F*ck Marriage

by Fisher, Tarryn

  “Nope. You’re their boss now. I don’t need to micromanage.”

  His answer made me nervous—it was his money hinging on the success of the blog, not mine. When I said as much, he laughed at me.

  “Billie, this was always your thing. You built it from nothing by being shallow. If you want to rebrand and be deep then go ahead. Trust your instinct.”

  I want to remind Satcher that I’d trusted my husband and look how that turned out for me.

  I prepared a PowerPoint the night before, working through four glasses of wine while I worked.

  Now, with all of their eyes on me, I touch the mouse and the overhead screen jumps to life.

  “We are going to expand past our very narrow demographic by adding several new features to the blog…”

  Woods appears behind Satcher, his eyes narrowing around the room. I know he’s wondering why no one told him there was a staff meeting. Because you don’t really work here anymore, I want to explain. And soon your bride-to-be won’t either.

  I click the mouse and the next page of the presentation appears. There’s a list of new topics the blog will cover.

  Loren lifts her finger to say something. I nod at her.

  “Who will be writing the Life After Divorce column?” There’s a little smile on her lips; it’s evident she knows exactly who that’ll be.

  “Me.”

  Woods pales.

  Pearl speaks next, her voice tinny in the large conference room. “Isn’t that a little classless?”

  “Which part?” I try to keep my voice even, but I can feel the vein on the side of my head throbbing.

  “You writing about divorce when your ex-husband still owns the blog…”

  I stare at her face: sharp chin, sharp nose, sharp cheekbones. Pearl is all angles, both in appearance and life.

  “About as classy as his former mistress running the Health and Wellness section of the blog.” Goddammit! I have no self-control.

  Satcher facepalms from the doorway. I ignore Pearl’s red face and the snickers and move on to the next slide. My hands are shaking.

  “Because we’re making room for new areas, there will be some shifting around in assignments.” I look directly at Pearl when I say this. “I’ve hired Kerri Water to come in and take over Health and Wellness.”

  I see one of her friends reach out to squeeze her hand. Pearl angrily bats her hand away and glares at me.

  “No one discussed this with me. You can’t just move me mid-year…”

  “I can,” I say calmly. “Your contract says you were hired to be an editorial writer and you’ll still be one, just in an area you’re more qualified for.”

  “And what is that?” she asks sharply.

  “Accessories,” I say.

  There are a few snickers. Pearl’s head jerks around as she looks for the culprit.

  Kerri Water is a fitness sensation. She has over two million followers on Instagram and recently signed a deal to design a sneaker line for a popular brand.

  “As a longtime reader of Rhubarb, Kerri is excited to team up with us.”

  There is excited whispering all around. What I don’t tell them is that Satcher and Kerri were fuck buddies a few years ago, and she still carries a flame for him. He barely had to twist her arm when I asked him to approach her about it.

  “We’re also bringing on two more fashion bloggers that will be more conducive to diversity.”

  “What does that mean?” Pearl asks.

  “They aren’t white,” I say. “Or straight.”

  Loren claps. I grin at her before continuing.

  “Our rebranding will include a section for single mothers, the LGBTQ community, and every week we’ll feature a small homegrown business so that we can give a step up to start-up companies. And, this year we’ll be attending the Blogstyle conference in San Francisco.”

  There’s excited clapping all around. During Rhubarb's first two years it hadn’t been in the budget to take everyone to the conference. Satcher and I had discussed it and decided it was important for the brand to go.

  When I look up again, Satcher is gone and the only one left in the doorway is Woods, who is still frowning.

  As soon as I’ve covered the budget, and the meeting is over, he heads to where I’m closing down my laptop.

  “You never told me.” His tone is accusatory.

  “I didn’t know I had to.” I avoid his eyes as I grab the last of my things and head for the door.

  “You still have to answer to—”

  “To whom?” I interrupt, jerking upright. He doesn’t say anything. “I answer to Satcher, who hired me to do exactly what I’m doing. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” I push past him out into the hallway, where I almost bump into a livid Pearl.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” As she speaks, she rotates her body sideways, blocking my path to my office.

  I’m surprised by her gall. Not only am I her boss, but I’m twice her size. This little bitch thinks she’s invincible, I think. How long was she waiting out here to confront me, out of earshot of the rest of the staff?

  I sigh. Cornered by the treachery twins. I look over my shoulder to see Woods still behind me. I’m surprised by his expression: narrowed eyes, taut mouth stretched into a line of tight disapproval. But he’s not looking at me; his eyes are on Pearl. I wonder if this is an I can talk shit about my ex-wife but you can’t situation.

  When I look back at Pearl, I manage to keep my face neutral. “My job,” I say, answering her question.

  “You think you can come in here and uproot everything we’ve been working hard at for years after you abandoned Rhubarb—”

  “Whoa! Are you kidding me right now?” I’ve stopped trying to walk past her. My arms are full and I wish I had a place to dump everything for this titillating confrontation, but with Woods behind me and Pearl in front, I’m cornered.

  She crosses her arms over her chest.

  “Pearl, I left Rhubarb because you were sleeping with my husband,” I say it very matter-of-factly, but the moment the words are out of my mouth, all color drains from Pearl’s face.

  “That’s in the past,” she says.

  “Well, isn’t that convenient for you.” I try to push past her, but she squares her shoulders, standing her ground.

  “I’m not moving departments,” she says. “You’ll have to find someone else—”

  “Can you put that in an email?”

  “What?” She looks dazed at my interruption.

  “An email,” I repeat. “I need everything documented for when I fire you for breaking your contract…”

  She opens and closes her mouth and then looks hard over my shoulder at who I presume is Woods.

  “Billie…” I hear him say my name very quietly from behind me.

  “It’s Wendy,” I say this loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “You can’t fire me.” Pearl’s voice is getting louder, more shrill.

  She’s probably right, considering she’s shacked up with a shareholder. But right now I don’t care; all I want is to get out of this toxic sandwich I’m cornered in.

  “Why not?”

  She’s caused enough of a commotion that people are starting to listen.

  I hear Woods say my name again, this time with more urgency. And then the unexpected happens: Pearl clutches her stomach just as red blossoms across her white pants. She screams at the same time I drop everything I’m holding to catch her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The trip to the emergency room is one of the longest I’ve ever made. My cab gets stuck behind two accidents, and by the time I walk into the hospital, Pearl has lost her baby. Satcher texted to tell me. I find Satcher already in the waiting room seated next to a green-faced Woods. Woods is staring into a paper cup of cold coffee like he wishes he could drown himself in it. I take it from him and throw it in the trash, then I walk down to the cafeteria and get him a green tea. Woods isn’t a coffee drinker. As the healthier eater of the two
of us, he was always trying to get me to make the switch from coffee to green tea. I put the paper cup of tea in his hand. He blinks at me hard like he’s trying not to cry. I can feel Satcher’s eyes on me, but I don’t look over. I’m embarrassed ... ashamed. I antagonized Pearl and she lost their baby. I am the worst person in the world.

  “Thank you,” Woods says. He says it sincerely like he means it and I offer a weak smile.

  I know he doesn’t blame me for what happened to Pearl, he’s not like that. In all the years I accused him of things, he never accused me back. I think that made me angrier—that while I ranted and bitched, he never lowered himself to my level of petty anger.

  I take the seat next to him and stare at my hands.

  “How is she?” I ask.

  “They’re checking her now,” he says.

  I want to ask why he isn’t in there with her, but I keep my mouth shut. Plenty of women are private about that sort of thing.

  We sit like that for twenty minutes before the doctor comes out to get Woods. He looks at me before he stands up.

  “Thank you,” he says. “For the love.”

  I nod, tears burning my eyes. He follows the doctor down a hallway. That’s when I finally look at Satcher.

  “For the love?” Satcher’s eyebrow is raised in question.

  I squirm in my seat pressing my lips together. When we were still married and things were getting rough, we took the love language test at the suggestion of one of our friends. With a bottle of wine and an attitude of resolve, we settled on the couch with our laptops to take the quiz. It was a good idea, but a lazy half-assed attempt to improve our communication. We needed more than a quiz at that point. Woods got a tie between Acts of Service and Quality Time. I got Physical Touch.

  “It’s self-defeating,” I’d said staring at our results. “I don’t have enough time to dedicate to what you need, and you don’t want to touch me unless we’re in a good place and I’m meeting your needs.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that cut-and-dried,” he’d argued.

  My brain couldn’t accept that. “Yes, it does. We’re too different to love each other in the right way.” I’d stood up, teetering sideways from the wine.

  “We obviously had enough in common to get married,” he’d said. He was still sitting, his feet propped on the coffee table, laptop balanced on his lap. I remember staring down at him and thinking how clueless he was. Life just wasn’t that simple. People changed, their likes and dislikes evolving with time and experience. What we’d had in common wasn’t there anymore.

  “I’m not asking you to give up your dreams…” He’d sounded frustrated and my walls went up right away. I was defensive ... wrong.

  “Then what exactly are you asking for?” I’d snapped.

  Woods looked hurt. I was the one yelling, while he was calmly sitting on the couch trying to talk things out.

  “Interest, consideration—a relationship, Billie. That’s why you get married, to have a relationship with someone…”

  “We have a damn relationship,” I’d argued.

  “You don’t even know that I hate coffee, Billie. I don’t drink coffee anymore…”

  “What the fuck are you even talking about, Woods?” He was being petty ... needy. I’d loomed over him, my voice and face wrought with anger.

  “Green tea,” he’d said slowly. “I switched to green tea about six months ago…”

  Guilt. So much, but instead of acknowledging what my husband had just said I acted like it was ridiculous.

  “This is so stupid.”

  That was it for me. I’d stormed out of the room, slamming our bedroom door, and crawling into the bed to wallow in self-righteousness. What did he want from me, for God’s sake? I was chin-deep in Rhubarb, trying to get it off the ground so that we could live comfortably without worries. I barely slept, and my doctor had just put me on anxiety meds. When we’d started the business we’d both been on the same track, but somewhere along the way, Rhubarb had stopped being something that brought us together and instead started ripping us apart.

  “He just means for the tea,” I answer Satcher.

  I can tell Satcher doesn’t buy it, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything else.

  “I should go.” I stand up.

  “Yeah,” Satcher says.

  I don’t know why, but his tone makes me angry. I glare at him one more time before snatching up my purse and marching for the elevators. I don’t say goodbye. The last thing I need is Satcher’s goody two-shoes judgment. I thought I’d changed, grown up, but in moments like these, I know I’m still the same defensive fuck-up I’ve always been.

  Pearl takes two weeks off of work. During the time she’s gone, Rhubarb feels lighter, more joyful. The employees who normally steer clear of me due to their loyalty to Pearl, warm up, chatting with me in the common room and even once inviting me to happy hour with them after work. I feel guilty for how much I enjoy her absence. Especially since I’m the reason she miscarried. Satcher avoids me, never making eye contact, and only talking to me if it’s to respond to a question I ask, or to deal with Rhubarb business. Woods comes into the office twice to pick up some things for Pearl. We collide in the hallway, his arms full of paperwork, and mine full of the props I just went to get from the storage room.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “How is she?”

  His face immediately clouds over. “I don’t know. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She’s ... shut down.”

  I nod. Women deal with things differently than men. We want them to meet our emotional needs without us having to spell it out for them. It’s an if you love me, you should know what I need type of thing.

  “She’s grieving. Hold her. Order the food she likes and fuss over her,” I say. “She just needs her pain acknowledged and to be taken care of.”

  He nods. “Thank you.”

  We stand there for another thirty seconds, Woods just staring at me like he wants to say something else. But I never give him the chance.

  “I’ll see you,” I say, stepping around him.

  I haven’t gotten five steps when he calls after me. “Wendy…”

  I turn. The wooden sign I’m holding digs painfully into my waist and I shift feet to alleviate the pressure.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

  It feels like someone has just shoved me sideways. I feel unbalanced ... panicked.

  “I know you’re blaming yourself.” He pauses as someone walks by to get to the bathroom.

  Woods lowers his voice when he says, “The doctor said it was an ectopic pregnancy…”

  I nod, tears filling my eyes. Somehow that should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I was raised Catholic, I’m good at guilt.

  “Well, look at us comforting each other,” I say.

  Woods grins. “We’ve come a long way.”

  But is it the right way? I want to ask. Because it doesn’t feel right. None of this does. Mayhap I am the bitter, jealous ex-wife. Yes, that is probably it. Even if there aren’t feelings involved, it would bother me that my ex-husband was trying to procreate with someone else. It’s just ... awkward ... uncomfortable. Like our life before didn’t matter. Divorce isn’t supposed to happen, but it does, and no one really knows how to deal with it. It frees you of one thing while imprisoning you with a thousand others. Life isn’t even remotely fair.

  “Okay, well, I better go,” I say, suddenly feeling the full force of awkwardness.

  My palms are sweating. When I get back to my office, I lock the door and lie down on the carpet with my palms flat on the ground, staring up at the ceiling.

  I’m close to dozing off when my phone pings from my pocket. I think about ignoring it, but eventually I raise my hips, reaching to slide it out of my back pocket. I sit up right away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Denise Tarrow never beats around the bush. The very first time she met me, she said, “So, are you going to gi
ve me grandkids, or are you one of those career types?”

  I’d been too shocked to respond, and by the time I’d found my voice, Woods had chastised her and the conversation had moved on to something else. I liked her despite her lack of filter and general inclination to meddle in other people’s business. Once you got used to her personality, it was hard not to appreciate the care behind her actions.

  I’d almost forgotten about her mentioning us getting lunch until she texts to ask if I want to meet at Gramercy Tavern on Tuesday.

  I stare at that text for a long time debating what to do. Having lunch with Woods’ mother feels like I am stepping over a line. And while that’s exactly what I came back to New York to do, doing it so soon after Pearl’s miscarriage feels wrong.

  It is tacky, no doubt.

  Almost as if she’s reading my mind, she sends a follow-up text.

  Pearl doesn’t have to know…

  I can’t suppress my smile. That seals the deal because I text back and tell her I’d love to meet. We decide on an early dinner, and I set down my phone with a sinking dread. This is what I had wanted just a few months ago. To prove to Woods that marrying someone else is a terrible idea. But now that my plan is unraveling in just the way I wanted it to, it feels ... dirty.

  On Tuesday I’m heading out of the office an hour earlier than usual to meet up with Denise when I bump into Woods on the stairwell. I don’t normally take the stairs, but there is an Out of Order sign on the elevator doors.

  “Still have that shirt, huh?” I eye the T-shirt he’s wearing. The lettering is faded, but you can still make out the words.

  “It’s my favorite.”

  “Band or shirt?” I ask.

  “Both.”

  I bought the shirt for Woods at a concert we went to on one of our first dates. I can still remember the way his skin smelled when he leaned in to kiss me, the beer on his breath and the way his thumbs rubbed circles on my lower back as his tongue made its way into my mouth.

  “Want to grab something to eat?” he asks.

  There is scruff on his face and the tender skin around his eyes looks grey, like he hasn’t slept in a week. I imagine this is all taking a toll on him.