F*ck Marriage

by Fisher, Tarryn

  “Can’t.” I smile. “Maybe another time…”

  “Come on,” he says. “I need you.”

  At first his words hit me in that sore, insecure place where I keep the things that I pretend not to care about: Daddy issues, Mommy issues, Woods’ issues…

  I need you. He used to say that to me while his lips kissed a line down my neck, fingers roving over my body. I feel heat climb to my face at the memory.

  I think about all the times I needed him, like when our marriage was on the rocks and I was stretched as thin as membrane, and he stuck his dick in someone else instead of keeping his vows to me.

  “Not today, Woods,” I say glibly. I take two more steps, cursing the broken elevator.

  “Why not?”

  I hesitate. Should I just tell him? I don’t want to be cruel when his life is already hard, but he’ll find out about it eventually.

  “I’m on my way to see your mom.”

  He squeezes one eye closed while scratching the back of his head. “That’s awkward.”

  “No more than you asking me to lunch when your fiancée is at home recovering from a miscarriage.”

  He grins. “What a pair we are.”

  “Were,” I say, trotting down the stairs. “What a pair we were.”

  “Pessimist!” he calls after me. His voice echoes.

  It feels good to walk away from him. I wonder if this is how things started with Pearl: the occasional flirtatious exchange in the stairwell, trips out to lunch when I was too busy to notice.

  I don’t have time to think about it; I’m already late.

  Denise has just returned from a cruise. When I hug her, I swear I can still smell suntan lotion on her skin. She holds on to me for a few extra seconds.

  “You’re glowing,” I tell her when she lets me go.

  “Oh. You don’t glow at my age. I just got a little sun, that’s all.” She takes her seat delicately, folding her napkin across her lap.

  But she is, she’s glowing.

  “Robert cheated on me,” she says.

  The server who was just approaching the table hears her comment and makes a wide arc to give us some time.

  I smile at him apologetically before I turn to Denise and say—“What?”

  “Don’t look so surprised. Where do you think Woods learned his bad behavior?”

  “I figured it was from his dick.”

  “Touché…”

  I shake my head, trying to take it all in. Woods is already an established cheater. I decide to start the questions with my ex-father-in-law. “He’s done it before?”

  “Yes. Started our third year of marriage, and it’s been on and off since. Sometimes we have a good five years with no cheating, but he always starts it up again.”

  “And you ... stay with him?”

  Denise lifts her menu, pursing her lips; I watch her eyes scan something before she sets it down on the table and slides it away. I’ve always viewed Denise as a feminist: independent, nonplussed by opinions, taker of no shit. Reconciling what she is saying with the woman I always thought she was leaves a lump in my throat. I wait for her to speak since I don’t know what to say anyway.

  “He’s always so sorry. He comes back, he cries, we take a vacation, he upgrades my ring.”

  Over the eight years Woods and I were together, I recall Denise getting a new ring every few years, the diamond growing in size. I glance at her finger now, feeling ill. Why is she telling me this?

  “You’re wondering why I’m telling you all this now?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  She folds her hands on the table, her upper body leaning toward me. She’s so willowy she reminds me of a branch bending in the wind.

  “My son is still very much in love with you,” she says. It’s like someone just stuck my finger in a light socket; every part of me lights up in shock. “This thing with Pearl,” she makes a dismissive sweep with her hand, “it’s not real, nor is it sustainable.”

  I’m shocked. Shook. Shocked and shook by her words. “I’m sorry about your situation, Denise, but in my less-than-expert opinion on love, I think that if a man is in love with you he shouldn’t throw himself into the arms of another woman.”

  “Don’t be condescending, Billie. You haven’t lived long enough to know that. Men don’t cheat because they’re not in love, they cheat because they don’t feel loved.”

  “He didn’t just cheat. He came home one day and told me he was leaving me for someone else.”

  “A cry for help,” she says. “They want to be worshipped. They want a woman who thinks they’re the greatest, strongest, most virile.”

  “And I didn’t?”

  “You were busy.”

  “Denise, you’re telling me that my husband cheated on me because I didn’t stroke his ego hard enough?”

  She looks at me hard.

  “All right,” I say. I close my eyes. “Say what you’re saying is true. Why does Robert cheat on you? You’re practically the perfect wife.”

  “Oh, my dear, things aren’t always what they seem. You know that.”

  I can’t imagine what she’s talking about. Everything about their lives and marriage has always represented perfection. I feel as if I’m six years old and just found out Santa Claus isn’t real.

  “It’s become a cycle we’re unfortunately comfortable with. The longer you stay in an unhealthy relationship, the more druglike it becomes. You’re willing to deal with the side effects because they’re predictable. You can trust the bad in a way you can’t trust the unknown.”

  We’re cut off by the server who’s made his way over, a look of apprehension on his face. Once we’ve ordered and he’s retreated from the table, there’s a pregnant silence between us.

  “I take it you don’t like Pearl.” It whooshes out of me. If there were only a way to suck words back in like spaghetti.

  “Oh, she’s fine. Basic. Woods was just trying to find the best parts of you in someone else. It won’t last. Thank God the miscarriage happened.”

  Wow. Whoa. It is one thing not wanting them together, and an entirely other thing to be glad she miscarried. But then there is also the matter of what she is saying about Woods and Pearl. Could she be right? I’d thought that Woods couldn’t find any good parts of me anymore, and that’s why he’d left. I frown down at my drink.

  “I don’t know, Denise. They seem to be pretty happy.”

  “You thought you were happy too, remember?” She pats my hand. “You have time. Wedding’s not for another year. And hopefully she doesn’t get herself knocked up again.”

  For the next week I can’t stop thinking about my lunch with Denise Tarrow. On my twenty-third birthday, Woods presented me with a portable DVD player, while Satcher showed up at my party with a first edition copy of my favorite children’s book. Where my reaction to the DVD player had been tepid, fabricated excitement, my reaction to the book Satcher presented had been childlike glee. I’d seen the hurt on Woods’ face and felt terrible. It was a small incident, neither of them would remember it now, but it stuck with me because in the eight years we were together, Woods never quite got the gift thing right. Over the years, he gave me a beach chair, a set of pots and pans, a guitar, guitar lessons—things I didn’t have time for. He was either trying to send me a message or he didn’t know me at all. I summed it up as the latter. And if my own partner didn’t know me, perhaps I was unknowable.

  There’s a wrapped gift on my desk one morning when I get into the office. I sit down, eyeing it warily. It’s the size of a ring box and wrapped professionally in gilded silver paper with a satin ribbon. I poke it with my finger and it slides across my desk. I don’t trust gifts. There is always a motive behind them.

  “What’s that?” Loren walks in, a Styrofoam Cup Noodles in her hand. She sits down in the empty chair, crossing her legs, and begins wrapping noodles around her fork.

  “I don’t know. It was just sitting here.”

  “Well, open it,” she says. A
noodle hits her chin and she pulls a napkin from her bra to dab at the splash.

  I pick up the box, turning it over in my hand. There’s no card. Gingerly, I tuck my finger into the space between the tape and the paper and separate it. Underneath the wrapping is a velvet box. I crack the lid. When Loren sees my face, she sets down her Cup Noodles and rounds my chair to get a look at what I’m holding.

  “Geeeezus,” she says. She reaches for her noodles without taking her eyes off the box.

  Inside, resting on a black pillow, is a silver pendant in the shape of a hand. Instead of an extended middle finger, the ring finger is propped up and empty.

  “What does it mean?” I ask.

  “Fuck marriage,” Loren says. “And a cry for help.”

  “You think Woods left this?” I think of what his mother said.

  Loren shrugs. “Could have been anyone, I guess. They certainly hit the mark though, didn’t they?”

  I spread both hands on my desk. A little piece of jewelry has triggered an idea. I stare at my hands as I think, the ideas rushing faster than my hand would if it were holding a pen. “This is it, Lo,” I say.

  “What?”

  “The header for the blog: I’ll call it Fuck Marriage. Brand it with the empty ring finger.”

  Lo nods slowly. “Seems a bit aggressive, but it may work.”

  “Of course it will work,” I say, standing up. “That’s what we are after our relationships end; we’re angry. Do you know how many times I wished there was someone—someplace I could go for help? I bought the self-help books, I went to a counselor. None of it was what I needed. I wanted a community, I wanted a friend. And that’s exactly what this column can be: the friend women wish they had. Get Dave in here so we can brand this.”

  I pull the pendant out of the box. Unclasping my necklace, I slide the pendant onto the chain and return it to my neck.

  This is exactly what the blog needs: a dose of hardcore reality. Fuck Marriage could be my unofficial apology letter to Woods. To my marriage. And who knows, maybe blogging about my broken heart will help heal it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A membership to the East Side gym costs $150 a month. Steep change for communal fitness. The chain gym two blocks over offers their monthly membership on bright neon flyers for $49. But the East Side gym is where Woods works out five days a week, so I shell out the cash and follow Rocket, the overeager meathead whose face resembles Ernie from Sesame Street, while he gives me a tour.

  “Rocket, that’s an interesting name,” I say as he shows me where the dirty towels go.

  “I named myself. My parents gave me a bad name so I just changed it.”

  “Cool,” I say. “What was your name before?”

  “Simon.” He makes a face.

  “Simon says: change your name,” I joke.

  But Rocket is too young to get the reference. He leaves me at the elliptical machines where five women are already sweating through their designer workout gear. I make my way over to the weight machines, where I know Woods will go first.

  “Well, well, well…”

  I spin around and find myself facing Satcher, a smug smile turning up the corners of his lips.

  “Now why would Billie Tarrow get a membership at a gym that’s in the opposite direction of her apartment when there is a perfectly good gym across the street from where she lives?”

  I can feel my face turn red. I turn away, my only response a noise I make in the back of my throat. Satcher, undeterred, follows me.

  “Could it be that a certain ex-husband has a membership here?”

  I claim an open rowing machine a few feet away from the mats and get to work, still ignoring Satcher. I don’t want to row, I want to pretend to work out while I wait for Woods to arrive. Satcher stands over me, his white Nikes perfectly clean, not a single scuff.

  “Why are you even here?” I snap. “It’s Friday. Shouldn’t you be fucking a supermodel?”

  He takes the machine next to mine when the girl next to me gets up and starts rowing. “We’re on the rocks,” he says.

  I glance over to check his face, which reveals nothing. “Why?”

  “Why not?” He shrugs.

  “You have commitment issues.” I push back harder than I mean to and my neck jerks forward painfully. Every few minutes I glance at the door to see if Woods has arrived.

  “Yes,” Satcher says simply.

  I stop rowing and stare at him. “So do something about it.”

  Satcher glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “Like what?” he asks, amused.

  “I don’t know,” I say, watching the way the muscles in his arms flex every time he pulls back. “Counseling, forcing yourself to stay in a relationship until your fears go away…”

  “Is that what you did?”

  “Seriously, Satcher…” I swipe at my hair, pushing it out of my face. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me?”

  “Maybe.”

  I didn’t expect that. I wipe my palms on my pants not knowing what to say.

  Luckily, he’s the one to speak first. “You have this perception of me. I don’t know where it came from, but it’s wrong.”

  “Okay,” I say. “So you’re not a womanizing, shallow, rich dude who likes beautiful women?”

  He grunts. “Whoa! Wait just a damn minute. Shallow?”

  I laugh, which Satcher seems to enjoy.

  “Does any insult faze you, Sasquatch?”

  “Only the true ones.”

  “Must be nice to be that confident.” I sigh.

  “Must be nice to be so beautiful,” he says.

  I look around to see who he’s talking about; there are women everywhere. “Where?”

  When I look back at Satcher he’s staring right at me. I’m frozen, heat climbing my neck as I try to understand if he’s messing with me. I blink and force myself to focus.

  “Um…” As my discomfort increases so do Satcher’s dimples. “Honest to God, Satcher. You always do this to me. You love to make me uncomfortable and confused.”

  Satcher, who seems to be immensely enjoying this, places a hand over his heart and frowns. “Billie—”

  “Uh-uh…”

  “Wendy,” he corrects. “I assure you that it’s not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable or confused. But you should definitely explore why it is exactly that I make you feel confused and uncomfortable. Sounds like a personal issue.”

  I open and close my mouth. There haven’t been many moments in my life where the cat has actually gotten my tongue. I don’t like how out of control I currently feel, or how his eyebrows are lifted practically to his hairline as he messes with me.

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  He doesn’t say anything, but his smile is enough to send every pathetic girl feeling I have into overdrive. I stand firm against the butterflies and try to look unfazed. For lack of anything better to do with my hands, I take a sip of water from the bottle I brought and spill half of it down the front of my shirt.

  “Shit…” I’m brushing off water, hot with embarrassment, when I hear Woods’ voice.

  “So you guys are gym partners now?”

  My eyes don’t immediately leave Satcher’s face, they linger on the smug set of his lips before I turn my head to look at my former husband.

  “Hello to you too,” I say.

  Woods is annoyed; his eyes always get really small when he’s annoyed. He has a wad of Juicy Fruit in his cheek, and he holds it there while he stares between Satcher and me like we’re two teenagers coming home late from prom. I hold my shirt away from my skin, feeling awkward. I don’t know how the two of them got to this place, but there’s a palpable tension between them.

  “I’ll see you, Billie.” Satcher winks at me before moving away, never actually acknowledging Woods’ presence.

  I watch him go, disappointed. We’d been having fun, even if he was teasing me. I’m not the only one staring at him; half of the female gym in the vicinity turn their
heads as he passes by.

  “That’s something I never expected,” Woods says.

  “What?” I’m still watching Satcher’s back.

  “My best friend and my ex-wife…”

  My attention snaps back to Woods and I want to laugh—I do. I am so far from Satcher’s type it is upsetting to think about. I almost correct him and then think better of it. Let Woods think there is something going on between me and Sasquatch. I raise my eyebrows in a what-in-the-world way.

  Woods sighs. “I better get to work.”

  I start to walk away and he calls after me.

  “Hey, Billie!”

  “Yeah.”

  “You look ... great.”

  I suppress my smile. “Thanks. You too.” And then it takes everything in me to walk away. I can feel his eyes roving ... roving, but I keep walking. Slow and steady wins the race.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I catch the red-eye to San Francisco alone. Everyone else flew out yesterday, but we are launching the newly branded F*ck Marriage next week, and I still have to finalize a lot of the details with Dave, who stayed behind to keep things running. Now with an hour to go before the luncheon, the first of the events, I have clothes strewn all over the hotel bed and zit cream on my chin. What are the chances I have a huge event and get a zit for the first time in two years? I glance at my outfit options for the day.

  I selectively packed things from Jules’ closet, knowing I’d have to wear them since they were all I brought. Now, looking down at the tight black pants with a sheen that makes them look oil-slicked, I feel a wave of apprehension. Maybe this isn’t me. I pull them on anyway, despite my loud inner protesting, and put on the emerald green halter top I brought to pair it with. I look good. Really good. But not like me.

  Something about having your heart broken and getting divorced gives you a raw sort of edge. I feel like Sandy in Grease when she dons her leather pants and fuck-me heels and goes to reclaim Danny with her new attitude. This is who I am on the inside, and it will just take a little practice to get comfortable expressing it with my (Jules’) wardrobe.