Page 24 of F*ck Marriage

I’m empowered by the wordweas we set off, the autumn air just a hair too cold to be without a jacket. Glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, I notice that he’s changed into more casual clothes: jeans, and a polo shirt that fits tight across his chest. I don’t know where we’re headed and I’m too afraid to ask—Satcher looks like a storm cloud waiting to burst. I want to reach out and touch him. Press my fingers into his skin to gauge his anger. I also don’t want him to be angry with me.

“Who’s the girl?” I ask finally.

When he turns his head it’s like he’s shocked to see me walking next to him.

“What?”

“Your date ... who is she?”

“Just some girl. It’s not our first date.”

“Oh,” I say. “Do you like her a lot?”

“I like her enough.”

We walk in silence for a few minutes, the city burning her energy around us. Satcher holds out an arm, stopping me from stepping into the street, and a motor bike whizzes by a second later.

“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I’m just…”

“Distracted?” he offers. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes and that bothers me. I’ve always been really good at making serious, professional Satcher smile—from the eyes. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah,” I say. Though I don’t mean it. Satcher asks raw questions, the kind that make you think uncomfortable thoughts.

“Would you take Woods back, if he really wanted to be with you again?”

I have to talk around the lump in my throat. “I don’t know. Is it okay that I don’t know?” I frown. I’ve thought about it a million times, haven’t I? Fantasized about the possibility of Woods realizing he still wants to be with me, but I never know if it is because I really want it or because I’ve been wronged.

“I don’t know,” Satcher says, looking at me. “Is it?”

“He was my first love,” I say. “There’s something that ties you to your first love, don’t you think? Something that won’t let go.”

He looks at me strangely.

“You’ll find someone and you’ll feel that way about her,” I say.

Satcher looks amused. “Will I now?”

“Yeah. Maybe you’re spending tonight with her. You never know…”

He laughs. “God, I hope so.”

I sneak a look at him, his beautiful jawline shaded by stubble, dimples at full moon. She’s lucky, whoever she is. Satcher has eclectic taste in women. I can’t even imagine who is waiting for him. It could be anyone from a supermodel to a math genius, both of which he’s brought to our dinner parties.

Five minutes later, we stop outside of a trendy bar on Second and shuffle our feet like two teenagers who don’t know what to say to each other.

“Well,” I announce comically, looking around his shoulder into the fancy hipster bar where he’s meeting his date. “It’s no Pimbilly’s Pub…”

For a minute I think he doesn’t remember, the joke flying over his head like the football two teens are tossing back and forth on the sidewalk. But then he laughs—nothing crazy. It’s just a tiny little laugh. The real joy is in his eyes, which are lit up as he looks over the memory.

“Pimbilly’s Pub,” he repeats.

Back when the group of us were broke and in college, we’d meet up at Pimbilly’s every Friday night to celebrate surviving another week of the semester with three-dollar drafts. It was a hole-in-the-wall dive, situated in the same building as a laundromat and one of those nameless food marts that charged five dollars for a half gallon of milk. Outside was one of those giant bins that sold bags of ice bearing an even bigger sign that said: DON’T FORGET THE ICE. We’d shut down the bar and then the group of us would stumble out yelling, “Don’t forget the ice!” as we marched back to the dorms through the snow, or rain, or an especially muggy summer.

“Don’t forget the ice,” Satcher says quietly.

I smile, my foot lifted to take the first step away. I don’t want to leave ... or maybe I don’t want to leavehim.

But, then he says, “Do you think it’s still there?”

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