F*ck Marriage(5)

I lick the sweat from above my lip and shift in the stool, fanning myself with the sticky laminate menu. Woods is late. I expected as much, but as I glance nervously around the bar, I wish I’d planned to arrive late rather than trying to be here on time. Who knows when he’ll actually show up. He has a knack for either being too early or embarrassingly late. Since he isn’t here yet, I assume it will be the latter. When the bartender makes his way over, I order a lemon drop. My throat can already feel the vodka. I purse my lips and order two.

“So I don’t have to bother you for another,” I tell him.

“Another is our specialty,” he says. “We’re a bar not a gym.”

I’m really soaking in that comeback when my phone pings. Woods telling me he’s going to be late when he’s already late.

I’m on my third drink, my tongue raw from the lemon, when the door opens and my ex-husband walks in. Something about Woods: he has the most sincere, expressive eyes. Brown and cozy like a cabin in the woods ... like a fire in the hearth when you’re cold ... like sex when you’re horny. He’s everything, and I still know that. Cheating assholes shouldn’t have such sincere faces. I’m past sober and well into buzzed as I watch him scan the room for me, hands in his pockets. That’s what he does when he feels out of place—he buries his hands in his pockets. Funny how you can know a person so well while feeling like you don’t know them at all. I thrill when his eyes pass right over me. Like Billie isn’t even here. And she’s not. Wendy raises a hand to beckon Woods over. Wendy smiles when he catches sight of her and raises his eyebrows in genuine surprise. Wendy holds but a shadow of Billie. My stomach is wobbly as I stand to greet the man who’d fucked me for almost a decade, then fucked me over.

“Wow,” he says when he reaches the table. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

I imagine he’s just given me a compliment because his face is one-half awe, one-half shock. It’s the face of a man who’s just realized his grandma smokes pot.

“I thought people moved to Washington to grow out their pubic hair and drink Kombucha from recycled glass.”

“Says the boy from Georgia who moved to New York to eat dollar pizza and considers himself edgy because he wears black.”

“Hey now,” he says. “Dollar pizza is good even when it’s bad.”

I smile because you can say whatever you like to Woods and he always lobs a comeback even if you’re too dumb to get it.

He picks up my empty glass, tilting it toward his nose as he sniffs.

“Lemon drop,” he announces like I don’t already know.

He licks his lips and I get a flash of his head between my legs, tongue flicking while I scream.

The bartender appears, a new one this time. I’m grateful for the distraction, my cheeks are flushed.

Before Woods can order for himself, I say, “He’s going to order an IPA, but he really wants a lemon drop.”

He slides onto the stool across from me, an amused expression on his face. “She’s right,” he nods, “so just go ahead and bring the lemon drop.”

The familiar banter is painful. God.

As soon as the bartender turns his back, Woods is smiling at me. The corners of his eyes crease and it doesn’t make him look tired, or old, or haggard; if anything, he looks charming. Someone wanting to flatter him could say his wrinkles give him character. I don’t want to flatter him.

“You look good.” He always gets right to the point.

And I do look good. I’ve lost nearly forty pounds since the last time he saw me.

I get right to the point too because I don’t trust myself.

“I’m renting out the loft,” I say. “The cleaning company found these…” I slide the envelope across the table.

Woods tents the opening and peers inside. “My God, the missing social security card and birth certificate. We fought about this for three days. Where did they find them?”

“Under the fridge.”

“Go figure,” he says.

He sets the envelope on the table. A week ago, I’d emailed Woods to tell him I had some of his things that I would be happy to mail to him. He’d responded not ten minutes later, asking to meet instead.

“Where are you staying?” he asks.

I study the hairs on his forearms. “I rented an apartment.”

“Why not just move back into the loft?”

“Been there, done that.” I smile. And then I add, “Too many memories. If I’m back in the city I want to make new memories, not be reminded of all the old ones.”

His lemon drop arrives and he touches his full glass to my empty one in a halfhearted cheers.

“Another?” the bartender asks.

I smile weakly. “I better not.”

“I’ll have another,” Woods says, “and keep them coming.” He unfolds a piece of Juicy Fruit onto his tongue.

“Still with the Juicy Fruit?” I ask.

Woods chewed Juicy Fruit like it was his security blanket.

“Always.”

As soon as the bartender is out of earshot, he turns back to me. “Does Satcher know you’re back?”

It’s an odd question. I haven’t spoken to Woods’ best friend in years.

“No ... I was thinking about calling him.”