F*ck Marriage(23)

“A blonde,” I say to Satcher.

The last woman he dated was a Brazilian fitness model.

“Red, yellow, black, brown—what difference does it make?”

“Clearly none to you. The man who doesn’t have a type.”

She’s almost on us now.

“Oh, I have a type,” Satcher says. “My type has a type. That’s the problem.”

I don’t have time to ask what he means because she’s kissing Satcher on the cheek and looking at me with unveiled curiosity.

“This is Willa,” he says to me. And to Willa he says, “Billie, the friend I was telling you about…”

“Oh, right, Billie.” She looks relieved. “Welcome back to the city. How are you settling in?”

“Oh, you know, it’s an adjustment being back. I still have a layer of moss growing on my back from Washington.”

She laughs, a graceful and polite tinkering. Ha ha, you’re so funny. Why are you crashing my date?

“I better get going,” I say. Willa’s eyes tell me that’s exactly what I should do.

I’m suddenly exhausted, wanting to slink away to my apartment far from these two beautiful people who have their shit together and are probably in the process of falling in love. Willa waves and then latches onto Satcher’s arm as they head for the door. Between his broad shoulders and her narrow waist, they make the most beautiful couple. Right before they walk through, Satcher turns back. I pause, unsure of what’s happening. Did he catch me staring? Am I being weird?

“Billie!” he says it loud enough that everyone in the near vicinity turns to look. “Don’t forget the ice!” And then he’s gone.

I stand on the sidewalk feeling out of place with my huge grin and inhaling someone’s cigarette smoke. I’m New York debris—a paper cup, an empty chip bag, the stub of a cigarette—empty, salty, and stubbed out. A fixture and yet a nuisance.





Chapter Twelve





I drink too much, not just recently ... probably always. I drink about as much as I feel sorry for myself. My self-pity has the personality of a toddler: loud, demanding, erratic. Your husband cheats on you and suddenly you’re blaming the downfall of your marriage on your thick thighs, you know? Or maybe your double chins—of course he cheated with someone who has fewer chins. But once I lost the weight, I blamed my boring personality, my oppressive personality, my demanding personality. I’m still stuck there, trying to prove to everyone that I’ve changed. Trying to prove to myself that I have.



I get ready for work slowly, my head throbbing. I have to stop drinking, but the thought makes me depressed. Some days are harder than others, though hard is the new normal. I remember a different version of myself: slightly shallow ... busy—so, so busy. I was the type of woman who didn’t slow down because if I did I’d have to think. Thinking was for philosophy majors, depressed people, and activists. I was a lifestyle blogger who liked to juice my meals and never commented on politics. The articles I wrote: The Best Tennis Shoes for Your Buck! And Cheese Dip Recipes That Will Have Your Friends Swooning! Divorce cured me of some of that. When your perfect world crumbles there’s nothing left to do but think.



“I want to take Rhubarb in a new direction,” I say in the staff meeting on Monday morning. I look around at their faces and clear my throat as eyebrows raise. Pearl’s face, however, remains stoic even when Zoe shoots her a look. “When I started the blog four years ago, I wanted to be relatable, but now looking back, the only type of woman I wanted to relate to was the upper middle class white woman.” Several people glance at each other, shifting in their seats, uncomfortable. “We tell women how to shop, how to cook, how to organize their pantries, but what we’ve failed to do is be honest.”

Satcher appears in the doorway; he leans against the frame, arms crossed, eyes roving over their reactions. I’d discussed this with him yesterday and he’d showed neither disapproval nor enthusiasm.

“This is your baby,” he said. “Do what you think is best.”

“Will you be in the meeting to support me?”

“Nope. You’re their boss now. I don’t need to micromanage.”

His answer made me nervous—it was his money hinging on the success of the blog, not mine. When I said as much, he laughed at me.

“Billie, this was always your thing. You built it from nothing by being shallow. If you want to rebrand and be deep then go ahead. Trust your instinct.”

I want to remind Satcher that I’d trusted my husband and look how that turned out for me.

I prepared a PowerPoint the night before, working through four glasses of wine while I worked.

Now, with all of their eyes on me, I touch the mouse and the overhead screen jumps to life.

“We are going to expand past our very narrow demographic by adding several new features to the blog…”

Woods appears behind Satcher, his eyes narrowing around the room. I know he’s wondering why no one told him there was a staff meeting. Because you don’t really work here anymore, I want to explain. And soon your bride-to-be won’t either.

I click the mouse and the next page of the presentation appears. There’s a list of new topics the blog will cover.

Loren lifts her finger to say something. I nod at her.