“It was a shock to see you. He probably needs some time to sort out his feelings.”
She nods. I pass her a vodka and soda and then proceed to make myself a double.
“I’ve only been gone four months. You’d think he could have waited a little before jumping into something new.”
“That’s not fair,” I tell her. “How abstinent were you in Brazil?”
She snorts, her fingers playing with the condensation on her glass.
“He said he has to talk to her,” she blurts.
I’m about to ask who her is when I remember it’s me. Satcher needs to talk to me. The realization that the very thing that has been making me happy these past weeks is about to go away knots up my insides. I swallow my tears and smile.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, kissing Jules on the forehead. “See you in the morning.”
She’s distracted when she nods. I carry my drink to the bedroom and shut the door quietly behind me. I check my phone and see that Satcher’s called twice. There’s a text from him too:
Call me when you get a minute.
I don’t want to call him. I’d rather delay the inevitable. I put my phone face down on the dresser and climb into bed fully clothed, burying my face in the pillow. Not my pillow—Jules’ pillow. Not my apartment—Jules’ apartment. Not my Satcher—Jules’ Satcher.
I am such a loser.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I don’t see Satcher until work on Monday morning. He’s waiting for me in my office, one coffee sitting on my desk and the other in his hand. I realize that I didn’t even think to make coffee this morning or stop for one on the way; I’ve been dependent on his morning deliveries. It’s become our ritual: lattes in my office before the rest of the staff arrives, some nineties band playing through my speakers.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back.
There’s a dead silence during which I round my desk and sit in my chair. I stare at the paper cup of coffee for lack of anywhere better to look. Rebel Grinds, it says on the cup. A streak of brown runs down the white where the coffee must have spilled over the side. I feel numb, dangerously numb. It’s the type that stays and you learn to live with it. A cruel survival tool that alters who you are, rubbing your emotions down to nubs.
“Billie, can you look at me, please…”
I lift my eyes to his face. No sign of dimples. His eyes are dark like he’s hardly slept. I think about how he sleeps better after he has sex and then my mind immediately goes to Jules and I feel like throwing up.
“You knew,” I say. “You knew I was living in Jules’ apartment and you never mentioned that you were dating her.”
“Past tense. We were seeing each other before she left. We ended things. Why would I bring that up?”
“Because I’m living in your ex-girlfriend's apartment!”
“Stop it, Billie. She’s your friend.”
I do stop it, because he’s right. But it feels like the type of situation I need to sulk over. I pick up the coffee he brought me, take a sip. Smacking my lips together I make a decision. I won’t let this get in the way of what I came back for. Satcher has sidetracked me. A small romantic reprieve that was shut down before it went too far.
“It was a bad idea anyway, Satch. Let’s just forget about it, okay?”
“I’m not forgetting about it,” he says. “I don’t want to.”
“Fine,” I say, standing up. “I’ll forget about it and you can remember it fondly while you fuck my roommate.”
I know it’s hurtful, but I want to hurt him. It seems that I can’t get it right no matter what I do. There’s always another woman—a better woman to take my place.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I march out of my office to get away from Satcher. Loren has arrived to her desk, her bicycle helmet still on her head. She’s unpacking her book bag. I watch as she unloads a can of soup, a beat-up S’well bottle, and a stack of file folders. She jumps when she sees me. “What the—”
“Sorry,” I say.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Satcher leave my office. He looks my way, but I keep my eyes glued to Loren.
“Trouble in paradise?” Her eyes drift between Satcher and me.
I wave her question away, the corner of my mouth tucked in.
“Hey!” I say brightly. “Do you have the numbers ready for next quarter?”
She buys into my change of subject, unhooking the helmet from under her chin while rifling through the folders on her desk with her free hand. Once I have the budget under my arm, I circle back to my office. Empty. I shut the door behind me and hope everyone leaves me alone for a few hours.
I get home that night to find Jules pacing the hall. It looks like she hasn’t bothered to shower or get dressed for the day. Her hair is in a messy braid, pieces pulling free from the rest in little tails; a day’s worth of mascara is flecked and smudged beneath her eyes.
I drop the bags of groceries I carried in and go to her.
“What is it?” I ask. “Has something happened?”
“I think I made a mistake. He doesn’t want me. I shouldn’t have come back.” A sob escapes her throat.
Career-oriented, driven Jules, crying over a man. I’ve never seen her like this. I falter, not sure how to comfort her. For the boy-crazy friend: He was a douche! You’ll meet someone better! But I can guarantee Jules has never felt this way before, so the normal pep talk won’t count.
“Is this the first time you’ve been in love?”
I see the answer in her eyes when she looks at me, and I feel a fresh wave of guilt for not telling her the truth. Most of us, by the time we are Jules’ age, have weathered through several heartbreaks. We become old pros at hurt. Our breakup playlists are saved to Spotify, and we know exactly where to find our comfort ice cream in the freezer section.
“I thought I was being so romantic, coming back here like things would just pick up where we left off…” Her nose is pink. “I’m so stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” I say. “You’re beautiful and you did a brave thing.”
“Yeah, well, lot of good it did me…”
My own feelings pushed to the side, I want to shake Satcher. How could he let a girl like Jules get away? I shake my head at her. Reaching for her braid, I pull out the hair tie and begin untangling it, running my fingers through the dirty blonde waves. I’m dabbing at her eyes with my sleeve when the intercom buzzes. Jules reaches over to press the button.
“Jules, open up. It’s me.” We both freeze at the sound of Satcher’s voice.
“He’s here? Oh my God.” She jumps up from the stool, staring down in horror at her bathrobe. There is a sizeable coffee stain down the front. She looks from me to the door in panic.
“Go,” I say. “I’ll keep him busy.”
She smiles at me gratefully then runs for the bathroom. I take a moment to steel myself before swinging the door open.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me. He’s wearing old Levis, ripped in the knee, and a Yankees T-shirt on top. I can make out the outline of the muscles I was fondling just days ago. I close my eyes against the memories.
“Can we talk?”
I glance over my shoulder at the bathroom door. I can hear the shower running. “You have ten minutes.”
He follows me into the living room. I take the armchair. Folding my legs under me, I hug a pillow to my chest and stare at him expectantly. I might cry, huge possibility.
“I have feelings for you—” he starts.
I want to shove my hands against his mouth so he can’t say any more, but I sit still, biting down so hard my jaw aches.
“—I don’t want to stop seeing you, Billie.”
I stare at the hair on his arms, at the bright white tennis shoes he never took off. He always takes his shoes off when he comes over.
“Before she left ... before I came back, did you think you could fall in love with her?”
My ears strain to hear the shower, but it’s b
een replaced with the sound of the blow dryer.
“Yes…” He pauses. “But that was before. Things have changed.”
“Nothing’s changed,” I say. “I can’t hurt my friend, Satcher. She’s all I have left.”
“You have me.”
I swallow. I can hear his hurt. He’s my ex-husband’s best friend; my best friend is in love with him. It doesn’t matter what I feel.
“It’s over, okay? It just ... can’t happen.”
He stares at me, not saying anything, his eyes dark with anger…regret…? I don’t know. I stand up. I need to leave the room before he sees me cry.
“She’s in there scrambling to get ready... ” I pause. “I suggest you take her out for a nice dinner. She’s a good person…” My voice trails off.
Satcher looks away. “I know that.”
“Good. Don’t hurt her.”
I pass Jules in the kitchen as she walks toward the living room where I left Satcher just a moment ago. She smiles at me excitedly and does a little spin so I can check her outfit: tight jeans and a simple white top. Her hair is still a little damp, hanging in soft tendrils around her face. She’s only put on a little mascara and some lip gloss, but she looks effortlessly beautiful. I give her the thumbs-up, my smile immediately dropping as soon as she can’t see my face.
I hear him greet her, the deep timbre of his voice making my heart ache. Oh well, I think. It could have been good, but now we’ll never know…
In the bathroom I lean my forehead against the mirror, which is still fogged over from Jules’ shower. With my eyes closed, I roll my head from side to side, my fingers pressed to the wall. I feel like I’m being dramatic but also that I have a right to be. Five minutes of drama and then I’ll sort myself out, I promise myself.
“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay... ” I say to no one.
No one would believe me anyway.
Chapter Twenty-Four
For the next two weeks I excel in avoidance. If there were trophies for dodging two people, it would belong to me. My stomach feels continuously volatile: acid and anxiety. To distract myself, I take long walks, staring up at the skyscrapers that shoot from the ground pistonlike. I stay out late after work frequenting the same dive Woods and I ended up in on our first date. After a week, the bartender raises one meaty finger in the air to acknowledge that he’s seen me then brings over a lemon drop without me having to ask.
“I like your face tattoo,” I say.
The only acknowledgment that he’s heard me is the slight raising of his eyebrows. He walks back behind the bar without a word. I suck at making friends.
On weekends, I get up early, sneaking out before Jules can ask where I’m going. When she comments one day that she’s hardly seen me, I lie and tell her that I’ve started dating again. The excitement on her face breaks my heart. She genuinely wants me to be happy. I’m lucky to have a friend like her, which makes the fact that I’ve slept with the man she’s in love with even worse. I buy pot from a guy in Central Park with four fingers on his right hand, and I smoke on Jules’ fire escape, flushing the nubs of joints down the toilet.
I come home late one night after an exhausting day of work, sure that they won’t be there, but when I close the door, I see his shoes parked neatly next to Jules’—tennis, which means he probably stopped here after the gym. Music is playing in the kitchen, Billie Holiday. I back up a step, planning my escape, an excuse ready on my lips if either of them catches me.
“Billie!”
I turn slowly toward the kitchen, my face neutral. Jules stands in the space between the kitchen and the small dining room, a spatula in hand. She’s wearing a side pony and knee socks and I can’t help but smile.
“I’m making dinner,” she says. “You have to eat it or my feelings will be hurt. I won’t take no for an answer. We can smoke some of your pot after dinner.” She smirks.
I feel my face growing warm. She knew all along. I almost sniff my clothes to see if that’s how she caught me.
“You’re not the only one who enjoys the marijuana, Billie,” she says, rolling her eyes.
I only hesitate for a moment before kicking off my heels and following her cautiously into the kitchen. Satcher is seated on a barstool still in his workout gear. When he sees me, he stands. Such a gentleman, I think. I want to roll my eyes, but my chest hurts.
He’s looking at me with too much familiarity, too much softness. Are the corners of his mouth tucked in like he’s forcing normalcy, or is that my imagination? I stare longingly at my bedroom door wondering what excuse I can come up with to disappear behind it.
“How’ve you been?” he asks this softly as Jules bangs around at the stove.
Sad. Pathetic. Mopey.
“Great.”
“Good.” He looks at me carefully like he’s trying to uncover some truth I’m not saying.
I suppose he’s right to think that.
“No one's ever gone to such great lengths to avoid me,” he says.
It’s not a complaint; there’s some amusement in his voice.
“It’s because you suck in bed,” I say before I can stop myself.
Satcher chortles and Jules turns from the stove, alarmed.
“She’s funny.” He dips his head toward me and Jules carries on cooking.
I don’t feel like bantering with him so I look away. Jules dances around the kitchen unaware. She’s in an exceptionally good mood. They probably just had sex, which makes me want to vomit.
“Satcher, can you make us drinks?” Jules asks. “Anything you like. I’ll even drink one of those nasty Manhattans you love.”
I watch as he walks to her little bar, lifting glass bottles to examine what she has. She takes a break in cooking to go over and kiss him. Satcher tenses up at first and then bends to kiss her back. I look away.
“Soooo, you gonna tell us about this guy you’ve been seeing?” Jules eyes me through a haze of steam as she empties vegetables into a colander. From the corner of my eye, I see Satcher’s head turn—just a fraction so that his ear faces us.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
Jules frowns. “It’s not Woods that you’re seeing, is it?”
My heart is rapid-fire behind my ribs. “Can we not do this?” I say through my teeth.
Satcher is walking toward us. Saved by the drinks. He puts a glass in front of me a little harder than normal. Some of the liquid sloshes over the side and onto the counter. I pretend not to notice.
It’s a lemon drop.
“What’s that?” Jules asks. Her nose is scrunched up, eyebrows cocked in confusion.
Satcher and I exchange a glance. The warmth in his eyes makes me uncomfortable.
“It’s Billie’s token drink,” he says.
Jules shakes off the last of the water from her hands and picks up her glass, his simple explanation accepted.
“To Billie and her new beginning…” She lifts her glass.
It’s a good lemon drop. I wonder where he learned how to make them and if he learned for me. Of course he didn’t, I think. Silly girl. When dinner is ready, Jules seats us around her little dinette to eat. I force a few bites between my lips, staring only at my plate. Satcher stands up at some point and returns with fresh lemon drops. I see him frown every time he takes a sip and I can’t decide if it’s because he likes it or hates it. Jules talks enough for all three of us, babbling on, oblivious to the weird tension. She calls Satcher “babe” and touches his arm whenever she speaks to him. I watch her elegant fingers knead his arm, his neck; her skin is shockingly white against his. I feel detached from my body like I’m being forced to watch everything happen from above. I can see myself floating up near the ceiling staring down at the teal rug beneath the table, the walnut bookcases that she’s color-coded rather than alphabetized. There’s no way to tell what Satcher is thinking—feeling. I wonder if he’s in his body or floating somewhere else too.
After dinner, I insist they sit while I clear the dishes. I need sp
ace between us even if it’s only the twenty feet to the kitchen. When I look up from the dishwasher, Satcher’s chair is scooted sideways and Jules is sitting on his lap.
I finish up as quickly as I can and make a dash for my room. I crawl into bed pulling the covers over my head. Instead of going to sleep—which is probably what I need to do—I text Woods.
What are you doing?
His reply comes back two minutes later accompanied by a picture.
At a bar. They say hi.
I study the picture. Woods is in the forefront, his arm extended to hold the phone. Behind him are Desi and Xavier, two of our friends from college. Their eyes glow red like bar demons. I look longingly at their drinks, sweating on the bar in front of them, and it’s like Woods reads my mind.
Come down. The guys want to see you.
He texts over the address immediately and I stare at it long and hard. Bad idea?
A burst of laughter leaks underneath my door. I hear Satcher say something and then Jules’ response. I stuff my head underneath my pillow trying to block out the sound of their happiness, and then just as quickly I roll onto my back, phone held above my face.
Okay. I text back. Be there in ten.
The bar is typical: poorly lit, dark wood, a couple of TVs. The guys are lined up with beers in front of them, slouch-shouldered, staring at the screen. Desi spots me first.
“Well, well, well, the prodigal daughter has returned.” He gets off his barstool to hug me. Xavier, who’s never had much to say, gives me a fist bump. I glance at Woods, who is eyeing me up and down, a buzzed smile on his face.
“Hey,” he says. He hooks an arm around my waist and pulls me in, planting a kiss on my cheek.
“You’re drunk.” I laugh, pulling away.
“Not yet.” He turns back to the bartender. “Lemon drop for the lady.”
The bartender makes eye contact with me and I shake my head. No more lemon drops tonight.
“I’ll have a beer,” I say.
He nods and moves away to get my drink. I bullshit with the guys for a few minutes. Desi pulls out his phone and shows me photos of his new baby. His wife and I were friends once upon a time. Woods got custody of the friendship when I left. When the game comes back on, I move down the bar and slide into the seat next to Woods. He nudges my knee with his leg.
F*ck Marriage Page 14