nod, mostly because I don’t know what to say to that. Satcher is a fairy godmother when it comes to words. It’s probably why the blog has done so well without me. I straighten my shoulders, determined to salvage what is left of my pride.

“I’m going to clean myself up a little.”

He looks at me hard before reaching behind his back to slide the latch open. As he does so, his arm brushes against my breast and I catch my breath. Luckily, Satcher doesn’t notice my reaction. I hear him greet someone as he leaves the stall and I smile despite how rotten I feel.



When I emerge from the bathroom ten minutes later, Satcher is handing his credit card to the server.

“This was supposed to be on me,” I say.

He lifts the last of his drink to his lips. “Welcome back to New York,” he says dryly.

I glance over at Woods’ table and see that they’re gone. A server is setting the table for the next reservation. I’m disappointed.

“Want to get another drink at the bar?” I’m looking toward the bar to see if there are any available seats.

“No.”

My head jerks back around. Satcher is signing his receipt, scribbling in the tip amount. He won’t look at me.

“Why not?”

“Because I did my good deed for the night,” he says. “You needed me for whatever this was and now we’re done.”

“Satch…” I say. “It’s not like that.”

“Yeah, it is.” He stands up, tucking his money clip back into his pocket. I want to reach out, grab him, tell him he means so much to me, but instead I just stand there dumbly.

“Night, Wendy.” His lips meet my cheek and then he’s gone.



I feel it. My selfishness is growing inside of me like a mass. It’s starting to pool out. I look at my feet where all my ugly should be in a puddle; instead, there’s only concrete floors and my cheap heels.

I leave The Modern, my dinner sitting heavy in my stomach. I’m making a mess of everything. Satcher is currently my only friend and he’s angry with me. And can I even blame him? I used him tonight, and no matter how aloof and detached I view him to be, he is a human being with feelings. I remember where he lives and decide to rush him with my apology. I head there now, still a little buzzed from my last drink. I’ve always been impressed by his apartment.

While the rest of his friends (me) were bottom-feeding, Satcher had already bought his first place. Always two grown-up steps ahead of the rest of us. And it isn’t that he comes from money—he claims he was at the right place at the right time, which happened to be New York City before the financial crash. He’d gotten out just in time, his bank account lush, and his heart set on buying his first start-up company.

Satcher is smart and he can turn things to gold simply by investing in them, which is why I’d sold him my half of Rhubarb. If I was going to walk away from my beloved blog it would be to sell it to someone with the Midas touch.

The sidewalk outside of his building is empty, aside from a cab idling against the curb. I wonder if it’s waiting for Satcher, but then the door swings open and a pair of long legs unfold onto the asphalt.