Page 56 of F*ck Marriage

“Great.”

“Good.” He looks at me carefully like he’s trying to uncover some truth I’m not saying.

I suppose he’s right to think that.

“No one's ever gone to such great lengths to avoid me,” he says.

It’s not a complaint; there’s some amusement in his voice.

“It’s because you suck in bed,” I say before I can stop myself.

Satcher chortles and Jules turns from the stove, alarmed.

“She’s funny.” He dips his head toward me and Jules carries on cooking.

I don’t feel like bantering with him so I look away. Jules dances around the kitchen unaware. She’s in an exceptionally good mood. They probably just had sex, which makes me want to vomit.

“Satcher, can you make us drinks?” Jules asks. “Anything you like. I’ll even drink one of those nasty Manhattans you love.”

I watch as he walks to her little bar, lifting glass bottles to examine what she has. She takes a break in cooking to go over and kiss him. Satcher tenses up at first and then bends to kiss her back. I look away.

“Soooo, you gonna tell us about this guy you’ve been seeing?” Jules eyes me through a haze of steam as she empties vegetables into a colander. From the corner of my eye, I see Satcher’s head turn—just a fraction so that his ear faces us.

“It’s nothing,” I say.

Jules frowns. “It’s not Woods that you’re seeing, is it?”

My heart is rapid-fire behind my ribs. “Can we not do this?” I say through my teeth.

Satcher is walking toward us. Saved by the drinks. He puts a glass in front of me a little harder than normal. Some of the liquid sloshes over the side and onto the counter. I pretend not to notice.

It’s a lemon drop.

“What’s that?” Jules asks. Her nose is scrunched up, eyebrows cocked in confusion.

Satcher and I exchange a glance. The warmth in his eyes makes me uncomfortable.

“It’s Billie’s token drink,” he says.

Jules shakes off the last of the water from her hands and picks up her glass, his simple explanation accepted.

“To Billie and her new beginning…” She lifts her glass.

It’s a good lemon drop. I wonder where he learned how to make them and if he learned for me.Of course he didn’t, I think.Silly girl. When dinner is ready, Jules seats us around her little dinette to eat. I force a few bites between my lips, staring only at my plate. Satcher stands up at some point and returns with fresh lemon drops. I see him frown every time he takes a sip and I can’t decide if it’s because he likes it or hates it. Jules talks enough for all three of us, babbling on, oblivious to the weird tension. She calls Satcher “babe” and touches his arm whenever she speaks to him. I watch her elegant fingers knead his arm, his neck; her skin is shockingly white against his. I feel detached from my body like I’m being forced to watch everything happen from above. I can see myself floating up near the ceiling staring down at the teal rug beneath the table, the walnut bookcases that she’s color-coded rather than alphabetized. There’s no way to tell what Satcher is thinking—feeling. I wonder if he’s in his body or floating somewhere else too.

After dinner, I insist they sit while I clear the dishes. I need space between us even if it’s only the twenty feet to the kitchen. When I look up from the dishwasher, Satcher’s chair is scooted sideways and Jules is sitting on his lap.

I finish up as quickly as I can and make a dash for my room. I crawl into bed pulling the covers over my head. Instead of going to sleep—which is probably what I need to do—I text Woods.

What are you doing?

His reply comes back two minutes later accompanied by a picture.

At a bar. They say hi.

I study the picture. Woods is in the forefront, his arm extended to hold the phone. Behind him are Desi and Xavier, two of our friends from college. Their eyes glow red like bar demons. I look longingly at their drinks, sweating on the bar in front of them, and it’s like Woods reads my mind.

Come down. The guys want to see you.

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