F*ck Marriage

by Fisher, Tarryn

  “Mr. Tarrow?” A nurse steps in, jarring me from my thoughts. “Your mother is here to see Billie.”

  “Let her in,” I say.

  A minute later, Denise walks through the door.

  “Hello, son,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Just coming to sit with Billie and her husband…”

  I stare at Denise, who was like a second mother to me growing up. We still have the type of relationship where she smacks my arm if I give her attitude, and she kisses me on the cheek affectionately every time she sees me. This time, however, I don’t get a kiss.

  “Hello, Denise,” I say dryly.

  “I saw my son in the lobby,” she offers. “He was fuming.”

  “Yeah?” My voice is bored.

  “I wonder,” she walks over to Billie’s bedside and frowns down at her, “if he’s mad at you or himself?”

  I don’t answer. This is how Denise communicates, with observations and statements. You are meant to deduct your own meaning and comment if you feel up to it; otherwise, she just keeps going.

  She reaches out a hand to smooth Billie’s hair, and suddenly, I wish someone would touch me, tell me everything's going to be all right.

  “Woods is a lot like his father. He always comes back to his truth.”

  I want to tell her that she’s giving Woods way too much credit … he has no idea what his truth is.

  “A person can’t be your truth,” I say.

  Denise looks at me in surprise. I don’t know if she’s feigning it or if she's genuinely surprised by my statement. “Can’t they?”

  I falter and then say, “No,” firmly.

  She purses her lips nodding slowly. “So Billie isn’t your truth?”

  It feels like I just stuck my finger into a light socket; a current of electricity surges through my body.

  “She isn’t the one you’ve been holding everyone else against?”

  I say nothing. How does she know that? Woods’ mother is a witch.

  “Our truth is something we know about ourselves without a doubt. It’s woven into our DNA.”

  “Loving someone can’t be in your DNA,” I say.

  “Really? Then why can’t you get it out? Get Billie out?”

  I’m breathing hard now. If she comes close, she’ll be able to see my nostrils flaring with the effort it’s taking to keep my emotions under wrap.

  “You’ve dated everyone under the sun, and you keep coming back to Billie. Am I right?”

  I don’t answer.

  “She’s there now. All the time. Part of who you are. What you hold love against.”

  I don’t understand why she’s saying all of this until she makes her next statement.

  “That’s who Woods is to Billie. And who Billie is to Woods.”

  Everything in me goes cold and stiff. I feel like I’ve just turned to wood, and not in the good way.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I say to Denise. “I’m going to head home for a few hours if you’ll be with her.”

  She waves me away, her eyes already on Billie. I can’t get out of there fast enough.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Satcher…” Billie’s arm is frozen midair, her fingers still clutching her phone when she looks at me. She’s just hung up with Jules and I’m assuming Jules has told her.

  “Satcher,” she says again, and this time her tone edges on impatience, “you broke up with Jules five days before Christmas ... over the phone?”

  “Yes.”

  She slams her phone down on the table and hobbles over. The bruises on her face have mostly faded; the color painting the underside of her eyes is a dull yellow. I watch the anger dance in her eyes as she glares up at me like a defiant child.

  “What the hell were you thinking, you insensitive prick? You can’t just treat people like that!” She’s tossing things around, lifting jackets and the stack of paper bags I set aside for recycling. I want to ask her what she’s looking for, but I’m too amused watching her. Finally, she finds it, a box wrapped with candy cane paper. The smile drops from my face as I watch Billie frown down at it. Jules had left the present before I set up the tree and made me promise to wait until she got back to open it. She said it was our present together. I’d meant to put it under the tree, but then I got preoccupied with Billie staying with me and forgot about it.

  “What are you doing?”

  Billie is rolling the package around in her hands thoughtfully.

  “Nothing. Jules just wanted me to retrieve this for her.”

  “Retrieve? Did Jules say the word retrieve?”

  “Yes,” Billie says without looking up.

  So I am a transaction now. Jules has reverted to business speak, her way of being cold. The knife slices through the lemon skin, spraying a mist of vinegar. I can feel Billie’s eyes on me again, hot and angry.

  “What, Billie? Spit it out.”

  “I don’t know if I want to,” she says. “This is awkward and I’m in the middle of two friends...”

  “Drink.”

  “What?” Her eyes are glazed over as she stares at me in confusion.

  “I made you a drink.”

  Her face contorts like she’s not sure she wants to take my drink. In the end, she reaches out to grasp the stem looking disgusted with herself. Billie can’t say no to alcohol. It’s her vice.

  “Only because it’s a lemon drop,” she says.

  She takes a sip and I can tell she’s half expecting it to be disappointing because her face is surprised after her first swallow. I raise my eyebrows in question and she blinks in annoyance.

  “What? It’s good, okay?”

  “You’re so angry about it,” I say, turning away to hide my smile.

  “Because I’m annoyed with you, Satcher ... because you’re ... annoying.”

  “Have you ever thought there’s a reason you find me so annoying?” I lean my forearms on the counter in front of her and she does good work avoiding eye contact. I watch as she toys with some stray granules of sugar on the counter, picking them up with the pad of her finger and then rolling them around.

  “All of a sudden?” She rolls her eyes. “And no. Some people just are annoying.”

  “Is that right?” I straighten up, propping my hands on my hips as I stare at her. “You’ve never complained before…”

  “What are you saying?”

  I can’t keep the grin off of my lips and she’s avoiding looking at me because of it. I want to tell her that I know her so well. That when she likes something she pretends she doesn’t just to test her own self-control. That the fact that I’ve just made her the world’s greatest lemon drop makes her angry because she’s looking for reasons to be mad at me.

  “I don’t want to put words in your mouth, Billie, but I once heard you say that you’re turned on by men who can mix a great drink.”

  “I was drunk when I said that. I didn’t mean it. And stop using my own words against me.”

  She slides off the barstool, testing her ankle cautiously on the ground before taking a step. She’s halfway to the living room when she swivels back around, having forgotten her glass.

  “Just because I don’t want to waste,” she says, hobbling back over. “Men who have girlfriends shouldn’t make other women drinks.”

  I laugh louder than I intended. “I didn’t know that was a thing,” I say. “You’re so spiteful on pain meds.”

  Her mood only gets worse when I make dinner. By the time I’m clearing the dishes away she’s despondent and glaring at everything but me. I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but I am.

  “Go to bed,” I say.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” she snaps. “I’m an adult.”

  I raise my eyebrows as I finish emptying the dishwasher. “Well, it was a suggestion, but if you’d rather stay up all night, be my guest.” I slam the dishwasher shut and head to the living room, but she calls me back.

  “Satcher!”

  “What?”

  She shakes her empt
y glass at me.

  “No more,” I tell her. “That was a treat. You’re on too many pain meds.”

  “Ugh!” She storms off to the bedroom and slams the door. An adult temper tantrum.

  I smile, remembering the perils of growing up with six sisters, the constant yelling and slamming of doors. The more ridiculous she is, the more I’m endeared. The realization makes me shifty ... uncomfortable.

  Two hours later, I am sitting with my legs propped on the ottoman getting ready to start a movie when I hear the bedroom door open. She appears in the doorway and I keep my eyes averted to the TV. My chest is bare since I was anticipating bed—the only thing I’m wearing are the flannel Christmas pajama bottoms my mother faithfully sends every year. Without looking up, I pat the seat next to me. She only hesitates for a moment before coming over. I’m surprised when she curls next to me, more surprised when she places her head in my lap. When she starts to cry, my hands automatically find her hair, her face, her back. I stroke and rub as she weeps and weeps.

  “I’m sorry,” she says finally. Her voice is tear-clogged. “For being an ass.”

  I don’t say anything. I rub her back as Will Ferrell pours syrup over his spaghetti.

  “Satcher,” she says.

  “Yeah…”

  “You’re a really good man. Thank you.”

  I get up to make her another lemon drop.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The next morning I find Billie already sitting at the island, staring into a cup of coffee. It’s three days until Christmas and I want to propose an outing that could potentially cheer her up.

  “Will you let me put a smile on your face today?” I ask, stepping around her to the coffee pot.

  She looks up slowly and I see her eyes are still puffy from last night. It only adds to her beauty unfortunately, and I look away to avoid obvious staring.

  “Satcher…”

  “Don’t,” I say, holding up a hand. “Whatever excuse you’re going to shoot at me, just let it go, and let me put a smile on your face today.”

  Her face contorts as she struggles with her answer. I hold my breath—that’s a thing—I actually hold my breath waiting for her answer.

  “But, there’s something you should know—”

  “I don’t want to know anything. I just want to do Christmas shit and see you smile.”

  “That’s so cheesy.” She sighs.

  “Good idea. We should do fondue for dinner. I know a place…”

  “Satcher!”

  “Shut up,” I say. “Get ready.”

  For whatever reason, she obeys, shuffling off to my bedroom to get ready. When she emerges twenty minutes later, she’s wearing a floor-length black dress that’s long enough to cover the boot on her left foot. She has her leather jacket thrown over one arm, and in the other, she’s holding a scarf and hat. To hide the bruises around her eyes, she’s put on dark smoky makeup and bright red lipstick.

  “Wow, you look like college Billie,” I say.

  She grins. “Emo Billie then?”

  I fist bump her in response and suddenly, I feel scruffy and underdressed.

  “Ten minutes,” I say. “I have to go change.”

  She settles on a stool at the island in the kitchen, propping her good foot on the stiles of the stool and planting her boot flat on the floor. My bedroom smells like Billie: her perfume, her skin, her lotions. I step over her duffel bag, which is lying next to my closet doors, clothes piling out of it like spilled organs. I text my doorman instructions and make quick work of changing and putting on cologne, and we’re out the door in under ten minutes. I managed to smuggle my heated blanket under my coat, and when we emerge on the street in front of my building, I slip Fred a twenty and take Billie’s arm to steer her across the icy sidewalk.

  “I’m regretting this already.” She frowns. “It’s cold. Why are we even leaving your nice warm apartment?”

  “Because you’re turning witchy. You need fresh air and Christmas cheer.”

  “Fuck that,” she says. “I need a drink.”

  “And a drink you shall have,” I say, leading her to the curb where our ride is waiting.

  Billie looks past it at first, no doubt searching for a cab. When I step up to the horse-drawn carriage, her laugh rings out, making me warm all over.

  “No. Seriously? Are you for real?”

  She’s pulling off her gloves to fondle the horse’s nose. He charmingly dips his head, licorice-colored lips searching her palm for a treat. The driver (who introduces himself as Phil) gives her a sugar cube and she feeds it to the horse, giggling when he nips her palm searching for more.

  “What’s his name?” I hear her ask. “Oh my God, Peppermint? Are you for real?” she says to the driver. “His name is Peppermint!” she calls out to me.

  Once I’ve helped her into the carriage, I climb in after her and spread the heated blanket around us. The driver shows us where we can find more blankets and hands us a thermos and two cups of hot buttered rum.

  “Oh my God, oh my God!” Billie wriggles in her seat like a little girl, eyes lit up in excitement. “Where are we going? Will he take us to see Rockefeller Center?”

  “He’ll take us wherever we want,” I say.

  “No shit.” Her eyes are large and excited. “I’m going to get so drunk! This is great!”

  The carriage lurches forward. I blink rapidly when Billie finds my hand under the blankets and squeezes softly, her tiny little fingers tangling with mine.

  “Thank you. I forgot what excitement feels like.” Her eyes are misty when I look at her.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Peppermint trots confidently forward while we sip our hot buttered rum and stare at the magic of the city under her Christmas spell. When we pull up to the first pub, Billie’s tossing off her blankets and hiking up her dress so our driver can help her down.

  “You have twenty minutes at each place,” he says, winking at me. “Enough for a quick nip and some kissing.” He has a heavy Irish brogue and even heavier white eyebrows that are collecting snow even as he wags them at me.

  “It’s snowing,” Billie calls from the doorway of the pub.

  I run to catch up to her and we push inside the warm interior of The Dog and the Drink, the smell of stale beer and wood polish replacing the city smells. I watch Billie’s face lit by the lights from the bar and her enjoyment. My father always said that there was nothing more beautiful than my mother’s face when she was excited. He was the type of man who, for my entire childhood, went out of his way to get a favorable reaction from his wife, his newest stunt always outdoing his last. Over the years, I’ve watched him build her a greenhouse, a gazebo, a fire pit with swings around it, a koi pond, and finally, an art studio when she said the spare bedroom didn’t have the right light or enough space.

  Seeing Billie’s face transform over a carriage ride and some beer does something nostalgic and important to my heart. I understand my father in a way I never have before, always discrediting romance as a ploy rather than something pure from the heart. And yet here I am—many women would call me a dick, a prick, a philanderer—baking up ways to make my best friend’s ex-wife swoon. Pathetic.

  We order two pints and stand at the bar drinking our beer out of old-fashioned steins, listening to the eighties music playing over the speakers. When our time is up, we make our way back to Peppermint. Phil is smoking with his back leaning against the horse, watching the front of the pub. Billie asks if she can hold his cigarette. He pulls out his pack to give her one, but she shakes her head.

  “I just need to hold it,” she says.

  He hands it over and she closes her eyes as the smoke wafts toward her face. Phil and I exchange a look, but then she’s handing it back and holding out her arm for help into the carriage.

  “Where to next?” she asks, pulling the blankets to her chin. “Do you think Phil washes these?” she whispers.

  “I do not,” I reply, giving her warning eyes.

  Sh
e pulls my blanket up around us and then lays Phil’s questionable ones over the top of it so they’re not touching us. Under the blankets, her hand reaches for mine.

  “Is that your cigarette hand?” I tease.

  “Shut up.” She smiles. “I miss it, you know? I just want to pretend sometimes.”

  “Pretend you’re on your way to lung cancer! Excellent idea.”

  “God, when did you become such a goody two-shoes?” she asks. “As far as I can remember you used to smoke them with me.”

  “I was just trying to hang,” I say.

  Billie leans forward and calls out to Phil. “I need two fags, Phillip.”

  He looks at her, confused.

  “Cigarettes,” she reiterates, rolling her eyes.

  Phil hands her two Marlboros and his lighter.

  “No, Billie, absolutely not,” I say as she lights one up.

  “For old times’ sake, Sasquatch.”

  She puffs until the cherry glows bright red and turns to stick the remaining cigarette in my mouth. I don’t protest when she leans toward me, allowing her cigarette to light the one propped between my lips. My mouth has no trouble remembering what to do. Billie watches me through slightly narrowed eyes as my cheeks concave to pull the acrid smoke into my lungs. She doesn’t cough at all, but I heave as if this is my first time.

  “Out of practice, old man.” She grins.

  She blows smoke through lips so candy-apple red I want to lean over and taste them. Her lipstick would get all over my face and I would love every second of it. I have more inappropriate thoughts about her lipstick on other parts of my body as we turn a corner and she leans into me. Goddamn. I rub a hand over my face trying to ignore my dick, which is swelling.

  Our cigarettes are stubs now; we pinch them between our fingers as we smile at each other.

  “Just two old people trying too hard,” I tell her, flicking the butt into a grate as we drive by.

  “What? No!” She feigns offense. “We’ve totally still got it!”