Page 31 of F*ck Marriage

“Not today, Woods,” I say glibly. I take two more steps, cursing the broken elevator.

“Why not?”

I hesitate. Should I just tell him? I don’t want to be cruel when his life is already hard, but he’ll find out about it eventually.

“I’m on my way to see your mom.”

He squeezes one eye closed while scratching the back of his head. “That’s awkward.”

“No more than you asking me to lunch when your fiancée is at home recovering from a miscarriage.”

He grins. “What a pair we are.”

“Were,” I say, trotting down the stairs. “What a pair we were.”

“Pessimist!” he calls after me. His voice echoes.

It feels good to walk away from him. I wonder if this is how things started with Pearl: the occasional flirtatious exchange in the stairwell, trips out to lunch when I was too busy to notice.

I don’t have time to think about it; I’m already late.

Denise has just returned from a cruise. When I hug her, I swear I can still smell suntan lotion on her skin. She holds on to me for a few extra seconds.

“You’re glowing,” I tell her when she lets me go.

“Oh. You don’t glow at my age. I just got a little sun, that’s all.” She takes her seat delicately, folding her napkin across her lap.

But she is, she’s glowing.

“Robert cheated on me,” she says.

The server who was just approaching the table hears her comment and makes a wide arc to give us some time.

I smile at him apologetically before I turn to Denise and say—“What?”

“Don’t look so surprised. Where do you think Woods learned his bad behavior?”

“I figured it was from his dick.”

“Touché…”

I shake my head, trying to take it all in. Woods is already an established cheater. I decide to start the questions with my ex-father-in-law. “He’s done it before?”

“Yes. Started our third year of marriage, and it’s been on and off since. Sometimes we have a good five years with no cheating, but he always starts it up again.”

“And you ... stay with him?”

Denise lifts her menu, pursing her lips; I watch her eyes scan something before she sets it down on the table and slides it away. I’ve always viewed Denise as a feminist: independent, nonplussed by opinions, taker of no shit. Reconciling what she is saying with the woman I always thought she was leaves a lump in my throat. I wait for her to speak since I don’t know what to say anyway.

“He’s always so sorry. He comes back, he cries, we take a vacation, he upgrades my ring.”

Over the eight years Woods and I were together, I recall Denise getting a new ring every few years, the diamond growing in size. I glance at her finger now, feeling ill. Why is she telling me this?

“You’re wondering why I’m telling you all this now?”

“Yes, actually.”

She folds her hands on the table, her upper body leaning toward me. She’s so willowy she reminds me of a branch bending in the wind.

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