Page 25 of F*ck Marriage

“Pimbilly’s?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“I don’t know. I haven’t been out that way in ages.”

He pulls out his phone and I watch as his fingers move quickly across the screen.

“It’s still there,” he says, pocketing his phone. He seems comforted by this fact. “Hey, thanks for walking me to my date.”

I’ve been dismissed. Our nice moment, short-lived, pops like a soap bubble.

“Chivalry is alive.” I position my hand for a fist bump, but he laughs at me and pulls me into a hug instead.

“See you tomorrow at work,” I say.

Satcher hesitates. He hasn’t let go of me, and I stand frozen to the spot unsure of what to do. If you’ve just apologized for something, it is in bad taste to pull away from the person, even if it’s to allow them to be on their way.

“You sure you’re up for this, Billie? Working at Rhubarb ... seeing them every day?”

I’m not. I may be in over my head. Iamin over my head. But it would take me weeks and maybe months to find another job, and there is something comforting about being back at the blog I created. It reminds me of who I can be if I try.

“Yes,” I say confidently. “One hundred percent.”

He lets me go and nods, slowly looking toward the bar. “All right then.”

“I can handle it.”

He looks less than sure, but I pin on my most dazzling smile.

“I’ll bring the coffee tomorrow,” I say for good measure.

I hear someone say his name and we both turn toward the voice. Walking toward us on the sidewalk is the type of woman who induces fear into other women. It’s a given she wasn’t born that way, I can tell by the slight way her lips stick out, pumped full by a doctor with a ready needle. But her tits are real—small—and her hair is thick, hanging almost to her waist.

“A blonde,” I say to Satcher.

The last woman he dated was a Brazilian fitness model.

“Red, yellow, black, brown—what difference does it make?”

“Clearly none to you. The man who doesn’t have a type.”

She’s almost on us now.

“Oh, I have a type,” Satcher says. “My type has a type. That’s the problem.”

I don’t have time to ask what he means because she’s kissing Satcher on the cheek and looking at me with unveiled curiosity.

“This is Willa,” he says to me. And to Willa he says, “Billie, the friend I was telling you about…”

“Oh, right, Billie.” She looks relieved. “Welcome back to the city. How are you settling in?”

“Oh, you know, it’s an adjustment being back. I still have a layer of moss growing on my back from Washington.”

She laughs, a graceful and polite tinkering.Ha ha, you’re so funny. Why are you crashing my date?

“I better get going,” I say. Willa’s eyes tell me that’s exactly what I should do.

I’m suddenly exhausted, wanting to slink away to my apartment far from these two beautiful people who have their shit together and are probably in the process of falling in love. Willa waves and then latches onto Satcher’s arm as they head for the door. Between his broad shoulders and her narrow waist, they make the most beautiful couple. Right before they walk through, Satcher turns back. I pause, unsure of what’s happening. Did he catch me staring? Am I being weird?

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