Page 7 of F*ck Marriage

Satcher laughs. “You’re making me feel like a failure here, Billie.”

“Oh God…”

“Wanna grab a beer? A really, really cold beer?”

I glance at him, flustered. I need something to cool me off, and it’s not just the heat that has me sweating at this point. I hold up the small bag of groceries.

“We can drop it off on the way,” he says, taking the bag from me. “How far are you from here?”

“Just a block.”

He nods and we fall into step. I notice how many women stop what they’re doing to glance at him. Their eyes are furtive, unsure of what they’re seeing. Satcher has always garnered this type of female attention. He’s not oblivious to it, but he doesn’t seem to overly care about it either. One, because he’s beautiful, but more so (and this is all personal opinion) it’s his presence. I’m not into hippie mumbo jumbo despite inhabiting the Pacific Northwest for half my life, but if I believed in auras, I’d say Satcher has a really catching one: possibly made from moonlight, and champagne, and money—all things that make a woman feel warm, and fuzzy, and romantic.

“Woods mentioned you were back.”

“What else did he mention?” I ask, casting him a sideways glance.

“That you look great.”

“Really?” I inwardly berate myself for the way I perk up.

“Yes. Yes, though now that I’m seeing you myself, that was an understatement.”

I feel the heat creep into my cheeks.

“Stop flirting with me, Satcher. I’ve blushed three times in the last five minutes.”

“Look at that,” he says. “I’ve made you wet and made you blush. Maybe I still have it.”

I stop dead in my tracks to stare at him, and he laughs. When we start moving again I swat at him playfully and he dances away from me.

“Woods said you rented out the loft.”

“Yup.” I look at my feet.

“And that you need a job.”

“Ugh. First of all, I don’t need a job,” I tell him. I pull to a stop in front of my building. “And furthermore, who the hell does he—”

“—He didn’t really say that.”

I stare at Satcher, who’s grinning.

“I was hoping you’d need a job, and then I could talk you into coming back to Rhubarb.”

I turn toward the door so he can’t see my face. “Satcher, are you hearing what you’re saying? You want me to come back to Rhubarb with both Woods and Pearl there?”

“Yes, why not? They’re professionals. They can keep their feelings in check for the greater good of the blog.”

I whip around, my keycard in the swiper. “Are you kidding me? They couldn’t keep their feelings in check when they started fucking behind my back.”

We step into the foyer of my building.

“Billie, I’m not going to lie to you. When you left, the blog took a blow. It’s taken two years to build back our readership.”

“So why do you need me? Sounds like you have things under control.” I step through the door and Satcher follows behind me, holding my bag of groceries.

Satcher makes a face. “I’m an investor. I didn’t buy the blog to work there for the rest of my life.”

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