F*ck Marriage

by Fisher, Tarryn

  “You’ve been coming into the office a lot. I thought the plan was to back out slowly.”

  “I didn’t know I needed to ask permission to come into my office,” Woods replies.

  There’s something about their exchange that is off. Normally, Woods and Satcher keep up a steady stream of banter; their relationship hinges on their shared sense of humor. But Satcher’s shoulders are tense and Woods’ face is stormy. They both look like they are about to explode. Everyone is either watching them or looking away uncomfortably.

  “Do you know the best thing to do in a situation like this?” I ask. Now I’m the center of attention, or at least I should say the center of a tense, ticking silence. “Whip out your dicks and measure…”

  There’s a pause and then the laughter erupts. The new people look relieved (the new boss isn’t so bad) and the old people raise their empty glasses grinning like it’s good to have me back. Tension is broken. Even Satcher is smiling and Woods is looking at me with a sort of endearing expectancy. He’s used to my sense of humor; eight years in a relationship will do that. Everyone dissipates after that, plastic flutes hitting the trash, and the common room emptying out as people make their way to their desks. Loren pats me on the shoulder as she leaves, a smug smile on her face.

  “You’ve been sorely missed. Welcome back.”

  I grin back at her, feeling a sense of belonging. Yes, it’s good to be back. This is my stride, this is what I’ve missed. And that’s when it hits me: it’s not just a man I came back for. I want it all ... every last thing.

  After my first day back, Woods initially comes into the office every other day, but by the end of the second week he’s there from nine-to-five like the rest of us. I deduct that he’s either there to keep an eye on me or Pearl. Aside from the hard looks we give each other when we cross paths in the office, Pearl and I give each other a wide berth. If she’s noticed that Woods is in the office more she doesn’t let on; though, every time he comes into my office for anything, she follows within a few minutes, finding some reason or another to drag him away. It was like this before, I think, when we were married. I have memories of Pearl always needing to pull him away for this or that.

  “So obvious,” I say to Loren after Pearl interrupts Woods and me to tell him her printer is jammed. A jammed printer, an emergency at their apartment, trouble with their wedding venue—and all in one week. Her creativity at making up issues to get him away from me is impressive.

  “You should schedule a lunch with just the two of you to see what she comes up with to get him out of it,” Loren suggests.

  I laugh, but the truth is that spending any time with Woods affects me deeply. Being around him has the opposite effect that it used to. Where his presence used to energize me, it now makes me feel drained and tired. I tell Loren this and she nods like she understands.

  “It’s because you never got closure,” she says. “The fighting it out. The trying one last time. The heartbreaking honesty—those are all things you need to experience to move on.”

  She’s right, but lack of closure is hardly Woods’ fault. I left town without a fight.

  “There’s still hurt,” Loren says.

  “No,” I argue. “It’s been years. I’m over it.”

  “Sure.” She shrugs, like she doesn’t want to argue. “You know yourself.” She doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe me either.

  Sometimes I think I am over Woods. Sometimes when I am really honest with myself, I can acknowledge that the person who knows me best in this world isn’t my mother or father—they hardly know me at all, or my friends who only get to see the best side of me, but Woods. Woods, who I spent eight years with. He saw me from every emotionally unflattering angle, in every bare moment of honesty and ... without my makeup. The fact that no one knows me as well as my ex-husband, who left me for another woman, is both devastating and frightening like I’m not worthy of being known fully. There were no warning signs, no moment when I knew our bond frayed and severed, no months of impending doom. I was blindsided.

  In early September I interview candidates to fill Marie’s position. Marie, who is in her last month of pregnancy, and who looks like she’s uncomfortable every minute of every day, sits in on the interviews. I gauge her facial expressions to see how much she likes each applicant. I learn that when she frowns she’s doubting their experience, and when she smiles she’s already written them off. We interview a younger woman named Zoe, who has long red hair and comes in wearing a velvet head wrap. Marie compliments the color, a bright cobalt blue. It’s the first time I’ve heard her compliment an applicant, and halfway through the interview she interrupts my questions to ask her own. When Zoe leaves, Marie informs me that she’s the one. The one! Like we’re marrying her. I agree, however. Satcher, who meets her briefly in the hall outside his office, seems to like her as well.

  It’s not until Marie has had her last day and is sent off on permanent maternity leave, that I realize I’ve been conned. Zoe has moved into her cubicle, unpacked her matching marble pencil holder and stapler. We welcome her with a Champagne toast, doughnuts, and a name plaque for her desk. All is well until I’m walking home from work one evening. I’m in the best of moods. Since I’ve been back at Rhubarb readership has grown by twenty percent, I’ve hired two new employees, and approached Satcher with a plan for growth and expansion. I’m going over what I’m going to speak about in the next staff meeting when I spot Zoe sitting in a popular bar up the street. I pause on the sidewalk wondering if I should go in and say hi, maybe have a drink, when I see Pearl walk toward her from the rear of the bar. Their greeting is familiar: Zoe jumps up, wrapping her arms around Pearl’s neck in a hug, and I realize that they’re celebrating. Because they know each other. I wonder if they’re old college buddies, and if Pearl was the one who encouraged her to apply for the job. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach for the rest of the walk home.

  When I get back to the apartment I toss my keys on the counter and pull out my phone. It rings three times before Marie’s brusque “Hello” sounds in my ear.

  “Marie, it’s Wendy,” I say. There’s a pause before her voice comes back, this time softer ... more cautious.

  “Hi,” she says. “What can I help you with?”

  “Did you know that Pearl and Zoe know each other?”

  She sighs. “Yes.”

  “So you were in on their plan?”

  “Look, I have to go. What happens at Rhubarb isn’t my concern anymore.”

  I laugh. “In a few years, when you want to go back to work because you’re sick of being a stay-at-home mom, it’ll be your concern. Don’t forget, I’m the one who’ll have to give you a reference.”

  She’s quiet and I think she’s hung up when she says, “They grew up together. Pearl didn’t think you’d hire her if you knew…”

  The line goes dead; she’s hung up. I set the phone down and walk over to the window. Watching the traffic always helps me think. I suppose it could be as simple as Pearl wanting to work alongside her friend, but nothing is ever as simple as it seems with her. Pearl always has a plan, and a backup plan, and a backup to her backup plan. I’ll have to keep a close eye on things.

  On Monday I find Zoe in the office early, working at her desk. Pearl has yet to show up for the day, so I have a few uninterrupted minutes to talk to her.

  “You settling in okay?”

  She’s beaming when she swivels around to face me.

  “Yeah, I’m super excited.”

  Super: a word used in copious amounts by anyone under the age of twenty-seven. That’s super great, I want to say. Super awesome.

  “Well, I’ll let you get back to work.”

  She smiles without teeth and turns back to her computer.

  At lunch I find myself in the common room heating up leftovers from the night before and listening to a woman named Diane give explicit details about her C-section. Diane is one of Pearl’s friends, and for this reason, she never makes eye contact
with me. I’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to test my theory, once stepping in her way so she’d bump into me, knocking my water bottle out of my hand. She’d picked up the water bottle and mumbled, “Sorry,” before rushing off to her desk. No eye contact.

  She ends her story with “and he fainted.” I take the he as being her husband, Victor. She glances at me before reaching across the table to pat Pearl’s hand. “Don’t worry. Woods will do great. He’s so into taking care of your every need. Vic is such a baby.”

  Something flares in my chest: shock, panic, pain. And then Pearl quickly announces to the room that she’s not pregnant and Diane is referencing “the future.” Their laughter trills like the barking of a tiny, angry dog.

  Needless to say, several sets of eyes flicker to my face, gauging my response. I try to hide what I’m feeling, but I’m afraid I’m not fast enough. Woods having a baby with someone who isn’t me. Why does it still feel like he’s cheating on me? Diane looks pleased with herself. I can tell by the way she smirks at Pearl. Woods hadn’t wanted children. We both loved kids, but he was deathly afraid of messing his own up. Clearly, his opinions have changed. Or maybe he wants them with Pearl. Pearl knew Woods and I hadn’t planned on having kids; we had a discussion about it way back when.

  “We can’t wait to start a family,” she asserts. “Woods wants kids really bad.” I turn my back to the microwave so they can’t see my face.

  As they start discussing baby names, I think about how I can leave without looking obvious, until Peter the computer guy makes the most awkward statement of the day.

  “Won’t it be weird that your child with Woods will have the same last name as Billie?”

  Play it cool. I raise my eyebrows and pin my gaze on Pearl, waiting to see what she’ll say.

  She’s been thwarted, by Peter of all people. She blinks rapidly, obviously annoyed.

  “We can’t blame Billie,” she says finally. “Tarrow is a desirable surname, while her maiden name ... what was it again, Billie? Bolster…?”

  “Yes, Bolster.” I nod.

  “Right,” says Pearl. “Billie Bolster…” She snickers. “I’d want to keep Tarrow too.”

  “It would be Wendy Bolster,” I say, dumbly.

  “Changed your first name and not your last,” she says. “Interesting.”

  It’s a small victory for Pearl, who wiggled her way out of embarrassment by embarrassing me. I smile wanly and stir my tea with the tiny red straw. Okay, Pearl, I think. If you want to play it like that…

  “Hey, Diane,” I say. “You should write a piece about your C-section for the blog. I’d love to publish it.”

  Diane looks stricken. She’s never been asked to write anything, but I know that’s what she wants to do. I pulled her application last week; she wrote journalism under her interest section.

  “Really?” She stumbles. “I mean, I think I could do a great job if you’re being serious…”

  “I am.” I smile. “If you could email it to me before the end of the month…”

  “On it.” She’s trying to play it cool, but her hands are shaking. The moment she’s been waiting for. I don’t look at Pearl before I walk out, but I can feel her annoyance radiating from her body. Diane belongs to her and I’ve just crossed a line.

  As soon as I’m back in my office, I cradle my arms on my desk and drop my head into them. I thought that for the most part the hurt had receded, but hearing Pearl talk about having children with Woods has scratched open a long-closed wound. How is one man able to want different things depending on who he is with? I’m not very maternal, maybe that’s why he didn’t want children with me. I’m work-obsessed, extremely driven, and often tense and snappy, and that was especially true in the last year of our marriage. There’s the rapping of knuckles on my door and I straighten up quickly.

  “Come in,” I call. Why do people always choose my lowest moments to pay me an office visit? Pearl walks in carrying the proposal she owes me. Her timing, I feel, is planned.

  “Thank you,” I say curtly when she sets it on my desk. She studies my face and I wonder if she’s looking for the tears I was so ready to shed a minute ago.

  “Do I let you or Satcher know what my vacation days are?”

  I’m caught off guard by her question.

  “Um ... I guess you can give the dates to me,” I say. I pull a notepad toward me so I can write them down.

  “October tenth through the twentieth,” she tells me. And then she adds, “We’ll be in Portugal for eight days.”

  Portugal. My stomach turns. Woods and I had always planned on going to Portugal together. It was our thing. I swallow the lump in my throat and say, “The tenth to twentieth. Got it.”

  She hesitates. I wonder if she wants me to comment on their vacation.

  “Um ... well, I’ve got the dates. Anything else?”

  “No. That’s all.” She reluctantly heads for the door.

  “Pearl…”

  She turns expectantly.

  “Why Portugal?”

  The self-satisfied look on her face informs me that I’ve asked the question she’s been wanting to answer.

  “Woods said he’s always wanted to take the love of his life there.” Now that she’s dropped her bomb, the rest of her steps out of my office have more spring.

  Chapter Nine

  “Why are you avoiding me?”

  I look up from my computer, surprised. I hadn’t heard Woods come in.

  “Because I have a super big crush on you and you’re already engaged.” I meant it as a joke, but when I look up his expression says he doesn’t know that.

  “Is this uncomfortable for you?” he asks. “Are you all right?”

  “Woods…” I push away from my desk and cross my legs ceremoniously. My sigh echoes around the room. “First of all, I was joking. And don’t try to act all concerned about me now, not after what you did.”

  He nods slowly, absorbing what I said. “I just ... this is…”

  “Hard…” I finish for him.

  “Yeah.”

  I scratch my head. “It’ll get less so as we move along,” I say. I don’t believe that for a second, but Woods seems encouraged. I uncross my legs and slide my chair back toward my desk, hoping he’ll leave. I wonder why I can still separate the smell of his skin from everything else in the room, why it’s still so familiar after all this time.

  “Is Pearl being weird with you?”

  My fingers hover over the keyboard. I think of Zoe, and Portugal, and the baby discussion in the break room.

  “No,” I say. “She’s being a bitch.”

  He laughs. I lean back, stretching my arms over my head.

  “I’ll talk to her…”

  “Don’t bother. Honestly, Woods…”

  “Billie, you don’t deserve that. Not after ... what we did. So, I’ll talk to her. And I’m sorry.”

  I’m shocked into silence, during which time Woods heads for the door. I watch his retreating back. He sounded ... genuine. An almost apology, I think.

  I understand that he’s moved on with his life, and that I’m supposed to too, but the fact that he’s taking Pearl to Portugal feels like one of the sharpest blows since the divorce. Portugal? Really, you piece of shit? The place we had an entire folder dedicated to? We’d both add articles, restaurant reviews, and the occasional hundred-dollar bill for spending money. Portugal was ours, along with our plans for a sheltie puppy that we were going to name Annie, and the house we’d build with a winding metal staircase that led to our bedroom. We’d made plans that had been specific and special to us as a couple, or at least I thought so. What I am now realizing is that those plans had been Woods’ all along, they weren’t for me specifically. He made me feel special, but I hadn’t been. I was an enhancement to the life he wanted, not the partner with whom he wanted to weather any storm in life; a side dish rather than the entrée.

  My jealousy is consuming; I’m ashamed to say that it’s eating at me. Woods notices the
difference. He’s always watching me, and I know he’s wondering what’s going on in my head. When he finally asks about it I’m leaving the office for the day. He catches me near the elevator. I can smell him before I see him; the familiar cologne and Woods’ smell, tinged around the edges with the faint sweetness of Juicy Fruit. I roll my eyes, mainly because I know I’m cornered.

  “Billie.” He tries to make his voice sound surprised. Like he ran into me rather than chasing me down.

  “Oh hey,” I say casually. A yawn arrives at the perfect time and I make a show of covering it up.

  “How’ve you been?” he asks as soon as we’re both in the elevator. “I feel like you’re a million miles away.”

  “I’m a million miles away from you,” I say without looking at him.

  “Ouch. What did I do now?”

  I sigh. I really don’t want to get into it. It’s been a long week. We’re reaching our quarterly deadline, and the work to get everything up and ready has nearly wiped me out. Rhubarb is three times the size of what it used to be and I’m not even working for myself anymore. It feels a little like I’m putting quarters in Woods’ and Satcher’s piggy bank, but unless you own your own company that’s generally what the workforce is like.

  “It’s fine, Woods. Nothing new.”

  He’s quiet until the doors to the elevator slide open, and right as I’m about to step out, he speaks. “I’m sorry. For whatever it is.”

  I turn and glare at him sharply. Apologies are annoying when you want to be mad.

  “No, you’re not. That’s the worst part.”

  “God, Billie. I’m a fuck-up, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy hurting people.”

  One corner of my mouth lifts into my cheek. I was so sure of my anger, but Woods’ specialty has always been making me feel like shit for thinking he’s shit.

  I’m bubbling on the inside, and not in the good full-of-joy way; all of my negative emotions are at a boil. I’m a pot of anger, resentment, jealousy, and bitterness, and I’m coming precariously close to all of those things boiling over the top, burning anyone near. He follows me out of the elevator and onto the street. We emerge into rush hour like two toddlers, teetering and dodging the stream of stony-faced New Yorkers. Somehow, we’re headed in the same direction even though I know Pearl and Woods share an apartment five blocks heading the other way.