I’m preparing for the worst, a real tongue-lashing, when he says— “He went to Tulum. I told him to barge in on the wedding and object, but you know what a gentleman Satcher is.”
“Yeah,” I say weakly. “I do.”
“You better hurry. If I were him I’d be hitting up the strip clubs and whores…”
I hear Jennifer’s sharp rebuke and then Mr. Gable yelps. “I’m in trouble now, Billie. I guess I shouldn’t tell her that I gave him money for a decent whore … OUCH!”
Jennifer’s voice comes back on the line as she confiscates the phone from her husband.
“Billie,” she says. “Don’t go after him unless you mean it.”
“Mrs. Gable…”
“Yes.”
“I mean it.”
“Okay. You better hurry. He’s going to be very drunk in a few hours.”
She gives me the rest of the information I’ll need to find him and I hang up after a tearful thank you. Then I book a flight to Mexico. I don’t have time to change, or to pack. If I want to make the flight I have to leave now.
Chapter Forty-One
Satcher
Mexico has run out of sun but thankfully still has an abundance of tequila. The thunderstorms, which the weather channel says will continue throughout the week, match my mood. I drop my bags at the rental and head out to find liquor. On my way out, I drop the button baby Billie gave me in a grate closest to the street and twist off the cap to an airline bottle of vodka. I tip it over the garishly colored Christmas present and then light a match, dropping it ceremoniously. I watch it burn through narrowed eyes, the plastic popping and melting underneath the flames.
I don’t want to think about Billie, but she married Woods and the pain is hard to avoid. My heart has been sick for eleven years. I don’t remember what it’s like not to love her. I’d rather have physical pain than this aching of the heart.
By the time the flames have died there is a rainbow of melted plastic covering the grate like melted crayons.
“Fuck you,” I tell it.
I step over the grate where the button baby lies face up, charred but still colorful enough to mock me. In minutes, the rain has soaked through my T-shirt. I find a mini mart and fill a basket with the essentials, stopping on my way out to buy tamales from a taqueria. When I get back to the house I change my shirt and unpack my purchases. I’m about to make myself lunch when there’s a knock on the door.
When I open the door, Billie is standing on the threshold. Her hair is dripping water onto her shoulders and her arms are wrapped protectively around her waist. I blink in shock, wondering how a fourth of whiskey got me drunk enough to imagine my heartbreaker on my doorstep. Upon closer look, I see the dark that rings her eyes, and how her bottom lip, fuller than the top, is chapped. This is no fantasy Billie. She looks anxious—one fist clenched against her stomach, her eyes blinking rapidly, the way they do when her mind is going a mile a minute. A quick glance shows a discarded duffel bag lying on the path behind her where she dropped it to knock. We stare at each other for an awkward minute before I finally speak.
“You’re supposed to be on your honeymoon.”
“Yeah,” she says with a shrug.
The shrug could be seen as dismissive, but I notice the way her shoulders curve toward me. She’s in pain.
“So why are you here?”
Her little chin juts out. I’ve seen her do that a million times and it never gets old.
“I called off my wedding,” her voice trembles, “because I’m in love with you. I’ve felt this way for a long time, I just never wanted to admit it. So if you love me, let me in. Otherwise, just slam this door in my face and I’ll be on my way—” Her voice drops off, leaving room for the possibility. I consider the slam, I do. A man can only take so much. But she looks so devastated standing there in the rain, dripping on my doormat, that I don’t slam the door.
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest and narrowing my eyes at her. She squirms and I enjoy it in the way a burned man enjoys such things.
“So let me get this straight. If I love you, I let you in, and if I don’t love you, I slam the door in your face and I never have to see you again?”
She nods.
“Ever, ever again…?” I reiterate.
She presses her lips together and I think she might cry.
“Ever, ever.”
I step aside. Relief floods her face. She grabs onto me, wrapping her arms around my torso and pressing her face into my chest. I kiss the top of her head. Billie cries against me for a long time, her tears soaking through my shirt. I figure she has years of tears to let out and she’s allowed to take her time. Tears for a lost marriage, tears for fear, and sadness, and relief. When she’s exhausted her saltwater supply, I lift her chin with my thumbs and study her face.
“I’ve loved you for a very long time, Billie.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.”
“I guess I’ve never really been good at listening,” she says.
“Well, I love you.”
“What have you been doing with all those girls then?”
The corner of my mouth pinches up in a smile, but Billie is frowning at me. I put on a serious face and clear my throat.
“Looking for you. In every one of them.”
Her bottom lip disappears under her teeth as she blinks at me, and I can tell she has something she needs to say.
“I don’t think I ever want to get married again, Satcher,” she says seriously.
“Fuck marriage, Billie. I only want you. I don’t care what form that comes in.”
“Okay,” she says.
She hugs me again and I breathe her in. It’s hard to describe what I’m feeling. I’m scared. She has hurt me, and she has the power to hurt me more. To keep hurting me. But apparently that is the nature of love, a big fucking risk. I hold my risk close, stroking her back.
“I have tamales,” I tell her when we finally separate.
“Real ones?”
“We’re in Mexico, of course they’re real ones.” I lead her over to the little wicker table and chairs and open the container, handing her a fork.
Billie eats like she hasn’t eaten in a month. I open a beer and sit back and watch her.
“How did you find me?”
“Your mom.”
“No, she would never…”
“Fine, it was your dad. And he got in a lot of trouble for telling me where you were.”
She wipes her palms on the leg of her jeans and looks at me squarely.
“Satch, I never slept with Woods the time I told you I did. I was trying to make you hate me.”
“Good job.”
Her smile is pained. “I’m sorry.”
I study her face, her posture. She looks like a woman who desperately needs to be believed.
“I broke up with Willa the night you walked me to the bar.”
“You pretended to date her for weeks after that.”
“Yes.” I take another sip of beer and then Billie takes the bottle from my hand and finishes it off.
“Why did you break up with her?” She licks her lips and goes to the fridge, grabbing two more beers. Setting one in front of me, she slides back into her seat.
“Because I saw the two of you next to each other and she paled in comparison.”
Her face registers surprise. She stares at me for a few beats like she’s expecting me to yell Gotcha!
“A supermodel paled in comparison next to me?” She laughs, but I don’t.
“Yes, Wendy,” I say. “Everyone pales in comparison to you.”
She sets down her beer. “Are you being for real?”
“I’m being for real.”
She stands up and straddles me. Now it’s my turn to be surprised.
“Don’t ever call me that again, Sasquatch,” she says, lowering herself onto my legs.
I wrap my hands around her waist and kiss her nose. “
Okay, Wendy.”
I think she’s going to kiss me but then she rests her head on my shoulder instead.
“Satcher, did you burn the button baby?”
“Yes.”
She sighs. “That was special.”
“That’s why it needed to go.”
I run my hands up her back, palms pressing, fingers kneading. It feels good to have her close. She breathes deeply and after a few minutes I realize that she’s asleep. I laugh into her shoulder.
“Guess what, Billie?” I say into her hair. She doesn’t even stir, just keeps breathing deeply.
“I lied earlier. We are going to get married. And we’re going to have a couple of babies. Don’t overthink it. I’m just letting you know.”
She murmurs in her sleep, and I stand up and carry her to the bedroom. When I lay her down on the bed she rolls onto her side and curls up into a little ball. I’m going to have to go back to the store so I can cook her a proper dinner. Draping a blanket over her sleeping form, I kiss her softly.
“Satcher…” she says as I’m closing the door. I open it a crack and peer in just in case she’s talking in her sleep. “Don’t forget the ice.”
Acknowledgments
Christine Estevez, Erica Russikoff, Serena Knautz and Amy Holloway for your input and work. Lori Sabin for being the first and last person to see every one of my books. Kim Holden for that amazing e-mail. Claire and Colleen for always going above and beyond. Mom and Jeff for all the babysitting and meals. Maripili, Traci Finlay, and Josh for the details. The readers who stick with me through every genre and season of life. And as always, thanks to the PLNs.
Tarryn Fisher
www.tarrynfisher.com
F*ck Marriage Page 26