Page 17 of F*ck Marriage

“Billie, you don’t deserve that. Not after ... what we did. So, I’ll talk to her. And I’m sorry.”

I’m shocked into silence, during which time Woods heads for the door. I watch his retreating back. He sounded ... genuine. An almost apology, I think.

I understand that he’s moved on with his life, and that I’m supposed to too, but the fact that he’s taking Pearl to Portugal feels like one of the sharpest blows since the divorce. Portugal?Really, you piece of shit?The place we had an entire folder dedicated to? We’d both add articles, restaurant reviews, and the occasional hundred-dollar bill for spending money. Portugal was ours, along with our plans for a sheltie puppy that we were going to name Annie, and the house we’d build with a winding metal staircase that led to our bedroom. We’d made plans that had been specific and special to us as a couple, or at least I thought so. What I am now realizing is that those plans had been Woods’ all along, they weren’t for me specifically. He made me feel special, but I hadn’t been. I was an enhancement to the life he wanted, not the partner with whom he wanted to weather any storm in life; a side dish rather than the entrée.

My jealousy is consuming; I’m ashamed to say that it’s eating at me. Woods notices the difference. He’s always watching me, and I know he’s wondering what’s going on in my head. When he finally asks about it I’m leaving the office for the day. He catches me near the elevator. I can smell him before I see him; the familiar cologne and Woods’ smell, tinged around the edges with the faint sweetness of Juicy Fruit. I roll my eyes, mainly because I know I’m cornered.

“Billie.” He tries to make his voice sound surprised. Like he ran into me rather than chasing me down.

“Oh hey,” I say casually. A yawn arrives at the perfect time and I make a show of covering it up.

“How’ve you been?” he asks as soon as we’re both in the elevator. “I feel like you’re a million miles away.”

“I’m a million miles away from you,” I say without looking at him.

“Ouch. What did I do now?”

I sigh. I really don’t want to get into it. It’s been a long week. We’re reaching our quarterly deadline, and the work to get everything up and ready has nearly wiped me out. Rhubarb is three times the size of what it used to be and I’m not even working for myself anymore. It feels a little like I’m putting quarters in Woods’ and Satcher’s piggy bank, but unless you own your own company that’s generally what the workforce is like.

“It’s fine, Woods. Nothing new.”

He’s quiet until the doors to the elevator slide open, and right as I’m about to step out, he speaks. “I’m sorry. For whatever it is.”

I turn and glare at him sharply. Apologies are annoying when youwantto be mad.

“No, you’re not. That’s the worst part.”

“God, Billie. I’m a fuck-up, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy hurting people.”

One corner of my mouth lifts into my cheek. I was so sure of my anger, but Woods’ specialty has always been making me feel like shit for thinking he’s shit.

I’m bubbling on the inside, and not in the good full-of-joy way; all of my negative emotions are at a boil. I’m a pot of anger, resentment, jealousy, and bitterness, and I’m coming precariously close to all of those things boiling over the top, burning anyone near. He follows me out of the elevator and onto the street. We emerge into rush hour like two toddlers, teetering and dodging the stream of stony-faced New Yorkers. Somehow, we’re headed in the same direction even though I know Pearl and Woods share an apartment five blocks heading the other way.

“Where are you going?” I ask suspiciously. I don’t want to talk to him, but no matter how fast I walk he’s keeping up. At this rate, I’m going to have to run out into traffic to lose him.

“I’m walking you home,” he says.

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and someone slams into my right shoulder.

“You’ve never walked me home. Not even when we were married.”

“Well, I should have,” he says. He says it with so much conviction I blink at him, shocked.

“What?” I say this dumbly, like my mouth and brain are stuffed with cotton.

“I should have walked you home. And I should have paid more attention to what you loved, not what I thought you should love. And I should have treated you like you needed protecting even if you didn’t.”

I look around trying to discern if I’m dreaming or if this is really happening. To my left is a Subway restaurant and across the street is an Urban Outfitters; neither of these things would ever make it into my dreams.

Woods’ face is undeniably sincere.He has a sincere face, I remind myself. It’s not necessarily that he’s being sincere. Woods is a golden retriever; even if a golden retriever has rabies you’d be tempted to reach out and pet it because—hellooo—golden retriever. My boil calms to a simmer. I let him walk me home. We don’t speak much because it’s hard to have a serious conversation when you’re walking through the mass noise of New York. When we arrive outside of Jules’ building, he bends down to give me a kiss on the cheek, and then he just walks away.

I swipe at my cheek every few minutes, but the spot he kissed stings for over an hour. I call Jules, who answers on the third ring, her voice sleepy.

“Sup?” she slurs.

I can hear her checking the time. She’s only a few hours ahead, but in college we called her the nap queen.

“Jules,” I say. And it’s all I have to say. She knows.

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