Page 19 of F*ck Marriage

“Say, you wouldn’t know what restaurant they’re going to tonight, would you?” I ask.

“I know,” Loren says, walking into my office and dropping a stack of fabric samples on my desk.

“You wouldn’t.” Satcher raises an eyebrow.

“I would,” I say, looking expectantly at Loren.

“They’re dining at The Modern.” She winks at me and I grin as she leaves, a smug smile on her face.

“What are you doing tonight, Satch?”

“I presume going to The Modern with you…?”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now work your magic and get us a reservation.”

Since Satcher has slept with most of the eligible women in New York, he has no problem getting us a reservation.

For the sake of time, I agree to meet him in front of the restaurant at seven. I arrive five minutes early and stand awkwardly on the sidewalk, my lower back sweating under Jules’ designer dress. I’d chosen a black dress with a collared neckline and left the buttons open low to show some cleavage. The waist of the dress is cinched and the skirt is flared and short. I had to use my own shoes since Jules’ feet are bigger than mine, and settled on a pair of black heels that wrap around my ankles. I’m nervous, my conscience as knotted as my insides. This is a shady, shitty thing to do.But you came back to New York to be shady and shitty,I remind myself. Two women stand a few feet away from me, smoking. I inch closer to them, sniffing desperately at their air.

“Billie.”

Satcher comes up behind me and I spin around.

“It’s Wen—“

“Nice dress,” he says.

His eyes linger on my cleavage. I blush, struggling to keep my mouth in a neutral line. In high school, Brett Galloway told me I had nice legs despite the fact that I had braces, glasses, and a unibrow. I’d saidthank youand then proceeded to trip over my own feet, skinning my knee in the process. Satcher’s compliment has a similar effect. I stumble slightly over a crack in the sidewalk and thank God he doesn’t seem to notice.

“I wish I could say I missed the conservative Martha Stewart dresses,” he says.

“I did not dress like Martha Stewart,” I say, aggravated. But even as the words leave my mouth I know he’s right. I donated most of them to Goodwill when I moved back to Washington, trading my career-girl wardrobe for practical jeans and fleeces.

I want to tell Satcher that the dress I’m wearing belongs to Jules, but his compliment made me so warm I don’t want to ruin it by admitting I’m not as stylish.

“So what’s the goal tonight?” he asks, holding the door open for me.

“The goal?”

“Pearl ... Woods…”

“Oh.” I frown. I’d almost forgotten we were here for that. I have a fleeting thought that it would be nice to have dinner with Satcher without anything else on the agenda. Satcher smells like a grown-up: spicy and expensive. I think about the cologne Woods uses; half of the men in Manhattan smell like Woods. I used to catch whiffs of it everywhere.

“I’d like to make them uncomfortable,” I say. “Woods’ parents loved me.” I lower my voice. “I guess that’s all—I just want to make them uncomfortable.”

“Puts Pearl at a disadvantage,” he says.

“Exactly.” It’s not until we’re being led to our table that I realize he meant a disadvantage, as if we are competing for the same man. I’m frowning when I hear my name being called. I look up, suddenly pinning a smile onto my face. Of course. That’s why I’m here! Look happy!

Denise Tarrow is a tall, willowy woman, elegant in all the right ways. She graduated from Yale and spent a few years teaching at the University of Georgia before quitting to start a family. When Woods moved to New York, his parents sold their house and followed. Currently, she teaches Art History at NYU and my favorite thing about her: she’s a Taylor Swift groupie. She stands when she sees me, her face lit with emotion. It’s automatic, me walking toward her outstretched arms. I let myself be pulled into her embrace and breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume.

“Billie, Billie!” she exclaims. “I didn’t know you were back in the city … my God, did you know, Woods?” She turns accusingly toward her son who looks like he’s swallowed a goldfish.

I beam at Denise, noting how her eyes are more crinkled at the corners.

“I’ve only been back a few weeks,” I say. “I haven’t really had time to contact anyone.”

“Of course,” she says. “Well, you were missed, my dear girl.” She holds me firmly by my upper arms, looking at my face like she’s trying to see the last two years of hurt. I stare into her grey eyes, my emotions trembling under the surface. I’d loved Woods’ family, it had been easy to love them. From the moment we met, his mother treated me like I was the daughter she’d waited for her whole life. It had been the biggest rush of my life since her son treated me like the woman he’d waited for his whole life.

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