F*ck Marriage(22)

“Just some girl. It’s not our first date.”

“Oh,” I say. “Do you like her a lot?”

“I like her enough.”

We walk in silence for a few minutes, the city burning her energy around us. Satcher holds out an arm, stopping me from stepping into the street, and a motor bike whizzes by a second later.

“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I’m just…”

“Distracted?” he offers. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes and that bothers me. I’ve always been really good at making serious, professional Satcher smile—from the eyes. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah,” I say. Though I don’t mean it. Satcher asks raw questions, the kind that make you think uncomfortable thoughts.

“Would you take Woods back, if he really wanted to be with you again?”

I have to talk around the lump in my throat. “I don’t know. Is it okay that I don’t know?” I frown. I’ve thought about it a million times, haven’t I? Fantasized about the possibility of Woods realizing he still wants to be with me, but I never know if it is because I really want it or because I’ve been wronged.

“I don’t know,” Satcher says, looking at me. “Is it?”

“He was my first love,” I say. “There’s something that ties you to your first love, don’t you think? Something that won’t let go.”

He looks at me strangely.

“You’ll find someone and you’ll feel that way about her,” I say.

Satcher looks amused. “Will I now?”

“Yeah. Maybe you’re spending tonight with her. You never know…”

He laughs. “God, I hope so.”

I sneak a look at him, his beautiful jawline shaded by stubble, dimples at full moon. She’s lucky, whoever she is. Satcher has eclectic taste in women. I can’t even imagine who is waiting for him. It could be anyone from a supermodel to a math genius, both of which he’s brought to our dinner parties.

Five minutes later, we stop outside of a trendy bar on Second and shuffle our feet like two teenagers who don’t know what to say to each other.

“Well,” I announce comically, looking around his shoulder into the fancy hipster bar where he’s meeting his date. “It’s no Pimbilly’s Pub…”

For a minute I think he doesn’t remember, the joke flying over his head like the football two teens are tossing back and forth on the sidewalk. But then he laughs—nothing crazy. It’s just a tiny little laugh. The real joy is in his eyes, which are lit up as he looks over the memory.

“Pimbilly’s Pub,” he repeats.

Back when the group of us were broke and in college, we’d meet up at Pimbilly’s every Friday night to celebrate surviving another week of the semester with three-dollar drafts. It was a hole-in-the-wall dive, situated in the same building as a laundromat and one of those nameless food marts that charged five dollars for a half gallon of milk. Outside was one of those giant bins that sold bags of ice bearing an even bigger sign that said: DON’T FORGET THE ICE. We’d shut down the bar and then the group of us would stumble out yelling, “Don’t forget the ice!” as we marched back to the dorms through the snow, or rain, or an especially muggy summer.

“Don’t forget the ice,” Satcher says quietly.

I smile, my foot lifted to take the first step away. I don’t want to leave ... or maybe I don’t want to leave him.

But, then he says, “Do you think it’s still there?”

“Pimbilly’s?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“I don’t know. I haven’t been out that way in ages.”

He pulls out his phone and I watch as his fingers move quickly across the screen.

“It’s still there,” he says, pocketing his phone. He seems comforted by this fact. “Hey, thanks for walking me to my date.”

I’ve been dismissed. Our nice moment, short-lived, pops like a soap bubble.

“Chivalry is alive.” I position my hand for a fist bump, but he laughs at me and pulls me into a hug instead.

“See you tomorrow at work,” I say.

Satcher hesitates. He hasn’t let go of me, and I stand frozen to the spot unsure of what to do. If you’ve just apologized for something, it is in bad taste to pull away from the person, even if it’s to allow them to be on their way.

“You sure you’re up for this, Billie? Working at Rhubarb ... seeing them every day?”

I’m not. I may be in over my head. I am in over my head. But it would take me weeks and maybe months to find another job, and there is something comforting about being back at the blog I created. It reminds me of who I can be if I try.

“Yes,” I say confidently. “One hundred percent.”

He lets me go and nods, slowly looking toward the bar. “All right then.”

“I can handle it.”

He looks less than sure, but I pin on my most dazzling smile.

“I’ll bring the coffee tomorrow,” I say for good measure.

I hear someone say his name and we both turn toward the voice. Walking toward us on the sidewalk is the type of woman who induces fear into other women. It’s a given she wasn’t born that way, I can tell by the slight way her lips stick out, pumped full by a doctor with a ready needle. But her tits are real—small—and her hair is thick, hanging almost to her waist.