F*ck Marriage(33)

“I hate to say this, Billie, but this whole feel-sorry-for-myself thing is getting old.”

I roll my eyes. Only Satcher could say something like that to me without me getting raging angry. I still pout.

“Your marriage ended. Lots of marriages end on account of a cheating asshole—”

I shrug.

“You’ve had your time to grieve, you deserved that after what happened. But now you’re back, and it’s time to live. If you don’t live now, then when?”

“I don’t remember how to,” I admit. I’m ashamed of how sulky my voice sounds. “Living after a broken heart isn’t like riding a bike. You genuinely forget how to go about doing it.”

“I respect that. But it’s do or die, isn’t it? And you’re too spiteful to let Pearl and Woods kill you.”

Satcher rubs his hands across his face. He looks tired. I’m a bad friend.

He’s beautiful. He’s my ex-husband’s best friend, but he’s beautiful.

“You okay?” I ask. I know from experience that we often mistake put-together people for happy and emotionally healthy, when it is all a guise.

He’s still leaning against the railing, but he turns his head to study me like he’s truly surprised I’m asking. I make a mental note to not be so damn self-centered all the time.

“Tell me,” I urge.

He hesitates for a moment and then says, “They found a mass in my mother’s right breast. She finds out her biopsy results today.”

“And you’re not there…” I nod in understanding.

Satcher is a family guy. He doesn’t have one of his own yet, but I remember how close he used to be with his sisters.

“Yeah…” he says, flatly.

I’m not sure what to do. I don’t want to tell him I’m sorry even though I am; it feels like a weak word.

“Go.”

“What?”

“Go to New York. Go home and be with her. You shouldn’t be here.”

He looks surprised at my suggestion, and I wonder if he even considered it or if he felt that obligated to be here.

“This is my business. I should—”

I grab both of his hands and force him to look at me. “It may be your business, but it’s my blog,” I interrupt. “I’ll take care of everything as if I still own it. Promise.”

He purses his lips. We’re facing each other, holding hands. I imagine we must look like a couple having a romantic moment on the terrace.

“Are you sure?” Satcher’s brow is creased, and without thinking, I reach up to smooth it, thinking of the day he spotted me on the street and came running after me to offer me a job. He always shows up when I need help.

“I’m a hundred percent sure.” I feel puffed up about this ... good. Being able to do something for the man who is always doing something for me.

What I do next I blame on the Champagne.

Leaning up on my tiptoes, I aim for his mouth. By the time I see the look in his eyes it’s too late. He turns his head and my mouth meets the stubble on his cheek, startling my lips. It’s a sharp rejection, and I take an immediate step back. I spot the pity on Satcher’s face, and I’m suddenly sober. I look away quickly. Paired with what went down inside I feel pathetic. A fool.

Embarrassment burning my throat, I touch Satcher’s hand, which still rests on the railing.

“I’m so sorry, Satch. Go home, okay?” And then I do the only self-respectable thing left to do: I run.

I don’t know if I’m running from Satcher, my embarrassment, Woods and Pearl, or myself—down the stairs that lead to the boardwalk, checking my watch as I head toward the pier. Lunch will just be letting out. I don’t need to be anywhere for another few hours, which gives me some time to lick my wounds and compose myself.

Ugh, Billie.

My self-hate revs into overdrive as I dodge tourists, licking my lips where the salt from my tears is gathering. Really fucking pathetic. And the worst part is I’m hungry. I wish I’d been an idiot after I ate. I look around for something to eat and see a hot dog stand and ice cream cart back-to-back. I linger at the hot dogs for a minute and then round the cart to join the ice cream line. If I can’t be at home with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, I’ll eat my way through as many scoops as they’ll give me here.



My plan is to walk back to the hotel, but ten minutes into my walk I realize that I have no idea where I am. I merge with the tourists looking for a landmark I recognize when I hear my name being called. Satcher pulls up beside me in what I presume is a rental. Rolling his window down, he calls my name again.

“Billie!” and when I don’t respond—“Wendy!”

“I’m fine, Satcher,” I say without looking at him. “I just need some time…”

I keep walking and he drives slowly beside me. Cars pull up behind him and honk, but Satcher doesn’t pay attention to them even when they speed around him, yelling out the window.

“Let me drive you back to the hotel.” There’s an onslaught of traffic as cars race by, and I don’t hear the rest of what he says.

“No. I’m fine,” I say again. A gust of wind lifts my hair and whips it into my ice cream.

“You're upset…”