F*ck Marriage(75)

When I pull into the parking garage underneath my building, Billie is slumped in the passenger seat, asleep, her full lips pursed like she’s asking for a kiss. I watch her for a minute, her breathing steady, her eyelids still. I’ve never been in love, not until her, and I never want to be again—it hurts. Love hurts in the way a toothache hurts: you can’t ignore it, and it’s always there throbbing and aching, reminding you ... of what? I think desperately. What is it reminding you of?

That you’re human. That you have weakness. That your weakness is another person.

Goddammit. I run my hands over my eyes, my cheeks, my chin. This is bad. This is very bad. My ex-girlfriend is having my baby, and I’m in love with a woman who isn’t available. Life has many flaws, but the most prominent of them is the unpredictability. Plot twist! I think as I reach over to wake Billie up. I touch her hand, running my fingers over the puckered skin of her knuckles and saying her name. She breathes deeply and opens her eyes, focusing on me.

“We’re home,” I say.

She smiles faintly, stretching.

“Home,” she says softly. “Where is that anyway?”

“The place that makes you feel peace,” I answer.

She stares at me through her lashes, looking momentarily confused, her body angled toward me, palms pressed between her knees for warmth. She seems to be considering what I said because the next minute she reaches for me. Her movement is slow, like she’s underwater. I watch as her hand floats toward me; it hooks around the back of my neck, the warmth of her touch sparking a rush of gooseflesh across my arms.

“Satcher…” she says.

It sounds like she’s asking me a question, so I answer her. I reach out to grab her behind the head, pulling her toward me. With my fingers gripping her hair, we kiss. Our ragged breathing is amplified in the stillness of the car, the almost empty parking garage an even wider emptiness beyond that. It feels like we’re floating in our own world. Without the car on, the cold seeps in and soon the only warmth is coming from our bodies. It makes us hungrier for touch. Billie is halfway across her seat and into mine. Her hands are inside my shirt, held against my skin like she’s trying to warm herself as our lips move slowly together.

“You feel so good,” I say into her hair. My hands are under her sweater, on her breasts, which are hot to the touch.

“It’s just because it’s so cold.” She buries her face against my chest so that her voice is muffled. I cup her head with my free hand, not relinquishing my hold on her breast, and dip down to kiss her crown.

“Billie,” I say, and I swear I can see my breath. “Everything about you feels good: your body, your mind, your company. The cold is convenient, but it has nothing to do with you and how you make me feel.”

She sits very still even though I know she must be uncomfortable stretched halfway across the armrest. I think of something then, and letting go of her head, I reach into my pocket awkwardly, pulling the tiny white button she gave me that night we were at Summertime Sunday. I hold it toward her in the center of my palm.

“What’s—” Her face registers recognition. “Oh…” Her voice is quiet, dropping to a whisper. “You still don’t remember,” she says.

She sounds disappointed which makes me feel guilty.

“You were drunk ... I guess I just thought…” She trails off and stares out of the passenger side window.

I’m losing her. I grab her chin and pivot her face back toward me, looking her in the eye.

“Remind me,” I say.

It’s so cold. We should probably head up to the apartment, but I’m afraid if we leave the car the spell will be broken.

“It was at the wedding—Woods and mine. Halfway through the reception I snuck out to the balcony to take a breather, just to get away from everyone for five minutes and collect my thoughts, you know?”

I nod, urging her to continue.

“You were already out there—” she says.

And then I remember, faintly. I was drunk, Billie was right. I’d gone outside to do something similar while the DJ’s music pounded rhythmically from inside. I’d been staring out over the city, a city that I saw every day but never tired of. That was the way Billie and I were the same—we both loved New York.

I heard the door open, the blast of music from inside, and then it was abruptly cut off as the door closed again. I knew it was her before I turned around. I’ve always known when she’s in a room, I can feel her. Setting my drink down on the ledge overlooking the west side of the city, I’d turned around. Her white dress was framed against the dark backdrop of the doors that led inside. Led to everyone who wasn’t us. She walked toward me without a word and leaned her elbows on the railing, her eyes trailing the lights of the city.

“I want this to be over already,” she said.

When I looked at her, the space around her head wobbled like the air was moving. Too much to drink. I rubbed my eyes. I thought about telling her the truth right then and there, that I shared her sentiment and couldn’t wait for the night to be over. That my heart was throbbing in my chest like someone had squeezed it until it was tender. Before I could say anything, she’d turned to me.

“My hair is stuck.”

“What?”

She turned so that her back was to me and lifted her hair off her neck. In my haze of alcohol and self-pity I saw a strand of brown snagged onto her dress. I reached out, tugging on the hair, and Billie yelped.