F*ck Marriage(26)

That was it for me. I’d stormed out of the room, slamming our bedroom door, and crawling into the bed to wallow in self-righteousness. What did he want from me, for God’s sake? I was chin-deep in Rhubarb, trying to get it off the ground so that we could live comfortably without worries. I barely slept, and my doctor had just put me on anxiety meds. When we’d started the business we’d both been on the same track, but somewhere along the way, Rhubarb had stopped being something that brought us together and instead started ripping us apart.

“He just means for the tea,” I answer Satcher.

I can tell Satcher doesn’t buy it, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything else.

“I should go.” I stand up.

“Yeah,” Satcher says.

I don’t know why, but his tone makes me angry. I glare at him one more time before snatching up my purse and marching for the elevators. I don’t say goodbye. The last thing I need is Satcher’s goody two-shoes judgment. I thought I’d changed, grown up, but in moments like these, I know I’m still the same defensive fuck-up I’ve always been.



Pearl takes two weeks off of work. During the time she’s gone, Rhubarb feels lighter, more joyful. The employees who normally steer clear of me due to their loyalty to Pearl, warm up, chatting with me in the common room and even once inviting me to happy hour with them after work. I feel guilty for how much I enjoy her absence. Especially since I’m the reason she miscarried. Satcher avoids me, never making eye contact, and only talking to me if it’s to respond to a question I ask, or to deal with Rhubarb business. Woods comes into the office twice to pick up some things for Pearl. We collide in the hallway, his arms full of paperwork, and mine full of the props I just went to get from the storage room.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey yourself.”

“How is she?”

His face immediately clouds over. “I don’t know. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She’s ... shut down.”

I nod. Women deal with things differently than men. We want them to meet our emotional needs without us having to spell it out for them. It’s an if you love me, you should know what I need type of thing.

“She’s grieving. Hold her. Order the food she likes and fuss over her,” I say. “She just needs her pain acknowledged and to be taken care of.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

We stand there for another thirty seconds, Woods just staring at me like he wants to say something else. But I never give him the chance.

“I’ll see you,” I say, stepping around him.

I haven’t gotten five steps when he calls after me. “Wendy…”

I turn. The wooden sign I’m holding digs painfully into my waist and I shift feet to alleviate the pressure.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

It feels like someone has just shoved me sideways. I feel unbalanced ... panicked.

“I know you’re blaming yourself.” He pauses as someone walks by to get to the bathroom.

Woods lowers his voice when he says, “The doctor said it was an ectopic pregnancy…”

I nod, tears filling my eyes. Somehow that should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I was raised Catholic, I’m good at guilt.

“Well, look at us comforting each other,” I say.

Woods grins. “We’ve come a long way.”

But is it the right way? I want to ask. Because it doesn’t feel right. None of this does. Mayhap I am the bitter, jealous ex-wife. Yes, that is probably it. Even if there aren’t feelings involved, it would bother me that my ex-husband was trying to procreate with someone else. It’s just ... awkward ... uncomfortable. Like our life before didn’t matter. Divorce isn’t supposed to happen, but it does, and no one really knows how to deal with it. It frees you of one thing while imprisoning you with a thousand others. Life isn’t even remotely fair.

“Okay, well, I better go,” I say, suddenly feeling the full force of awkwardness.

My palms are sweating. When I get back to my office, I lock the door and lie down on the carpet with my palms flat on the ground, staring up at the ceiling.

I’m close to dozing off when my phone pings from my pocket. I think about ignoring it, but eventually I raise my hips, reaching to slide it out of my back pocket. I sit up right away.





Chapter Fourteen





Denise Tarrow never beats around the bush. The very first time she met me, she said, “So, are you going to give me grandkids, or are you one of those career types?”

I’d been too shocked to respond, and by the time I’d found my voice, Woods had chastised her and the conversation had moved on to something else. I liked her despite her lack of filter and general inclination to meddle in other people’s business. Once you got used to her personality, it was hard not to appreciate the care behind her actions.

I’d almost forgotten about her mentioning us getting lunch until she texts to ask if I want to meet at Gramercy Tavern on Tuesday.

I stare at that text for a long time debating what to do. Having lunch with Woods’ mother feels like I am stepping over a line. And while that’s exactly what I came back to New York to do, doing it so soon after Pearl’s miscarriage feels wrong.

It is tacky, no doubt.