F*ck Marriage(53)
“Come on, Billie. What do you two even have in common?”
“What do you and Pearl have in common?” I shoot back.
Woods stares at me dumbstruck, which is why I don’t immediately notice the door opening behind him.
“Clearly more than the two of you did.”
I look up to see Pearl standing in the door to my office. She’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, her hair tied back in her signature messy knot. I hadn’t heard her come in, but of course she’s here. Woods isn’t allowed to be alone with me without her supervision. Pearl and I have had little to no interaction since her miscarriage. She returned to work with what seemed like a new determination to pretend that I don’t exist, and I have been perfectly all right with the fact that I never have to talk to her.
“Then why are you so threatened?” The words come before I can stop them. Fighting words. I didn’t intend on fighting, but sometimes the fight finds you.
Woods groans, and Pearl steps deeper into my office like she’s ready to deal with things head-on. Her lips are pursed, and her wide eyes gun me down with every blink. Great, I just started a girl gun fight.
“He was married to you and he didn’t want to be. Now he’s marrying me. What is there to be threatened about?” She feels really good about her words.
I watch as she crosses her arms over her chest. It’s my turn to serve the insult, but I’m too angry to formulate words. The rage makes me lightheaded. My vision swims in and out of focus and my limbs tingle as I make an effort not to jump up from my seat. It’s bad enough that she did what she did, but to be self-righteous about it?
I wonder if my true self is still there, buried underneath the various forms of myself that I’ve cultivated over the years: blog Billie, divorced Billie, Wendy, the Billie who came back to New York to prove to everyone that she’s fine. But the Billie of old, the one Satcher has referenced on occasion, would not argue with someone she thought beneath her. Pearl believes herself to be Woods’ hero. It’s comical really, that she thinks she swooped in and saved him from something bad (me).
“Pearl…” It’s Woods who breaks the silence, Woods who stands up and looks from one of us to the other like he’s deciding how to handle the situation.
“Let’s go,” he says.
I shift my eyes from Pearl to Woods. The downcast movement of his eyes and his quick herding of Pearl toward the door makes me want to lash out at him, call out his weakness. Did I really expect him to defend me in front of his fiancée? No, but I didn’t expect him to be with someone like Pearl either. How could he? She is a watered-down version of me. And she knows that, she knows it. Which is why my presence bothers her so much. I watch them leave and then I raise my fist and hit it hard on the desk, flinching when it makes contact. I hate them. I hate all of them. But, mostly I hate myself. I lost my husband and business—all to that insufferable creature. I don’t care what I’ve told myself in the past about Woods bearing the burden of responsibility for cheating on me; right now I’m angry, and every ounce of that anger is directed at Pearl.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The annual Christmas party ... I volunteer as a party planner mostly to keep myself busy. I act like it’s not a big deal, that I want to call a hundred restaurants to do things like secure a private room and set a menu. In reality, I just want to keep busy and not go home. Home is where Satcher is, and work is where Woods is. And now every inch of my life is invaded by the men I couldn’t hold on to. The plus side: if I pull off the best Christmas party, I’ll gain favor with the staff. Currently, half of them are Team Pearl, while the other half are with me. I choose a place called Summertime Sunday, all bohemian decor. It looks like a foreign market inside with brightly colored scarves strewn from the ceiling and jewel-toned lanterns on every table. At Christmastime they string lights everywhere and the effect leaves me breathless. It’s perfect.
On the day of the party, we’ve wrapped up the last of our holiday posts by noon. The office is buzzing with holiday excitement. In the break room are platters of Christmas cookies and spiked eggnog. Satcher had twenty bottles of Champagne delivered this morning and people are milling about wearing Christmas sweaters and sipping on the endless supply of bubbly. Everyone is in good spirits with it being the last day of work before the office closes until after the new year. Loren has hung tinsel from desk to desk, and Pearl set up a Christmas tree the week before. Satcher comes into work wearing a Santa hat and the ladies swoon, including me.
I’m walking by the break room when one of Pearl’s lackeys says, “I’d be his naughty elf...”
I roll my eyes, though I can’t blame them. For the last few weeks I’ve tried not to look at him. Every single time our eyes meet I feel a sharp pang of sadness. I hate myself for feeling that way; it’s not like we spent years in a relationship, though judging my hurt level, that’s exactly how it feels. I remind myself that we were friends long before our forage into romance, and that we can be friends again with some effort on my part. I just need to ... forget.
I leave the office early to run home and change. The apartment is empty when I get there. Our Christmas tree sits in front of the window, the lights on. It’s the first time I’ve been alone in the apartment for months and I soak it in, standing in the near dark and staring at blinking lights hoping for an emotional recharge. After ten minutes, I reluctantly head to the bedroom to change.