Page 22 of F*ck Marriage

“This was supposed to be on me,” I say.

He lifts the last of his drink to his lips. “Welcome back to New York,” he says dryly.

I glance over at Woods’ table and see that they’re gone. A server is setting the table for the next reservation. I’m disappointed.

“Want to get another drink at the bar?” I’m looking toward the bar to see if there are any available seats.

“No.”

My head jerks back around. Satcher is signing his receipt, scribbling in the tip amount. He won’t look at me.

“Why not?”

“Because I did my good deed for the night,” he says. “You needed me for whatever this was and now we’re done.”

“Satch…” I say. “It’s not like that.”

“Yeah, it is.” He stands up, tucking his money clip back into his pocket. I want to reach out, grab him, tell him he means so much to me, but instead I just stand there dumbly.

“Night, Wendy.” His lips meet my cheek and then he’s gone.

Ifeel it. My selfishness is growing inside of me like a mass. It’s starting to pool out. I look at my feet where all my ugly should be in a puddle; instead, there’s only concrete floors and my cheap heels.

I leave The Modern, my dinner sitting heavy in my stomach. I’m making a mess of everything. Satcher is currently my only friend and he’s angry with me. And can I even blame him? I used him tonight, and no matter how aloof and detached I view him to be, he is a human being with feelings. I remember where he lives and decide to rush him with my apology. I head there now, still a little buzzed from my last drink. I’ve always been impressed by his apartment.

While the rest of his friends (me) were bottom-feeding, Satcher had already bought his first place. Always two grown-up steps ahead of the rest of us. And it isn’t that he comes from money—he claims he was at the right place at the right time, which happened to be New York City before the financial crash. He’d gotten out just in time, his bank account lush, and his heart set on buying his first start-up company.

Satcher is smart and he can turn things to gold simply by investing in them, which is why I’d sold him my half of Rhubarb. If I was going to walk away from my beloved blog it would be to sell it to someone with the Midas touch.

The sidewalk outside of his building is empty, aside from a cab idling against the curb. I wonder if it’s waiting for Satcher, but then the door swings open and a pair of long legs unfold onto the asphalt.

“Woods,” I breathe.

He doesn’t see me right away. His eyes are trained on Satcher’s building, a strange expression on his face. I come up behind him not knowing exactly what to do. Do I call out to him? Tap him on the shoulder? What is he doing here anyway? I decide to wait until he notices me. I flit up the sidewalk behind him, dodging an overturned paper cup spilling neon blue slushy. Satcher has a doorman and he eyes us both as we approach. Woods senses someone behind him and turns. I process his look of shock, which turns to appreciation as he eyes my legs.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I wouldn’t exactly call his voice cold, but it is definitely suspicious.

“Fuck off. What areyoudoing here?”

My switcharoo works. He looks flustered.

“I need to talk to Satch,” he says.

He waits for me to announce why I’m here, but I set my jaw to let him know it’s not going to happen. We breeze past the doorman and into the foyer and then we freeze, awkward.

“Where’s Pearl?” I ask.

“Home.”

“Did you fight?”

He frowns, looking annoyed. “How did you know that?”

“I know you,” I say. “Like the back of my hand.”

He purses his lips and nods.

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