F*ck Marriage(55)

“I’ve had too much to drink,” she says.

“Me too,” I admit.

“Is that why it looks like you and Woods are about to fuck?”

I give her a look, the look that says watch it!

“Everyone can see it. There’s so much sexual energy between the two of you I think it charged my phone.”

“Shut up,” I say, laughing. “He’s the boss, I’m the boss—we’re just working the room, making sure everyone is having a good time.”

“Well, Satcher’s the boss too and all he’s done all night is scowl at you.”

I frown. “He’s being a dick.”

“Maybe he’s just worried about you.”

I pause to consider and then I decide against it. “Please—” My words falter because I don’t know what else to say.

I glance over my shoulder at the long mahogany table. Jules is leaning into him, nestled like she’s freezing and he’s the only warmth. He has his arm slung casually around her shoulders. I feel a pang of jealousy and push it away. I’d been there, underneath his warm consideration. When he pins his attention on you he makes you feel like the only woman on the planet.

The bartender hands me my drink, and I lean my back against the bar surveying the scene. I refuse to have a headstone there. I will not let Satcher Gable have any power over me whatsoever. It was ... and then it was over and that is that.





Part II





Chapter Twenty-Eight





Satcher



She looks like herself, but she’s somebody else. I make inventory: same legs, same voice, same facial expressions … different words. Bitter? No. Bitterness hasn’t reached her yet; she’s surprisingly staved it off. Her shoulders are undoubtedly thinner, but not as rigid as they were a decade ago. Life does that to everyone, though. I make a point of standing as straight as I possibly can, if only to fool the Fates. Tonight she’s wearing some type of magic garment. My thoughts go back to high school, tearing through the Harry Potter books in ninth grade. Except, instead of invisibility, her dress gives her visibility. The shimmering silver catches my eye every time she moves, even if it is just to pick up her wine glass. I am trying to ignore her, except once you look at the dress, you have to look at her legs ... and her tits, and then inevitably, you are back to her face, which lacks the symmetry of the model types I usually date. On more than one occasion I’ve heard women make comments about her. “She’s not even that pretty…” or “I don’t get what men see in her…”

If they’d ask me, I could tell them. Billie has sex appeal: you could plump her up, thin her down, put her in those god-awful Martha Stewart dresses she used to wear—and she still has sex appeal. Frank Sinatra knew a woman like Billie; he sang about her in “Witchcraft.” Except I am trying not to look at her, goddammit. Looking at her makes me hungry. I look at Jules instead. We’ve been seeing each other again for two months now. Before she left for Brazil, I’d been certain I could see a future with her. It was a nice surprise to fall for Jules so easily. Maybe it was the right time to fall in love, or maybe she was the right girl; either way, the stars aligned, and for the first time in years I felt happy. Not the same type of happy that I got when I sold a company for a million dollars, or the happy that came with holding my niece for the first time—it was a private happy. A happy that confused me at first. And then when I was at my peak of fucking happiness, Jules announced she was leaving. It devastated me at first—she was the first woman who’d made me consider settling down. When she left, I put it out of my mind. That is the key to being good at anything: the ability to not be so wrapped up in something that you couldn’t put it out of your mind. Be obsessed with one thing and everything else will suffer because of it. But now, as I try to put Billie and her silver dress out of my mind, I can’t. I drain the last of my drink. I’ve had too much, we all have. From across the table, Celeste laughs her braying donkey laugh and her husband stares at her lovingly. Kudos to any man who could love a woman with a laugh like that. I kiss the top of Jules’ head, and when she looks up at me her eyes are swollen with affection. It stings like salt in a wound. Several times tonight she’s whispered her anger in my ear over Woods. She’s a good friend and a good person. I glance at Woods, who is sitting next to Billie’s empty chair. His eyes are trained on something past the table even though someone is saying something to him. I know he’s watching Billie. That infuriates me. I need another drink.

“You okay, Satch?” Woods catches my eye.

He’s taunting me. We were like this as boys, always trying to get underneath each other’s skin. It had always been fun, amusing even. But now, there is a new tension, one that isn’t fun or amusing.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I say it more for Jules’ benefit than Woods’. She’s looking at me with concern and I smile at her reassuringly.

“You look a little distracted,” Woods says.

He’s causing a scene. Everyone at the table is stopping their conversations to look at me.

“How’s Pearl feeling?” I redirect the conversation and Woods suddenly looks guilty.

He hasn’t even bothered to text and check up on his sick fiancée, though I doubt she’s actually sick. If anything, she has a severe case of I hate Billie.