F*ck Marriage(79)

“Woods…” I sound breathless. I am breathless. “I think,” I say slowly, “that our time has come and gone.”

I don’t know why I say it. Didn’t I come back to New York hoping for this very thing to happen? Wasn’t it my plan to come between him and Pearl? So why do I feel such trepidation?

“No.” He takes a step toward me.

I’m shocked to see his tears, the determination on his face.

“Billie, forgive me. I want to make things right. We belong together.”

I don’t have time to respond. Woods drops to his knees in what I can only interpret as supplication and wraps his arms around my waist, pressing his cheek to my abdomen. I have nowhere to put my hands so I drop them gently to his head.



And that’s how Satcher finds us: me standing in his foyer cradling Woods’ head against my belly, my face slack with shock. He fills up the doorway, his expression moving from surprise to anger. Our eyes meet and I hold them. I hold them not knowing what to say or do … begging him mentally to see the situation for what it is. But no, how could he? He sees what is clearly in front of him: two old flames embracing in an intimate and emotionally charged way. As Woods sobs into my belly, Satcher first rests a hand on the doorframe like he’s trying to hold himself up. He closes his eyes and I’m frozen to the spot, my heart aching, my reason tangling with my emotions. And just as suddenly, he’s gone. He doesn’t bother to look at me again, or close the door to his own home. His absence is startling. It feels permanent.



I don’t see him again for a very long time.





Chapter Thirty-Eight





It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. My eyes are closed and someone is touching my face. Her voice is soothing, and I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep for the last twenty minutes. It’s the day before my wedding and my husband-to-be bought me a spa package. I know I’m supposed to be relaxing, but I’m wound so tight, a few minutes ago she had to tell me to relax and stop clenching my fists.

“So let me get this straight. You came back to steal your ex-husband from the woman he cheated on you with, so you enlist his best friend to pretend to be in a relationship with you. Then you actually fall for each other, only to be thwarted by the woman he used to be in a relationship with who is also your friend.”

“Yes,” I say weakly. “That about sums it up.”

“Dang, girl. That’s messed up.”

“Right,” I say.

“And are you happy?”

“Yes ... I don’t know. I’m confused.”

“I’d say. This might be cold…”

She slathers a thick, muddy substance across my cheeks that smells like grapefruit. She doesn’t speak for several minutes as the cold brush touches my skin again and again, her swipes brisk and experienced. When she’s finished, I hear her get up from her stool and move around the room. I don’t open my eyes; instead, I pretend I didn’t just share with a complete stranger all of my life woes.

“So, tomorrow you’re going to marry your ex-husband. That’s something. You don’t hear a story like that every day.”

“I know,” I say quietly.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but how do you know he won’t cheat on you again?”

Of course her words hit me where I’m sore. Haven’t I thought that a thousand times? Once a cheater, always a cheater ... a leopard never changes its spots...

“I don’t, I guess. He’s done a good job of explaining why it happened, but there’s always that worry in the back of your mind.”

I have to bite my lip to keep from crying. She works in silence for a while, and I’m grateful for the chance to pull myself together. When she’s finished with her treatment, she touches me lightly on the shoulder to let me know she’s done.

“I’m all finished. I hope everything works out for you, Billie.”

Such simple words, but they sink deep. Me too, me too.



Since the facial was the last treatment of the day, I dress and head to the front desk where the receptionist grins sleepy-eyed while she checks me out. Tomorrow I will marry the man I’ve loved since I was a girl in college. And sure, we’ve devastated each other, tossed our lives around like a salad, and dragged other less than innocent people into our mess. But, we’re older now, wiser ... more ready for the commitment ahead of us. I sign my receipt and slip my credit card back in my bag.

“Don’t forget the ice,” she says.

My head, which was bent over my purse, snaps up. She’s not looking at me. I swipe my hair behind my ear and look at her cautiously, my heart pounding.

“What did you say?”

She looks surprised to still see me standing there.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking to you…” She jabs her finger toward the door where a girl in scrubs and a heavy jacket is exiting the salon. “Christmas party tonight. She has to get the ice.”

“Oh.” I sound dumb even to my own ears. “Happy holidays,” I say meekly.



I’m in my car heading back to my apartment when I notice that my shirt is on inside out. I burst into tears without really knowing why. I’m not crying because of the shirt; it’s a barely obvious faux pas. I’m crying because ... why? Because the last eleven months have been something like a summer snowstorm. Because I let everything happen as if I were a mere observer of my life instead of an active participant. There has been a lot of scrambling, outbursts of emotion, and tears—bucketfuls of tears. I flew home to Washington right after Woods made his confession. Another example of me fleeing when I’m scared. God, I’m like the fucking cowardly lion.