Page 5 of F*ck Marriage

“I’ll have another,” Woods says, “and keep them coming.” He unfolds a piece of Juicy Fruit onto his tongue.

“Still with the Juicy Fruit?” I ask.

Woods chewed Juicy Fruit like it was his security blanket.

“Always.”

As soon as the bartender is out of earshot, he turns back to me. “Does Satcher know you’re back?”

It’s an odd question. I haven’t spoken to Woods’ best friend in years.

“No ... I was thinking about calling him.”

Before our split, Woods and I had started our own business, a lifestyle blog called Rhubarb. The day I signed my divorce papers, I sold my share of the business to Woods’ friend, Satcher Gable. All I’d wanted to do was go home to Washington. In retrospect, it was a stupid idea. The company had been my idea, my labor of love. It hurt to think that I handed it over to Satcher and my cheating ex-husband. I rub my forehead trying to recall what my therapist said I should do in times like these. I think I was supposed to repeat something over and over. Something about success ... forgiveness…

Screw it. I cuss under my breath instead, and then liking the way it feels, I say it over and over like my forgotten mantra.Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuck. Shit.

“You okay, Billie?”

Woods suddenly looks like he really needs that next drink, so I decide to change the subject.

“I don’t go by Billie anymore.”

“Why not?”

“She was married to you.”

He flinches but refrains from making a comment, the muscles in his forehead moving in emotion.

“Okay,” he says. “So what do I call you now?”

“I’d imagine nothing. I’m your ex-wife. There’s no reason to call me anything.”

“Come on, Bil—”

“Royden—”

“Oh no, Billie, no. Why are you calling me that? That’s tragic,” he says, shaking his head.

I can’t help the smile that pushes against my lips. I try to hide it with a frown, but he’s noticed and he’s looking at me with soft eyes. Eyes that have seen my best and my worst for nearly over a decade.

“It’s a good name,” I say. “You never liked it, but it’s a good name.”

He shakes his head like he’s embarrassed, but I can tell he likes what I’ve said. When I first met him, we’d been introduced by mutual friends at a small mixer. He’d taken my hand and told me his name was Woods.

“That’s not his name!” my friend Samantha called from across the room. She was drunk, and as she called out to us, her drink sloshed over the rim of her cup and onto the rug.

“Fuck,” she said. “Fuck.”

“What’s your real name?” I’d asked, turning back to him. I could hear Samantha behind me calling for a rag, her words slurring.

“My full name is Royden Lynwood Tarrow.”

“Yikes,” I said.

“Exactly.” He’d then ducked his head, his mouth tucked in a smile, eyes still on my face, and I’d fallen. Fallen for him, fallen for that sexy embarrassment, fallen so hard I’d silently wondered if the two sips I’d had of my drink went straight to my head.

Now I stare at the man who gave and took my joy, and I can’t help but wonder if I’d allowed him to do it. Woods never asked me for anything. In our eight years of being together, he rarely made demands, and the less he’d needed, the more I’d felt obliged to give. It was a self-imposed pressure to meet his unspoken needs. And I think I’d gotten it all wrong in the end—we both had, which had led to our slow demise.

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