F*ck Marriage(32)

“Where?” he asks again.

I sigh. “The Viable Vine. Woods…?”

“Hush,” he says. “I wasn’t asking permission.” His voice is low, but there’s something in his eyes that causes me to bob my head in a brief nod.

I am fairly good at reading my ex-husband. Two years has done little to change the slight tells in his body language. And by the look in his eyes, the slight puckering of his full lips like he’s just licked a lemon, I know something is up. I can’t use it to my advantage if I don’t know what it is.



At lunch, Rhubarb shares a table with Chic Creek (we call it Shit Creek for laughs). We all congregate around the table, holding our cocktails and asking polite questions. When we’re told lunch is being served, we sit, and I somehow end up between Woods and Courtney, Shit Creek’s founder and main gal. Courtney used to look like the girl next door, but Shit Creek made a shit ton of money and now she looks like a woman who’s made a ton of money and put it all in her face. She has lipstick on her teeth when she smiles at me.

“Back so soon?” She has a country twang even heavier than Annalise’s. I flinch, but halfway through I try to redirect it and end up twitching like I have a goddamn tic.

“I hardly think two years is soon,” I say.

“Well, I thought you’d settle down in the PNW. Find a lumberjack and have a few babies…”

Pearl, who’s listening from across the table says, “Don’t be silly, Court, her taste is Woods. Definitely not a lumberjack.”

Court? Of course they are friends now. Pearl is marrying Woods, which gets her an invitation into the blogger wife club. I distinctly remember her bitching about being shunned by Courtney just a few years ago. She’d suggested making a burn book, Mean Girls’ style, and featuring Court.

They’ve planned this—I see the exchange they make with their eyes.

“I think we all have the same taste in men, actually,” I say. I look at Courtney innocently. “Remember when you made a pass at Woods when you were getting divorced?”

The rule is that you can be as mean as you like without being direct. Cut, but with underhanded sugar. When someone like me comes along wielding the truth as a knife everyone is up in arms. There is a stunned silence around the table. Woods looks like he needs another drink. Pearl looks away, a disgusted look on her face.

“I’m sure you’re mistaken.” Courtney smiles tightly. “You always seemed to think Woods was cheating on you. Honestly, it’s probably your insecurity that drove him away.”

I gasp. I open my mouth and palm at the same time. I’m about to give Shit Creek Courtney a lashing with tongue and hand when I hear Satcher’s voice behind me.

“Sorry I’m late. Billie, there’s a problem back at the office. Can I borrow you for a minute?”

When I turn around, he’s smiling obliviously at me. Every woman at the table flutters their eyelashes at him. I’m annoyed. Shit was about to go down and now Satcher is pulling me away.

I scoot my chair back, and excusing myself, I snatch my drink from the table to follow Satcher out of the banquet hall and through the open doors of the patio.

“You okay, Billie?”

“Is Wendy okay? Hell, no. Is it just me or was the bitch level high in there?”

“Ehhh... ” He scratches the back of his head, squinting at me. “It was what was expected.”

I round on him. “You’re Team Pearl now?”

“I’m on your team; that’s why I’m out here. You’ve been gone a long time. Pearl’s worked hard at that relationship.”

“Yeah, well, I never had Courtney’s loyalty anyway. Bitch.”

“From what I heard, you were equal parts bitchy.”

“Whose side are you even on?” I have to set my drink down to throw my hands on my hips. Satcher eyes me, amused. “Listen to yourself. A few years ago no one messed with you, you know why?”

I shake my head.

“Because you didn’t engage with petty. You were the queen and you never stooped to their level.”

He’s right. I was a chubby queen but still the queen.

“Well, the queen has fallen on hard times. And now I’m here to play bitch ball.”

Satcher rolls his eyes. Eye-rolling is something he doesn’t typically stoop to, so now I feel extra childish.

“You’re hypersensitive, and you think everyone’s out to get you.”

“They are.”

“Exactly.”

I fold my arms across my chest, looking closely at him for the first time. He smells like a bucket of hundred-dollar bills soaked in cedar wood and whiskey. He’s for real wearing a navy blue waistcoat under his tailored blazer. I get the fuss, I do, but he’s annoying the shit out of me with his hoity-toity attitude.

“Nothing works out for me.”

“Nothing ... really? Woods encompasses everything? Because I can think of plenty that works out for you when you actually try.”

He’s looking out at the water now, elbows resting on the railing. No sign of the dimples; he’s frustrated with me. Maybe I am being a brat. Maybe.

I move to stand next to him, both of us admiring the water in silence.

“My glass is almost empty,” I say, holding it up. “Literally and figuratively.” That gets me half a smile, a flash of dimple.