F*ck Marriage(9)

“How are things with you and Woods?” I call.

It’s nosy, I know, but Woods was always a little jealous of Satcher, and with the uneven percentage of Rhubarb divvied among the two, it had to have caused some resentment on Woods’ part. I slip out of my flats and walk the glass over to where he’s moved to sit on one of Jules’ beautiful chairs.

“This isn’t a beer.” He raises the glass to the light, examining its contents.

“No. It’s a lemon drop,” I admit. “I lied about having beer.”

He raises his glass and I tap it with my own before sitting across from him. He takes a sip and makes a face.

“Woods and I are great. He bristled about things at first, but then he realized he liked making money without having to do anything.”

My laughter bursts out like gunshots, and I press the back of my hand to my mouth to stifle it.

“It’s nice to hear you laugh again.”

“Does Pearl laugh?” I ask.

Satcher cracks a smile. “You’re still not over him, huh?”

“I’m totally over him. So completely over him. No one could be more over a guy than I am over Woods.”

“Right.”

“What? Satcher, stop.”

He shrugs like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

“I’m worried about you, Billie,” he says, standing up. “No one should drink shit like this.” He sets his empty glass down on the table and I roll my eyes. There’s a fleck of sugar on his lip from the rim.

“Drank it all, I see,” I smart back.

He heads for the door and I’m thrown by his abrupt need to exit.

“Monday,” he throws over his shoulder. “I’ll let you pick your office.”

“So long as it’s bigger than Pearl’s,” I call after him. “Night, Sasquatch!”

He lifts a hand above his head to tell me that he’s heard me and then the door shuts and he’s gone. I make myself another drink and head over to Jules’ closet. Thank God for Satcher. Always, not just today in my divorced, sad condition. He’s always shown up when I needed someone.





Chapter Six





Why do people date? I asked that question in the blog chat room once, hoping for a deeper answer. The answer that made the most sense to everyone was that, as a whole, we were lonely. Except it never felt that way to me. I was never lonely in the way that other people described, not until Woods. He taught me love, and then inevitably, he taught me loss. When he left, I understood the concept of loneliness as it had been described by so many people. I was ashamed of the feeling: a weightless hollowness. Why couldn’t I move on? Why didn’t I want to shower, or eat, or think about the future anymore? My neediness embarrassed me. It was like a chipped tooth. I felt less because of it. Woods had given me gravity, planted my feet in New York, and my heart planted itself in him—his very existence. I was so young when we got together that my purpose became intertwined with his. They were joint vines that grew together: my marriage and my goals. Two things that had been acquired so early in life it was hard to separate the two.

That’s why I left New York three days after my marriage ended, booking a one-way ticket to Seattle. Now looking back, it was a weak retreat. I’d been beaten, bested by a much younger, much thinner woman. I’d wanted to go back to the saddest place I knew to lick my wounds. Enter the weeping town I’d grown up in—perpetually damp, smelling of earth and salt. My parents, not knowing what to do with my hurt, gave me the keys to the guest house paired with furtive glances that I grew to hate. It’s there that I camped out for the next two years, my behavior becoming rote with all the bitterness I felt. I had put on forty pounds before I lost it, drank vodka for breakfast, and smoked joints naked in the hot tub. Also, I fucked a guy named Keith Gus who cried whenever the Seahawks lost a game. Not my proudest years. It wasn’t until the accident that everything changed. Everything, but mostly me.



The accident: a simple car crash, nothing fancy. It wasn’t my fault (miraculously). The driver of the other car fell asleep at the wheel, and when he swerved into my lane, we collided like two Hot Wheels in toddler hands. He had to be taken out with the jaws of life. The scene was surreal as I watched them load him into the ambulance, shivering and wrapped in the coarse blanket a paramedic had handed me. The flashing reds and blues of the police cars tinted our skin. I’d walked away with a sprained wrist, a scratch to the forehead, and my life. He’d not been so lucky. I stalked him on Facebook after, wanting to know who he’d been before he lost his life to a nap at the wheel. He was twenty-six-year-old Angus Erwin. A mechanic from Port Ludlow. He had a one-year-old son, though he wasn’t married. His people gathered at the site of the accident two weeks later, laying wreaths and letters against a handmade wooden cross. I parked across the street and watched, my windshield wipers lazy on the glass.

They brought candles too, but by then the rain had descended on Washington and the mist had snuffed them out. I sat there for what felt like hours, and after everyone left and the rain subsided, I hopped out of my car, running across the street to Angus’ shrine. With the hood of my sweatshirt pulled over my hair, I pulled my lighter from the pocket of my jeans and lit Angus’ candles one by one. They sputtered out after a few minutes, but I wanted to do something for him.