Page 6 of F*ck Marriage

His phone vibrates on the table, spinning in a slow circle. We look at it at the same time.Pearlflashes on the screen. Woods scratches the back of his head, clearly embarrassed.

“I was supposed to be home ten minutes ago.”

I raise my eyebrows, amused. “A curfew? The great Woods Tarrow has a curfew?”

“Stoooop,” he says, laughing. “You know how it is…”

I didn’t, in fact,know. When Woods and I were married I never told him when or where or how to be. I was the opposite of controlling, so much so that he once accused me of not caring about our marriage.

He suddenly grows serious. “You were never the controlling type.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to.

Woods taps his fingers on the table, the fingers of his free hand kneading the back of his neck.

“What do you say we have one more drink, woman with no name?”

I look around the bar—the couples bent toward each other, mouths hovering close, hands pressing into the smalls of backs. There’s anticipation in the air. Everyone is lapping up the night, their blood thrumming with alcohol. Woods and I stand under the apple juice glow of the bar lights and stare at each other.

“I can’t,” I say after a long pause.

To my delight his face falls. I stare in wonder: at his face and my effect on it. When you’ve been hurt as deeply as I have, it’s the small triumphs that soothe the wound. When Woods told me he was leaving me I’d been hysterical—first bursting into tears, and then begging him to change his mind. His face had remained impassive throughout my tantrum. I’d thought that he’d been trying to hold it together, that he was equally as distraught about our failed marriage as I was, but when he moved in with Pearl the following day I realized his face had been a reflection of what he felt for me at the time: nothing.

I lift my bag to my shoulder, but he looks so distraught that I feel as if I need to give him something.

“Wendy,” I say. “I go by Wendy now.”

His face lights up. He’s as much delighted as he is surprised. “You hate your middle name.”

I shrug. “Not as much as I hate Billie Tarrow and everything she was,” I say.

“Okay, Wendy,” he says carefully. “See you.”

“See you,” I echo back.

I turn with purpose for the door and walk out, making sure I don’t look back. On the sidewalk outside of the bar, a jogger nearly runs me over. I take my first deep breath of the night, the fumes of the city hitting the back of my throat. That went better than expected. At least I hadn’t cried.No, I think.Of course you didn’t cry, you’re not a crier anymore. I think of Pearl—wherever she is—the phone pressed to her ear as she dialed Woods. There once was a time when I’d been phoning Woods and he’d been with her. How the tables have turned. Pearl stole a married man, and now I am going to make sure their marriage never happens. Woods is mine.

Chapter Five

“Billie!” I hear my name being called from somewhere behind me. I stop, scanning the crowd. There are throngs of people everywhere. I forgot how crowded the city is in the summer. It may not be me they were calling—Billie is a fairly common male name, especially in a huge city like New York. I feel silly for even stopping. Turning back around, I hear it again, and this time there’s something about the tone that lets me know it’s for me. It’s through the middle of a cluster of teenage girls that a familiar face emerges: wide shoulders, hair pitch dark, and two dimples emerging from scruffy cheeks. My face immediately breaks into a smile.

“Satcher,” I say.

He’s slightly winded when he reaches me and I see that he’s wearing running gear.

“I was on my run when I saw you two blocks up, had to sprint to catch up with you.”

“My, my,” I say, not even trying to suppress my grin. “I must be the first girl you’ve had to actually chase since middle school.”

Satcher’s grin is contagious as he embraces me. I notice that he doesn’t even smell like sweat after a run in ninety-degree weather. I fan myself self-consciously when he lets me go.

“Did I get you wet?” he asks.

“Wha-what?” I clamp my thighs together.

“I’m sweaty.” One corner of his mouth turns up in a loaded grin.

“I’m not wet,” I say loudly.

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