F*ck Marriage

by Fisher, Tarryn

  “I can’t,” I say after a long pause.

  To my delight his face falls. I stare in wonder: at his face and my effect on it. When you’ve been hurt as deeply as I have, it’s the small triumphs that soothe the wound. When Woods told me he was leaving me I’d been hysterical—first bursting into tears, and then begging him to change his mind. His face had remained impassive throughout my tantrum. I’d thought that he’d been trying to hold it together, that he was equally as distraught about our failed marriage as I was, but when he moved in with Pearl the following day I realized his face had been a reflection of what he felt for me at the time: nothing.

  I lift my bag to my shoulder, but he looks so distraught that I feel as if I need to give him something.

  “Wendy,” I say. “I go by Wendy now.”

  His face lights up. He’s as much delighted as he is surprised. “You hate your middle name.”

  I shrug. “Not as much as I hate Billie Tarrow and everything she was,” I say.

  “Okay, Wendy,” he says carefully. “See you.”

  “See you,” I echo back.

  I turn with purpose for the door and walk out, making sure I don’t look back. On the sidewalk outside of the bar, a jogger nearly runs me over. I take my first deep breath of the night, the fumes of the city hitting the back of my throat. That went better than expected. At least I hadn’t cried. No, I think. Of course you didn’t cry, you’re not a crier anymore. I think of Pearl—wherever she is—the phone pressed to her ear as she dialed Woods. There once was a time when I’d been phoning Woods and he’d been with her. How the tables have turned. Pearl stole a married man, and now I am going to make sure their marriage never happens. Woods is mine.

  Chapter Five

  “Billie!” I hear my name being called from somewhere behind me. I stop, scanning the crowd. There are throngs of people everywhere. I forgot how crowded the city is in the summer. It may not be me they were calling—Billie is a fairly common male name, especially in a huge city like New York. I feel silly for even stopping. Turning back around, I hear it again, and this time there’s something about the tone that lets me know it’s for me. It’s through the middle of a cluster of teenage girls that a familiar face emerges: wide shoulders, hair pitch dark, and two dimples emerging from scruffy cheeks. My face immediately breaks into a smile.

  “Satcher,” I say.

  He’s slightly winded when he reaches me and I see that he’s wearing running gear.

  “I was on my run when I saw you two blocks up, had to sprint to catch up with you.”

  “My, my,” I say, not even trying to suppress my grin. “I must be the first girl you’ve had to actually chase since middle school.”

  Satcher’s grin is contagious as he embraces me. I notice that he doesn’t even smell like sweat after a run in ninety-degree weather. I fan myself self-consciously when he lets me go.

  “Did I get you wet?” he asks.

  “Wha-what?” I clamp my thighs together.

  “I’m sweaty.” One corner of his mouth turns up in a loaded grin.

  “I’m not wet,” I say loudly.

  Satcher laughs. “You’re making me feel like a failure here, Billie.”

  “Oh God…”

  “Wanna grab a beer? A really, really cold beer?”

  I glance at him, flustered. I need something to cool me off, and it’s not just the heat that has me sweating at this point. I hold up the small bag of groceries.

  “We can drop it off on the way,” he says, taking the bag from me. “How far are you from here?”

  “Just a block.”

  He nods and we fall into step. I notice how many women stop what they’re doing to glance at him. Their eyes are furtive, unsure of what they’re seeing. Satcher has always garnered this type of female attention. He’s not oblivious to it, but he doesn’t seem to overly care about it either. One, because he’s beautiful, but more so (and this is all personal opinion) it’s his presence. I’m not into hippie mumbo jumbo despite inhabiting the Pacific Northwest for half my life, but if I believed in auras, I’d say Satcher has a really catching one: possibly made from moonlight, and champagne, and money—all things that make a woman feel warm, and fuzzy, and romantic.

  “Woods mentioned you were back.”

  “What else did he mention?” I ask, casting him a sideways glance.

  “That you look great.”

  “Really?” I inwardly berate myself for the way I perk up.

  “Yes. Yes, though now that I’m seeing you myself, that was an understatement.”

  I feel the heat creep into my cheeks.

  “Stop flirting with me, Satcher. I’ve blushed three times in the last five minutes.”

  “Look at that,” he says. “I’ve made you wet and made you blush. Maybe I still have it.”

  I stop dead in my tracks to stare at him, and he laughs. When we start moving again I swat at him playfully and he dances away from me.

  “Woods said you rented out the loft.”

  “Yup.” I look at my feet.

  “And that you need a job.”

  “Ugh. First of all, I don’t need a job,” I tell him. I pull to a stop in front of my building. “And furthermore, who the hell does he—”

  “—He didn’t really say that.”

  I stare at Satcher, who’s grinning.

  “I was hoping you’d need a job, and then I could talk you into coming back to Rhubarb.”

  I turn toward the door so he can’t see my face. “Satcher, are you hearing what you’re saying? You want me to come back to Rhubarb with both Woods and Pearl there?”

  “Yes, why not? They’re professionals. They can keep their feelings in check for the greater good of the blog.”

  I whip around, my keycard in the swiper. “Are you kidding me? They couldn’t keep their feelings in check when they started fucking behind my back.”

  We step into the foyer of my building.

  “Billie, I’m not going to lie to you. When you left, the blog took a blow. It’s taken two years to build back our readership.”

  “So why do you need me? Sounds like you have things under control.” I step through the door and Satcher follows behind me, holding my bag of groceries.

  Satcher makes a face. “I’m an investor. I didn’t buy the blog to work there for the rest of my life.”

  “So what? You want to hire me to run the blog for you?” I stop in front of the wall of mailboxes, resisting the urge to cross my arms over my chest.

  “Exactly.”

  “And Pearl?”

  “You’d be her boss.”

  I study his face. “Woods won’t let that happen. They’re engaged. He’s part owner…”

  Satcher is already shaking his head. “I’m sixty percent shareholder, Billie. Woods only retains forty percent of Rhubarb.”

  My mouth drops open. “You’re kidding.” I had no idea Woods sold out most of his percentage, but then I guess I never asked. I was too intent on hightailing it out of town so I could go lick my wounds.

  “Why did he sell?” I ask. This is none of my business, and normally I keep my nose out of things that have nothing to do with me. But this was my company, the one I started, the one I felt forced to walk away from.

  Satcher grins. It’s the sort of wicked grin that says he has information I’ll enjoy.

  “Pearl wanted to buy a place in the Upper East Side. She was in competition with your loft, I think. I once heard them arguing about why you got the loft in the divorce. She wanted it.”

  That’s right, I think—Pearl’s obsession with my loft. Woods and I often had people over, especially in those early days when we’d just started Rhubarb. I remember glancing up from the pitcher of margaritas I was making in the kitchen to see Pearl with her phone out, taking pictures of various parts of my home. I’d convinced myself to be flattered, but I remember thinking there was definitely something strange about it too.

  “So, what do you say?” Satcher asks. “You help m
e, I help you? You breathe life back into the blog for me, I help you irritate the shit out of Pearl.”

  My older neighbor, Mr. Morse, bustles through the door just then carrying his teacup Yorkie under his arm. I see that he’s wearing the same mauve sweater vest he was when I first met him. No matter how hot it is outside, he always dresses like it’s fall. Mr. Morse brought over a vegan casserole and a bottle of expensive tequila when I first moved in, telling me his partner had died six months earlier of cancer. I’d been charmed by his manicured hands and southern accent. We’d become fast friends in our mutual state of sadness.

  His smile freezes when he spots Satcher, his eyes aligning with mine in interest.

  “Hi, Mr. Morse,” I say, reaching out to pet Bluffin.

  “Wendy,” he says in greeting.

  “This is Satcher Gamble,” I pause to look Satcher in the eye meaningfully, “—my new boss.”

  One corner of Satcher’s mouth lifts in a smile, his dark eyes moving from mischief to laughter.

  “Ahh,” he says. “It’s a good day to be alive.”

  Mr. Morse looks between us in amusement. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” he says to Satcher. “I’ll just be going up to give Bluffin his lunch.”

  We watch him go, climbing the stairs with the energy of a much younger man. Satcher turns back to me and I don’t know if it’s the air conditioning in the lobby or the way he’s looking at me, but my arms erupt in gooseflesh. Look at you, I think. Getting all worked up under the eyes of a handsome man.

  “Still want to get that beer?” He shifts my bag from one arm to another, and I blush in apology.

  “Sorry, I got all preoccupied with my new job.”

  I lead him down the hall to the stairs. “I’m on the third floor,” I say.

  “Nice building.” Satcher climbs the stairs beside me. “Why did Mr. Morse call you Wendy?”

  “I’m subleasing it from a friend,” I say. “And Wendy is what I go by now.” We step into the hallway and I fumble with my keys, cursing under my breath. Satcher laughs behind me and I shoot him a look.

  “Try that one,” he says of my keychain.

  Jules has a million keys on her ring; I’ve yet to separate the ones I actually need, which results in a ten-minute session every time I get home. I curse myself for my procrastination as I stick the key Satcher suggested into the keyhole, and miracle of miracles, it turns. The door swings open. I stand aside to let him through and he carries my bag to the kitchen without asking where it is. Oh, to be as comfortable in one’s skin as Satcher Gable. I grin at the back of his head as he starts unpacking my groceries and setting them on the counter.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say.

  “Are you kidding? I want to see what you bought.”

  I laugh, taking the bottle of amaretto cherries he hands me. “You soak them in whiskey,” I say when he looks at me quizzically. “Delicious.”

  His only response is a slightly cocked eyebrow and the dip of his dimples.

  “You know, I have beer here,” I say, staring into the fridge. “Unless you’re eager to be in that heat again.”

  Jules has three air-conditioning units in her cavernous living room, which sets the apartment’s temperature at a reasonable seventy-five degrees.

  “I’m all about it.” Satcher nods.

  He stacks some cans in the pantry for me and then moves over to the living room. I set about making our drinks, grabbing supplies from Jules’ teal fridge. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him standing at the window looking out over the street.

  “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.

  Afterward, I’d gone home, crawled into bed fully clothed and damp from the rain, and sobbed harder than I ever had in my life. I never told anyone about the accident, and at that point in my life there really wasn’t anyone to tell. My parents were away to Rock Island for the week with friends, and by the time they got back I had a brand new car, no questions asked. Not even a: Hey, daughter, I like your new ride. Despite my parents’ lackluster attitude, and despite the fact that I was pretending to be all right, the jarring impact of metal crashing into metal had nested something in my mind; a dark thought, edges tined in regret. I let it all go without fighting for it. My mind clenched onto the realization as if I were sober for the first time in two years. Gone, gone, gone. My love, my best friend, my beautiful life. Why? Because he’d come to me with his unhappiness and I’d plugged up my ears. I remember it now that there’s some distance between me and the initial hurt. Woods wanting to take me to Aruba on our one-year anniversary and me saying no. The blog was new and doing fairly well and I hadn’t felt like it was a good time to leave. He’d made reservations at the Ivy Room instead, but then I’d had to work late and completely forgot about dinner and our anniversary. After that, he was different. No matter how much I apologized, he never lost the hurt look in his eyes. And eventually, I grew bored with it. It’s emotionally lazy to know you’re hurting someone and try to forget the fact because it makes you uncomfortable. Marriage as a whole is uncomfortable. Two people from two different worlds trying to stuff all of their emotional belongings into one joined life. As it turns out, I was accustomed to being left alone, and Woods was accustomed to being smothered. One of us always annoyed and the other always hurt. That’s the way we lived for a long time until I guess Woods did something about it.