F*ck Marriage(67)

“Wow, you look like college Billie,” I say.

She grins. “Emo Billie then?”

I fist bump her in response and suddenly, I feel scruffy and underdressed.

“Ten minutes,” I say. “I have to go change.”

She settles on a stool at the island in the kitchen, propping her good foot on the stiles of the stool and planting her boot flat on the floor. My bedroom smells like Billie: her perfume, her skin, her lotions. I step over her duffel bag, which is lying next to my closet doors, clothes piling out of it like spilled organs. I text my doorman instructions and make quick work of changing and putting on cologne, and we’re out the door in under ten minutes. I managed to smuggle my heated blanket under my coat, and when we emerge on the street in front of my building, I slip Fred a twenty and take Billie’s arm to steer her across the icy sidewalk.

“I’m regretting this already.” She frowns. “It’s cold. Why are we even leaving your nice warm apartment?”

“Because you’re turning witchy. You need fresh air and Christmas cheer.”

“Fuck that,” she says. “I need a drink.”

“And a drink you shall have,” I say, leading her to the curb where our ride is waiting.

Billie looks past it at first, no doubt searching for a cab. When I step up to the horse-drawn carriage, her laugh rings out, making me warm all over.

“No. Seriously? Are you for real?”

She’s pulling off her gloves to fondle the horse’s nose. He charmingly dips his head, licorice-colored lips searching her palm for a treat. The driver (who introduces himself as Phil) gives her a sugar cube and she feeds it to the horse, giggling when he nips her palm searching for more.

“What’s his name?” I hear her ask. “Oh my God, Peppermint? Are you for real?” she says to the driver. “His name is Peppermint!” she calls out to me.

Once I’ve helped her into the carriage, I climb in after her and spread the heated blanket around us. The driver shows us where we can find more blankets and hands us a thermos and two cups of hot buttered rum.

“Oh my God, oh my God!” Billie wriggles in her seat like a little girl, eyes lit up in excitement. “Where are we going? Will he take us to see Rockefeller Center?”

“He’ll take us wherever we want,” I say.

“No shit.” Her eyes are large and excited. “I’m going to get so drunk! This is great!”

The carriage lurches forward. I blink rapidly when Billie finds my hand under the blankets and squeezes softly, her tiny little fingers tangling with mine.

“Thank you. I forgot what excitement feels like.” Her eyes are misty when I look at her.

For the next fifteen minutes, Peppermint trots confidently forward while we sip our hot buttered rum and stare at the magic of the city under her Christmas spell. When we pull up to the first pub, Billie’s tossing off her blankets and hiking up her dress so our driver can help her down.

“You have twenty minutes at each place,” he says, winking at me. “Enough for a quick nip and some kissing.” He has a heavy Irish brogue and even heavier white eyebrows that are collecting snow even as he wags them at me.

“It’s snowing,” Billie calls from the doorway of the pub.

I run to catch up to her and we push inside the warm interior of The Dog and the Drink, the smell of stale beer and wood polish replacing the city smells. I watch Billie’s face lit by the lights from the bar and her enjoyment. My father always said that there was nothing more beautiful than my mother’s face when she was excited. He was the type of man who, for my entire childhood, went out of his way to get a favorable reaction from his wife, his newest stunt always outdoing his last. Over the years, I’ve watched him build her a greenhouse, a gazebo, a fire pit with swings around it, a koi pond, and finally, an art studio when she said the spare bedroom didn’t have the right light or enough space.

Seeing Billie’s face transform over a carriage ride and some beer does something nostalgic and important to my heart. I understand my father in a way I never have before, always discrediting romance as a ploy rather than something pure from the heart. And yet here I am—many women would call me a dick, a prick, a philanderer—baking up ways to make my best friend’s ex-wife swoon. Pathetic.

We order two pints and stand at the bar drinking our beer out of old-fashioned steins, listening to the eighties music playing over the speakers. When our time is up, we make our way back to Peppermint. Phil is smoking with his back leaning against the horse, watching the front of the pub. Billie asks if she can hold his cigarette. He pulls out his pack to give her one, but she shakes her head.

“I just need to hold it,” she says.

He hands it over and she closes her eyes as the smoke wafts toward her face. Phil and I exchange a look, but then she’s handing it back and holding out her arm for help into the carriage.

“Where to next?” she asks, pulling the blankets to her chin. “Do you think Phil washes these?” she whispers.

“I do not,” I reply, giving her warning eyes.

She pulls my blanket up around us and then lays Phil’s questionable ones over the top of it so they’re not touching us. Under the blankets, her hand reaches for mine.

“Is that your cigarette hand?” I tease.

“Shut up.” She smiles. “I miss it, you know? I just want to pretend sometimes.”