F*ck Marriage(81)

Don’t forget the ice.



Woods brought home a puppy after three months of us being officially back together. He’s a Saint Bernard and already the size of a small suitcase. I balked when I saw him, which made Woods upset.

“We talked about this,” he’d said. “I thought you were ready—”

“I was ready for a ... Chihuahua,” I said, stroking the puppy’s silky head. “Not a dog giant. We live in an apartment in the city.”

“I was walking past a pet shop.” Woods looked pained, like he desperately needed my approval. “He looked so sad in his cage,” he finished.

Typical Woods. He liked sad women and sad animals. I’d summed it up to a savior complex. I didn’t mention the fact that this apartment was going to feel like a cage when the puppy was full-grown. I’d been out of work since I left Rhubarb, and despite my hesitation about being a pet owner, I currently had all the time in the world to adjust to it.

“Okay,” I said. “What are we naming him?” He was already growing on me because he did indeed have sad eyes.

Woods looked relieved as he sat down next to me on the couch.

“Percy,” he said.

I picked Percy up and stared into his eyes.

“I’m sorry in advance for being a terrible dog owner, Percy.” He whined and licked my face and I was instantly in love.

Percy, as it turned out, was a one-person dog. I was the chosen one and he rarely left my side, skidding around corners to keep up with me, and sleeping on my feet while I cooked. It was hard not to laugh at the wounded looks Woods gave the dog, like he’d been betrayed in the worst way. Woods whined about it too: “I’m the one who wanted a dog. I’m the one who saved him. And all he does is follow you around.”

Three months into our dog ownership, Woods suggested getting another dog. His excuse was that Percy needed company, but I knew that his real reason was his need for favoritism. I spiraled into one of the worst depressions I’d ever experienced. Woods was temporarily silenced by my very poignant emotional plummet. This was who Woods was—it wasn’t even his fault. People were capable of changing small things in their behavior: being neat, eating healthier, and controlling their tempers. But there were core things like Woods’ propensity to look elsewhere for attention. That was not a behavior, but rather an innate flaw that led to the demise of our marriage. It was a much larger issue than remembering to put socks in the hamper, and it put my heart at risk. When I finally emerged from a three-week darkness, Woods proposed to me. Again.

He took me to the Bahamas, a vacation he said I desperately needed. We drank, we ate, we swam until our fingers wrinkled like raisins and our skin tanned dark. I felt ... better. And then one night after dinner, he got down on his knee in the restaurant and presented me with a blue box. Everyone was looking, everyone was cheering when I felt obligated to say yes. That night when Woods snored softly beside me I mentally berated myself for being too concerned with what people thought to voice my fear. Fear of marrying someone again after they hurt me so deeply, fear of never being enough to keep Woods tethered to our relationship, fear that I was trying to save something that died a long time ago.

You wanted this, I remind myself. You came back for this. And then we got back to New York and everyone was so happy that we worked it out. They’d always thought we belonged together, they said. And so I was swept into this belonging, because I was convinced of it myself not that long ago. The wedding date was set. I got what I wanted.





Chapter Thirty-Nine





I’m locking up the apartment when a delivery guy steps out of the elevator. He has his tongue curled around his upper lip, and his head is bent as he studies the address on an envelope.

“Oh shit,” he says when he almost runs into me. “Sorry.”

He has one bud still in his ear, while the other is draped across his shoulder. I can hear the music playing faintly as his head moves up and down to the beat. He glances at the door behind me and then back at the envelope.

“Billie Tarrow?” he asks.

“That’s me.”

He hands me the envelope. “Sign here and here,” he says, indicating the lines.

I’m about to ask for a pen when he buffers one at me.

“Thanks.” I scribble my signature on the lines, and he rips off the receipt before handing it back to me.

“Nice day,” he mumbles.

I lift my hand in a goodbye even though his back is to me.

I glance at the return address. It’s an attorney’s office; I don’t recognize the name. My phone rings. It’s Woods. I’m late. I stick the envelope in my bag and run for the stairs so I won’t have to wait for the elevator.



I’m rifling around in my bag looking for the tiny box I packed with my earrings when my fingers touch the envelope. I’d forgotten about it. I hesitate, eyeing the return address. I don’t really have time, but what if it’s something important?

I rip it open, tenting the cardboard. Inside is a smaller brown envelope. There’s a bright pink sticky note stuck to the front of it, Satcher’s bold handwriting filling most of the tiny square. I blink hard, a sudden whirlwind in my chest. There is pain, and nostalgia, and regret ... so much regret. My eyes blur as I read. Even his handwriting is beautiful. How can handwriting make you miss someone this much?