F*ck Marriage(65)

“Hello, Denise,” I say dryly.

“I saw my son in the lobby,” she offers. “He was fuming.”

“Yeah?” My voice is bored.

“I wonder,” she walks over to Billie’s bedside and frowns down at her, “if he’s mad at you or himself?”

I don’t answer. This is how Denise communicates, with observations and statements. You are meant to deduct your own meaning and comment if you feel up to it; otherwise, she just keeps going.

She reaches out a hand to smooth Billie’s hair, and suddenly, I wish someone would touch me, tell me everything's going to be all right.

“Woods is a lot like his father. He always comes back to his truth.”

I want to tell her that she’s giving Woods way too much credit … he has no idea what his truth is.

“A person can’t be your truth,” I say.

Denise looks at me in surprise. I don’t know if she’s feigning it or if she's genuinely surprised by my statement. “Can’t they?”

I falter and then say, “No,” firmly.

She purses her lips nodding slowly. “So Billie isn’t your truth?”

It feels like I just stuck my finger into a light socket; a current of electricity surges through my body.

“She isn’t the one you’ve been holding everyone else against?”

I say nothing. How does she know that? Woods’ mother is a witch.

“Our truth is something we know about ourselves without a doubt. It’s woven into our DNA.”

“Loving someone can’t be in your DNA,” I say.

“Really? Then why can’t you get it out? Get Billie out?”

I’m breathing hard now. If she comes close, she’ll be able to see my nostrils flaring with the effort it’s taking to keep my emotions under wrap.

“You’ve dated everyone under the sun, and you keep coming back to Billie. Am I right?”

I don’t answer.

“She’s there now. All the time. Part of who you are. What you hold love against.”

I don’t understand why she’s saying all of this until she makes her next statement.

“That’s who Woods is to Billie. And who Billie is to Woods.”

Everything in me goes cold and stiff. I feel like I’ve just turned to wood, and not in the good way.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say to Denise. “I’m going to head home for a few hours if you’ll be with her.”

She waves me away, her eyes already on Billie. I can’t get out of there fast enough.





Chapter Thirty-Two





“Satcher…” Billie’s arm is frozen midair, her fingers still clutching her phone when she looks at me. She’s just hung up with Jules and I’m assuming Jules has told her.

“Satcher,” she says again, and this time her tone edges on impatience, “you broke up with Jules five days before Christmas ... over the phone?”

“Yes.”

She slams her phone down on the table and hobbles over. The bruises on her face have mostly faded; the color painting the underside of her eyes is a dull yellow. I watch the anger dance in her eyes as she glares up at me like a defiant child.

“What the hell were you thinking, you insensitive prick? You can’t just treat people like that!” She’s tossing things around, lifting jackets and the stack of paper bags I set aside for recycling. I want to ask her what she’s looking for, but I’m too amused watching her. Finally, she finds it, a box wrapped with candy cane paper. The smile drops from my face as I watch Billie frown down at it. Jules had left the present before I set up the tree and made me promise to wait until she got back to open it. She said it was our present together. I’d meant to put it under the tree, but then I got preoccupied with Billie staying with me and forgot about it.

“What are you doing?”

Billie is rolling the package around in her hands thoughtfully.

“Nothing. Jules just wanted me to retrieve this for her.”

“Retrieve? Did Jules say the word retrieve?”

“Yes,” Billie says without looking up.

So I am a transaction now. Jules has reverted to business speak, her way of being cold. The knife slices through the lemon skin, spraying a mist of vinegar. I can feel Billie’s eyes on me again, hot and angry.

“What, Billie? Spit it out.”

“I don’t know if I want to,” she says. “This is awkward and I’m in the middle of two friends...”

“Drink.”

“What?” Her eyes are glazed over as she stares at me in confusion.

“I made you a drink.”

Her face contorts like she’s not sure she wants to take my drink. In the end, she reaches out to grasp the stem looking disgusted with herself. Billie can’t say no to alcohol. It’s her vice.

“Only because it’s a lemon drop,” she says.

She takes a sip and I can tell she’s half expecting it to be disappointing because her face is surprised after her first swallow. I raise my eyebrows in question and she blinks in annoyance.

“What? It’s good, okay?”

“You’re so angry about it,” I say, turning away to hide my smile.