Page 21 of F*ck Marriage

“Hey yourself…” There’s an awkward pause before Woods says—“So you guys just talking about business or is there something more?”

“Excuse me?”

He bounces on his heels, hands in his pockets.

“Just give it to me straight, Billie.”

“Like you gave it to me straight when you started fucking Pearl?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

He drops his gaze, the muscles in his jaw working. He takes a step closer to me so someone can pass behind him. We’re at lover’s distance, our air mingling. I look at his lips and he looks at mine. When we used to kiss I’d feel drunk. He was just that good. His voice is low when he says, “I know you, Billie. It feels like you’ve come back to make trouble.”

I smirk, raising an eyebrow. “Does it now?”

“Woods?” Pearl rounds the corner. When she sees me, her face pales.

Woods’ eyes don’t leave mine. “I’ll be right there,” he says.

I hold his gaze, my chest heaving. “Go,” I say firmly.

His nostrils flare as he holds my gaze for five more seconds, then he turns abruptly and follows Pearl back to their table. I go back into the bathroom to calm down. I’m shaking. I’m a snotty mess when the door to the bathroom swings open. I try to hide my face, embarrassed by my sloppy emotion, but then I see Satcher standing in the doorway. He points to a stall and we both cram in.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Why? What do you think happened?”

“You’re crying.”

“Am I? No, I’m not. I don’t cry.”

We’re practically pressed together, our chests touching.

“Goddammit, Billie…” I smell beer on his breath. I used to love it when Woods’ breath smelled like beer.

It’s like the finest hairline crack suddenly expands into the Grand Canyon. I start sobbing, my fists pressed against my eyes like a child. Satcher has to wedge his arms up around me, and I cry harder because the backs of my calves are touching the toilet and it’s so gross.

“Satch,” I heave. “Why ... did ... I ... come ... back?”

“Billie…” he says it likeBilleee.“This is where you belong. You can’t let anyone chase you from where you belong.”

Satcher is right. I had a friend in Washington whose husband slept with her neighbor. Creepy situation, the woman only bought the house next door to them because she was obsessed with the family. There was some stalking involved. When the entire situation imploded, my friend refused to leave even though she’d have to always see the woman who’d broken her family apart.

“I already did,” I say.

He bends down to rip a piece of toilet paper from the roll. Bunching it up, he dabs at my cheeks and nose. I feel pathetic. He’s technically my boss, and I’m having a nervous breakdown in a toilet stall in front of him.

“But you won’t again. Never again. No one has a right to your happiness. It’s a private thing and you have the right to defend it.”

I nod, mostly because I don’t know what to say to that. Satcher is a fairy godmother when it comes to words. It’s probably why the blog has done so well without me. I straighten my shoulders, determined to salvage what is left of my pride.

“I’m going to clean myself up a little.”

He looks at me hard before reaching behind his back to slide the latch open. As he does so, his arm brushes against my breast and I catch my breath. Luckily, Satcher doesn’t notice my reaction. I hear him greet someone as he leaves the stall and I smile despite how rotten I feel.

When I emerge from the bathroom ten minutes later, Satcher is handing his credit card to the server.

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