F*ck Marriage(66)

“Because I’m annoyed with you, Satcher ... because you’re ... annoying.”

“Have you ever thought there’s a reason you find me so annoying?” I lean my forearms on the counter in front of her and she does good work avoiding eye contact. I watch as she toys with some stray granules of sugar on the counter, picking them up with the pad of her finger and then rolling them around.

“All of a sudden?” She rolls her eyes. “And no. Some people just are annoying.”

“Is that right?” I straighten up, propping my hands on my hips as I stare at her. “You’ve never complained before…”

“What are you saying?”

I can’t keep the grin off of my lips and she’s avoiding looking at me because of it. I want to tell her that I know her so well. That when she likes something she pretends she doesn’t just to test her own self-control. That the fact that I’ve just made her the world’s greatest lemon drop makes her angry because she’s looking for reasons to be mad at me.

“I don’t want to put words in your mouth, Billie, but I once heard you say that you’re turned on by men who can mix a great drink.”

“I was drunk when I said that. I didn’t mean it. And stop using my own words against me.”

She slides off the barstool, testing her ankle cautiously on the ground before taking a step. She’s halfway to the living room when she swivels back around, having forgotten her glass.

“Just because I don’t want to waste,” she says, hobbling back over. “Men who have girlfriends shouldn’t make other women drinks.”

I laugh louder than I intended. “I didn’t know that was a thing,” I say. “You’re so spiteful on pain meds.”



Her mood only gets worse when I make dinner. By the time I’m clearing the dishes away she’s despondent and glaring at everything but me. I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but I am.

“Go to bed,” I say.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snaps. “I’m an adult.”

I raise my eyebrows as I finish emptying the dishwasher. “Well, it was a suggestion, but if you’d rather stay up all night, be my guest.” I slam the dishwasher shut and head to the living room, but she calls me back.

“Satcher!”

“What?”

She shakes her empty glass at me.

“No more,” I tell her. “That was a treat. You’re on too many pain meds.”

“Ugh!” She storms off to the bedroom and slams the door. An adult temper tantrum.

I smile, remembering the perils of growing up with six sisters, the constant yelling and slamming of doors. The more ridiculous she is, the more I’m endeared. The realization makes me shifty ... uncomfortable.

Two hours later, I am sitting with my legs propped on the ottoman getting ready to start a movie when I hear the bedroom door open. She appears in the doorway and I keep my eyes averted to the TV. My chest is bare since I was anticipating bed—the only thing I’m wearing are the flannel Christmas pajama bottoms my mother faithfully sends every year. Without looking up, I pat the seat next to me. She only hesitates for a moment before coming over. I’m surprised when she curls next to me, more surprised when she places her head in my lap. When she starts to cry, my hands automatically find her hair, her face, her back. I stroke and rub as she weeps and weeps.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally. Her voice is tear-clogged. “For being an ass.”

I don’t say anything. I rub her back as Will Ferrell pours syrup over his spaghetti.

“Satcher,” she says.

“Yeah…”

“You’re a really good man. Thank you.”

I get up to make her another lemon drop.





Chapter Thirty-Three





The next morning I find Billie already sitting at the island, staring into a cup of coffee. It’s three days until Christmas and I want to propose an outing that could potentially cheer her up.

“Will you let me put a smile on your face today?” I ask, stepping around her to the coffee pot.

She looks up slowly and I see her eyes are still puffy from last night. It only adds to her beauty unfortunately, and I look away to avoid obvious staring.

“Satcher…”

“Don’t,” I say, holding up a hand. “Whatever excuse you’re going to shoot at me, just let it go, and let me put a smile on your face today.”

Her face contorts as she struggles with her answer. I hold my breath—that’s a thing—I actually hold my breath waiting for her answer.

“But, there’s something you should know—”

“I don’t want to know anything. I just want to do Christmas shit and see you smile.”

“That’s so cheesy.” She sighs.

“Good idea. We should do fondue for dinner. I know a place…”

“Satcher!”

“Shut up,” I say. “Get ready.”

For whatever reason, she obeys, shuffling off to my bedroom to get ready. When she emerges twenty minutes later, she’s wearing a floor-length black dress that’s long enough to cover the boot on her left foot. She has her leather jacket thrown over one arm, and in the other, she’s holding a scarf and hat. To hide the bruises around her eyes, she’s put on dark smoky makeup and bright red lipstick.