Page 33 of F*ck Marriage

Loren shrugs. “Could have been anyone, I guess. They certainly hit the mark though, didn’t they?”

I spread both hands on my desk. A little piece of jewelry has triggered an idea. I stare at my hands as I think, the ideas rushing faster than my hand would if it were holding a pen. “This is it, Lo,” I say.

“What?”

“The header for the blog: I’ll call it Fuck Marriage. Brand it with the empty ring finger.”

Lo nods slowly. “Seems a bit aggressive, but it may work.”

“Of course it will work,” I say, standing up. “That’s what we are after our relationships end; we’re angry. Do you know how many times I wished there was someone—someplace I could go for help? I bought the self-help books, I went to a counselor. None of it was what I needed. I wanted a community, I wanted a friend. And that’s exactly what this column can be: the friend women wish they had. Get Dave in here so we can brand this.”

I pull the pendant out of the box. Unclasping my necklace, I slide the pendant onto the chain and return it to my neck.

This is exactly what the blog needs: a dose of hardcore reality. Fuck Marriage could be my unofficial apology letter to Woods. To my marriage. And who knows, maybe blogging about my broken heart will help heal it.

Chapter Fifteen

Amembership to the East Side gym costs $150 a month. Steep change for communal fitness. The chain gym two blocks over offers their monthly membership on bright neon flyers for $49. But the East Side gym is where Woods works out five days a week, so I shell out the cash and follow Rocket, the overeager meathead whose face resembles Ernie fromSesame Street, while he gives me a tour.

“Rocket, that’s an interesting name,” I say as he shows me where the dirty towels go.

“I named myself. My parents gave me a bad name so I just changed it.”

“Cool,” I say. “What was your name before?”

“Simon.” He makes a face.

“Simon says: change your name,” I joke.

But Rocket is too young to get the reference. He leaves me at the elliptical machines where five women are already sweating through their designer workout gear. I make my way over to the weight machines, where I know Woods will go first.

“Well, well, well…”

I spin around and find myself facing Satcher, a smug smile turning up the corners of his lips.

“Now why would Billie Tarrow get a membership at a gym that’s in the opposite direction of her apartment when there is a perfectly good gym across the street from where she lives?”

I can feel my face turn red. I turn away, my only response a noise I make in the back of my throat. Satcher, undeterred, follows me.

“Could it be that a certain ex-husband has a membership here?”

I claim an open rowing machine a few feet away from the mats and get to work, still ignoring Satcher. I don’t want to row, I want to pretend to work out while I wait for Woods to arrive. Satcher stands over me, his white Nikes perfectly clean, not a single scuff.

“Why are you even here?” I snap. “It’s Friday. Shouldn’t you be fucking a supermodel?”

He takes the machine next to mine when the girl next to me gets up and starts rowing. “We’re on the rocks,” he says.

I glance over to check his face, which reveals nothing. “Why?”

“Why not?” He shrugs.

“You have commitment issues.” I push back harder than I mean to and my neck jerks forward painfully. Every few minutes I glance at the door to see if Woods has arrived.

“Yes,” Satcher says simply.

I stop rowing and stare at him. “So do something about it.”

Satcher glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “Like what?” he asks, amused.

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