F*ck Marriage(39)

I snicker.

“You went to parties just for the free food and booze…”

“I put on ten pounds that year.”

“You got a tattoo on your inner thigh that said: This way to paradise.”

“It cost me fifteen hundred dollars to have that removed.” I shake my head.

“You stopped owning who you were and became something else.”

“People evolve, Satcher. We aren’t supposed to stay the same.” I throw his words back at him, but he’s shaking his head before I’m even finished.

“People evolve, yes. That’s healthy. But they don’t change everything about who they are unless they have a good reason, and Billie, you’re unrecognizable.”

I frown at how his words make me feel. When was it exactly that I traded my edge for a good corn chowder recipe? The blog—I’d started to change when the blog did well. I remember scouring other blogs, studying what they did that garnered the most readers. Then I reinvented myself to match the blog, instead of having the blog match me. I deflate, pressing my lips together as I stare at Satcher.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Get sad about what you lost.”

“You just pointed out that I lost myself and you expect me not to be sad about it?”

“Well, maybe it’s time to find yourself again. Meet your old self somewhere in the middle.”

“Good advice.” I pick up my beer and drain it, then I shake my glass at Satcher. “Another.”



I don’t know how it happens, except I do. I was having a surprisingly good time: Satcher teasing me, me teasing back. At one point I jumped up to dance to a Billy Idol song that was playing while Satcher spun around in his stool to watch me. If I’d ever felt carefree it was now, in this bar, with this man. Carefree: the old me. Pre-floral print and the blog. Pre-Woods and Pearl.

Three drinks and two shots and Satcher is helping me up the stairs to Jules’ apartment.

“Are there no goddamn lights in this building?” he growls.

The tip of my shoe catches on the stairs and he steadies me. We reach the front door, and I lean against the wall as Satcher searches my bag for my keys.

“You can still see it, you know?”

He puts my key in the lock and turns it. “What?”

“My tattoo. This way to paradise.”

He looks startled for a moment and then his face breaks into a smile. “Fifteen hundred dollars couldn’t erase who you actually are.”

I shake my head. I’m not drunk-drunk, but I am drunk. The room sways around me as I step inside and flick the light switch. Nothing happens. I try another and the room stays dark.

“Power’s out,” I say.

I stand still in the middle of the room, swaying in the dark. I hate how when I’m drunk I feel everything. I thought getting drunk helped take your mind off of things.

“He left paradise.”

Satcher comes in and closes the door. He walks to the breaker box and opens it. “Who?”

“Woods, he left paradise.”

He shuts the box and turns around to look at me.

“Paradise lost. Poor Woods.” I crack up, then I start crying.

“It’s not the breakers,” Satcher says, walking toward me. “Must be the whole building.”

“I’m drunk and I’m afraid of the dark,” I say. I lift my hands to the ceiling and spin around. Satcher has to catch me before I hit the ground.

“Don’t forget dramatic,” he adds, righting me on my feet. “We can go back to my place. I’m not leaving you here in the dark.”

“Is this how it works? You lure a woman into your shiny bachelor pad with the promise of warmth and drink?”

“And dick,” he says, which makes me laugh until my stomach aches. “But no drink,” he finishes. “You’ve had enough.”

“I’m probably an alcoholic,” I admit.

Satcher has his back to me now as he grabs a duffel bag out of the hall closet. “Yup,” he says. “Probably so.”

I nod, grateful, wondering how he knew to look there. “Just let me grab some of my things.” I use the flashlight on my phone to grab pajamas and clothes for the next day, tossing them into the duffel. Then I make my way to the living room where Satcher is waiting. He’s scrolling through his phone and when he sees me, one corner of his mouth lifts. It’s so natural that I walk right into his arms and hug him.

“What’s this about?” he says into my hair.

“I don’t know. It just feels like you’ve been saving me since I got back to New York.”

“Billie, you are the very last woman who needs saving. One day you’re going to realize that.”



I doze in the backseat of the cab for the ten-minute drive. By the time we climb out of the elevator in his building I’ve sobered up and have the beginnings of a headache.

While he makes a snack, I wander into the bathroom to change into my pajamas. I laugh when I look down and see I grabbed my most grandmotherly pants and shirt combo, decked out in pink roses. I stuff them back in my bag and put on a T-shirt I brought instead. When I join Satcher in the living room, he eyes my legs and whistles low.

“I see paradise,” he says.