Page 38 of F*ck Marriage

“You’re hypersensitive, and you think everyone’s out to get you.”

“They are.”

“Exactly.”

I fold my arms across my chest, looking closely at him for the first time. He smells like a bucket of hundred-dollar bills soaked in cedar wood and whiskey. He’s for real wearing a navy blue waistcoat under his tailored blazer. I get the fuss, I do, but he’s annoying the shit out of me with his hoity-toity attitude.

“Nothing works out for me.”

“Nothing ... really? Woods encompasses everything? Because I can think of plenty that works out for you when you actually try.”

He’s looking out at the water now, elbows resting on the railing. No sign of the dimples; he’s frustrated with me. Maybe Iambeing a brat. Maybe.

I move to stand next to him, both of us admiring the water in silence.

“My glass is almost empty,” I say, holding it up. “Literally and figuratively.” That gets me half a smile, a flash of dimple.

“I hate to say this, Billie, but this whole feel-sorry-for-myself thing is getting old.”

I roll my eyes. Only Satcher could say something like that to me without me getting raging angry. I still pout.

“Your marriage ended. Lots of marriages end on account of a cheating asshole—”

I shrug.

“You’ve had your time to grieve, you deserved that after what happened. But now you’re back, and it’s time to live. If you don’t live now, then when?”

“I don’t remember how to,” I admit. I’m ashamed of how sulky my voice sounds. “Living after a broken heart isn’t like riding a bike. You genuinely forget how to go about doing it.”

“I respect that. But it’s do or die, isn’t it? And you’re too spiteful to let Pearl and Woods kill you.”

Satcher rubs his hands across his face. He looks tired. I’m a bad friend.

He’s beautiful. He’s my ex-husband’s best friend, but he’s beautiful.

“You okay?” I ask. I know from experience that we often mistake put-together people for happy and emotionally healthy, when it is all a guise.

He’s still leaning against the railing, but he turns his head to study me like he’s truly surprised I’m asking. I make a mental note to not be so damn self-centered all the time.

“Tell me,” I urge.

He hesitates for a moment and then says, “They found a mass in my mother’s right breast. She finds out her biopsy results today.”

“And you’re not there…” I nod in understanding.

Satcher is a family guy. He doesn’t have one of his own yet, but I remember how close he used to be with his sisters.

“Yeah…” he says, flatly.

I’m not sure what to do. I don’t want to tell him I’m sorry even though I am; it feels like a weak word.

“Go.”

“What?”

“Go to New York. Go home and be with her. You shouldn’t be here.”

He looks surprised at my suggestion, and I wonder if he even considered it or if he felt that obligated to be here.

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