F*ck Marriage(76)

“Sorry,” I said, shamefaced. “Hold on…”

She waited patiently, her arms still holding her hair up, her neck exposed. Spread out in front of her was the whole city we loved, and I had the urge to tilt my head down and kiss the graceful slant of her neck. But she wasn’t my bride.

I struggled with the hair for what seemed like five minutes, but it wouldn’t unsnag from what it was caught on.

“Are you happy?” It was a spontaneous question that should’ve received a fairly typical answer. I realized too late that I didn’t want to hear her answer, and that with the current state of my heart, it was a stupid thing to ask.

When she said, “I don’t know,” in that smoky voice of hers, my hand stilled.

“Well, you will be,” I said it with confidence because I believed she would be.

She sighed deeply. “And if I’m not?”

One last tug and to my dismay, the top button of her dress popped off and bounced off the concrete floor. I bent to retrieve it as Billie turned around to see what happened.

“I’m sorry.”

She laughed at the dismayed look on my face. “It’s just a button.”

“Okay,” I said, still holding it, still staring down at it in horror.

“And if I’m not?” she asked again.

I glanced up at her face and saw that she was serious. There was apprehension in her eyes, maybe the wedding jitters. Her brow was furrowed and in that moment I knew she needed something from me—not what I wanted to give her—but something.

“Then give me this button and I’ll come rescue you.” I placed it in her now open palm, closing her fingers over it. Her face swam in front of me. I was so drunk, so drunk and so hurt. She’d smiled and it had reached all the way to her eyes.

“I believe you,” she said.

And then the door opened, and the noise of the party reached between us, breaking the spell. I watched her run back inside, almost in slow motion, one of her bridesmaids holding the door open for her.



“Billie…” I say. My words get stuck.

How could I forget that?

She remembered. She remembered.



“Let’s go upstairs,” she says.





Part III





Chapter Thirty-Six





Billie

The rain hasn’t let up and the bar at Summertime Sunday is closing. The Christmas party ended hours ago, the last of the employees floating out of the door shortly after. Woods and I have been sitting in a booth near the window for the last three hours. Through the rain-dotted windows, the city is a blur of neon signs and brake lights. His suit jacket is slung around my shoulders and my feet rest in his lap. Every few minutes he’ll be saying something to me and his hands will start rubbing my arches. Several times I’ve thought to stop him, but the sentiment is so familiar I don’t have the mental strength.

“I read it again, you know?”

“What?” I’m distracted. His hands are so warm.

“Your blog post.”

“Really?” I perk up. I’d sit up straighter if it didn’t mean pulling my feet out of his lap.

“Yes. You asked me to.”

“What does that mean? Since when do you do things I ask you to do?”

“You don’t always have to be so hard on me, you know.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he says this.

He’s teasing me. I like it. I tighten my lips and pretend I’m put out.

“You were right. I saw that once I took a step back and read it with my own eyes.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“I—I knew I hurt you. That’s not exactly rocket science. But reading the details…”

This is it. I’ve wanted Woods to read that post—in a way, I’d written it to him. I don’t have the courage to ask him what I really want to know, so I settle for this.

“Don’t you need to get home?” I ask him.

Woods glances at his watch. “No. It’s still early.”

“Woods…”

“Stop it, Billie. Stop overthinking everything.”

Am I guilty of that? Overthinking? No more than Woods is guilty of underthinking. I smirk at the defiant look on his face ... the wrinkles on his forehead that didn’t used to be there. He used to get that look with me and it infuriated me. Now Pearl is the target of his defiance and I don’t mind. Not at all.

“Should we get out of here?”

His suggestion doesn’t surprise me. It surprises me when I stand up and follow him out. It surprises me when we walk hand in hand through the rain toward Jules’ apartment. It surprises me when I invite him in.



I tell Satcher that Woods and I slept together. I don’t know why, I think it’s the suspicious way he looks at me … or maybe because of my weak moment in giving him the button. The lie uncurls from my tongue in a moment of recklessness, and I’m not sure who’s more shocked by my confession: me or Satcher. The worst part is I’m not even ashamed. I do it for the coldness that filters into his eyes. I know he’s struggling with his feelings for Jules, the lingering effects of what we had together still clouding his thinking. Jules confided her suspicions about being pregnant a week before the Christmas party. Two nights before we all met at the restaurant she took a test and came into my room to show me the results.