F*ck Marriage(85)

Jennifer Gable answers on the first ring, and her tone is cheerful but businesslike.

“Gable residence.”

There’s a long pause after I say my name.

“How can I help you, Billie?” she asks.

“I—I was supposed to get married today,” I tell her.

To which she responds, “I know.”

“Well, I didn’t. And I’m in love with your son. And he left for the airport this morning. And I was hoping you’d tell me where he went.”

There’s another long pause and then she sighs.

“He’s hurting a whole lot, Billie. As his mother, I want to tell you to stay away from him…”

I hang my head in shame.

“I understand,” I say. And then I add, “I also don’t blame you.”

“Hold on a minute, Bille, my husband wants to talk to you.” I hear the phone exchange hands and then Mr. Gable’s gruff voice comes on the line.

I’m preparing for the worst, a real tongue-lashing, when he says— “He went to Tulum. I told him to barge in on the wedding and object, but you know what a gentleman Satcher is.”

“Yeah,” I say weakly. “I do.”

“You better hurry. If I were him I’d be hitting up the strip clubs and whores…”

I hear Jennifer’s sharp rebuke and then Mr. Gable yelps. “I’m in trouble now, Billie. I guess I shouldn’t tell her that I gave him money for a decent whore … OUCH!”

Jennifer’s voice comes back on the line as she confiscates the phone from her husband.

“Billie,” she says. “Don’t go after him unless you mean it.”

“Mrs. Gable…”

“Yes.”

“I mean it.”

“Okay. You better hurry. He’s going to be very drunk in a few hours.”

She gives me the rest of the information I’ll need to find him and I hang up after a tearful thank you. Then I book a flight to Mexico. I don’t have time to change, or to pack. If I want to make the flight I have to leave now.





Chapter Forty-One





Satcher

Mexico has run out of sun but thankfully still has an abundance of tequila. The thunderstorms, which the weather channel says will continue throughout the week, match my mood. I drop my bags at the rental and head out to find liquor. On my way out, I drop the button baby Billie gave me in a grate closest to the street and twist off the cap to an airline bottle of vodka. I tip it over the garishly colored Christmas present and then light a match, dropping it ceremoniously. I watch it burn through narrowed eyes, the plastic popping and melting underneath the flames.

I don’t want to think about Billie, but she married Woods and the pain is hard to avoid. My heart has been sick for eleven years. I don’t remember what it’s like not to love her. I’d rather have physical pain than this aching of the heart.

By the time the flames have died there is a rainbow of melted plastic covering the grate like melted crayons.

“Fuck you,” I tell it.

I step over the grate where the button baby lies face up, charred but still colorful enough to mock me. In minutes, the rain has soaked through my T-shirt. I find a mini mart and fill a basket with the essentials, stopping on my way out to buy tamales from a taqueria. When I get back to the house I change my shirt and unpack my purchases. I’m about to make myself lunch when there’s a knock on the door.

When I open the door, Billie is standing on the threshold. Her hair is dripping water onto her shoulders and her arms are wrapped protectively around her waist. I blink in shock, wondering how a fourth of whiskey got me drunk enough to imagine my heartbreaker on my doorstep. Upon closer look, I see the dark that rings her eyes, and how her bottom lip, fuller than the top, is chapped. This is no fantasy Billie. She looks anxious—one fist clenched against her stomach, her eyes blinking rapidly, the way they do when her mind is going a mile a minute. A quick glance shows a discarded duffel bag lying on the path behind her where she dropped it to knock. We stare at each other for an awkward minute before I finally speak.

“You’re supposed to be on your honeymoon.”

“Yeah,” she says with a shrug.

The shrug could be seen as dismissive, but I notice the way her shoulders curve toward me. She’s in pain.

“So why are you here?”

Her little chin juts out. I’ve seen her do that a million times and it never gets old.

“I called off my wedding,” her voice trembles, “because I’m in love with you. I’ve felt this way for a long time, I just never wanted to admit it. So if you love me, let me in. Otherwise, just slam this door in my face and I’ll be on my way—” Her voice drops off, leaving room for the possibility. I consider the slam, I do. A man can only take so much. But she looks so devastated standing there in the rain, dripping on my doormat, that I don’t slam the door.

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest and narrowing my eyes at her. She squirms and I enjoy it in the way a burned man enjoys such things.

“So let me get this straight. If I love you, I let you in, and if I don’t love you, I slam the door in your face and I never have to see you again?”

She nods.