F*ck Marriage(28)

I’m shocked. Shook. Shocked and shook by her words. “I’m sorry about your situation, Denise, but in my less-than-expert opinion on love, I think that if a man is in love with you he shouldn’t throw himself into the arms of another woman.”

“Don’t be condescending, Billie. You haven’t lived long enough to know that. Men don’t cheat because they’re not in love, they cheat because they don’t feel loved.”

“He didn’t just cheat. He came home one day and told me he was leaving me for someone else.”

“A cry for help,” she says. “They want to be worshipped. They want a woman who thinks they’re the greatest, strongest, most virile.”

“And I didn’t?”

“You were busy.”

“Denise, you’re telling me that my husband cheated on me because I didn’t stroke his ego hard enough?”

She looks at me hard.

“All right,” I say. I close my eyes. “Say what you’re saying is true. Why does Robert cheat on you? You’re practically the perfect wife.”

“Oh, my dear, things aren’t always what they seem. You know that.”

I can’t imagine what she’s talking about. Everything about their lives and marriage has always represented perfection. I feel as if I’m six years old and just found out Santa Claus isn’t real.

“It’s become a cycle we’re unfortunately comfortable with. The longer you stay in an unhealthy relationship, the more druglike it becomes. You’re willing to deal with the side effects because they’re predictable. You can trust the bad in a way you can’t trust the unknown.”

We’re cut off by the server who’s made his way over, a look of apprehension on his face. Once we’ve ordered and he’s retreated from the table, there’s a pregnant silence between us.

“I take it you don’t like Pearl.” It whooshes out of me. If there were only a way to suck words back in like spaghetti.

“Oh, she’s fine. Basic. Woods was just trying to find the best parts of you in someone else. It won’t last. Thank God the miscarriage happened.”

Wow. Whoa. It is one thing not wanting them together, and an entirely other thing to be glad she miscarried. But then there is also the matter of what she is saying about Woods and Pearl. Could she be right? I’d thought that Woods couldn’t find any good parts of me anymore, and that’s why he’d left. I frown down at my drink.

“I don’t know, Denise. They seem to be pretty happy.”

“You thought you were happy too, remember?” She pats my hand. “You have time. Wedding’s not for another year. And hopefully she doesn’t get herself knocked up again.”



For the next week I can’t stop thinking about my lunch with Denise Tarrow. On my twenty-third birthday, Woods presented me with a portable DVD player, while Satcher showed up at my party with a first edition copy of my favorite children’s book. Where my reaction to the DVD player had been tepid, fabricated excitement, my reaction to the book Satcher presented had been childlike glee. I’d seen the hurt on Woods’ face and felt terrible. It was a small incident, neither of them would remember it now, but it stuck with me because in the eight years we were together, Woods never quite got the gift thing right. Over the years, he gave me a beach chair, a set of pots and pans, a guitar, guitar lessons—things I didn’t have time for. He was either trying to send me a message or he didn’t know me at all. I summed it up as the latter. And if my own partner didn’t know me, perhaps I was unknowable.



There’s a wrapped gift on my desk one morning when I get into the office. I sit down, eyeing it warily. It’s the size of a ring box and wrapped professionally in gilded silver paper with a satin ribbon. I poke it with my finger and it slides across my desk. I don’t trust gifts. There is always a motive behind them.

“What’s that?” Loren walks in, a Styrofoam Cup Noodles in her hand. She sits down in the empty chair, crossing her legs, and begins wrapping noodles around her fork.

“I don’t know. It was just sitting here.”

“Well, open it,” she says. A noodle hits her chin and she pulls a napkin from her bra to dab at the splash.

I pick up the box, turning it over in my hand. There’s no card. Gingerly, I tuck my finger into the space between the tape and the paper and separate it. Underneath the wrapping is a velvet box. I crack the lid. When Loren sees my face, she sets down her Cup Noodles and rounds my chair to get a look at what I’m holding.

“Geeeezus,” she says. She reaches for her noodles without taking her eyes off the box.

Inside, resting on a black pillow, is a silver pendant in the shape of a hand. Instead of an extended middle finger, the ring finger is propped up and empty.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

“Fuck marriage,” Loren says. “And a cry for help.”

“You think Woods left this?” I think of what his mother said.

Loren shrugs. “Could have been anyone, I guess. They certainly hit the mark though, didn’t they?”

I spread both hands on my desk. A little piece of jewelry has triggered an idea. I stare at my hands as I think, the ideas rushing faster than my hand would if it were holding a pen. “This is it, Lo,” I say.