Page 90 of F*ck Marriage

“It was Gillian,” I say mildly. “But you were all too drunk to remember that—especially you, Nana,” I say, kissing her on the forehead.

She reaches up to pat my cheek. “Your mother spikes the eggnog,” she complains. “It wasn’t my fault.”

I look past her to the kitchen doors wondering what my mother is up to in there. I hear a burst of laughter that I identify as Billie’s and immediately relax. They emerge five minutes later carrying dishes toward the table.

At breakfast, we pass the food around while discussing my mother's apron at great length.

“It shouldn’t still look brand new,” Heidi says. “It’s witchcraft.”

“She’s had that thing since we were kids…” Beatrice explains to Billie. “We talk about this every time we’re together.”

“Because she won’t tell us how it is that she wears the damn thing every day and it looks new.” Nora spoons eggs onto her plate. She’s in her last trimester of pregnancy and her belly is so large she can’t scoot close to the table.

My mother grins like the Cheshire cat and winks at Billie, who in return beams back at her. How often had I imagined bringing Billie home to meet my family? I’d probably be ashamed to admit. And here she is, just like I imagined, fitting right in with the Gable crowd.

“So Billie, you’re the brain behind Rhubarb,” Nora says. “You know I read that thing before my brother ever bought it from you. I was quite surprised when he told us.”

“And how do you think he’s done with it?” Billie leans forward in her seat. “Being a longtime reader…”

Nora smiles at me. “Well, I may be partial, but my brother has the Midas touch. And if anything, his smartest move was bringing you back on.”

Billie blushes furiously. If she were sitting next to me I’d reach out to squeeze her knee. My mother, ever being the proactive hostess, seated her between Beatrice and herself. I know the seating arrangement is for the purpose of grilling Billie.

I’m seated between my uncle and father. We make small talk about work while I sneak glances at Billie. Her hair is wild; without the use of her straightener the curls have made themselves known. I want to tell her that I prefer her hair this way—but I know she’ll just dismiss my comment. My father, who has been a detective in New York’s precinct for twenty years, catches on and raises his eyebrows at me. I shrug. Later, we switch roles; the men are in the kitchen cleaning while the women relax in the living room. My father packs the dishwasher while I rinse.

“You in love with her?” He doesn’t look at me when he asks this.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “Yeah,” I say, handing him a frying pan.

“She’s your boy Woods’ girl, ain’t she?”

“Ex,” I say.

“Same thing. You don’t touch what’s belonged to another man.”

I set down the bowl I’m holding and face my father. Our relationship can best be described as…a lake. Sometimes everything is clear and warm: you can see right down to the floor beneath the water—our issues lay along the bottom like an old shipwreck—undisturbed; other times, it’s like something lifts the silt and makes the water murky. The temperature drops and the shipwreck rises to the surface to stare us in the face. I can already tell that today will be one of those days.Merry Christmas to me, I think wryly.

“Women are not property. They were in a relationship. That relationship ended.”

“She was married to your best friend, son. Bros before h—”

I hold up a hand to stop him before he finishes.

Across the kitchen, Julian, Beatrice’s husband, pauses in his conversation with my uncle. He catches my eye and shakes his head slightly. He’s telling me to let it go. To bite my tongue and be a good son. Julian, who has witnessed firsthand the explosive arguments I’ve had with my father, is the family peacemaker, but something about my father using the wordhoin reference to Billie pushes me over the edge.

“Why’d they get a divorce, irreconcilable differences? She couldn’t take it when he left his socks next to the hamper?” He laughs as he closes the dishwasher.

Ever since I was a child he mocked irreconcilable differences as a reason for divorce. He’s old school: divorce isn’t an option. Women should forfeit careers to be housewives, and men who cry are “fucking pussies.”

“He was having an affair with one of my employees.”

We all turn at the same time to see Billie standing in the doorway, a casserole dish in her hand. “You forgot this one on the table,” she says, ignoring all the stares and looking directly at me.

A smile presses at the corners of my mouth like it always does when I look at her. “Thanks,” I say, taking it from her.

Instead of turning around and leaving, she walks deeper into the kitchen. “So, do you guys need any help or would you like to clean and practice misogyny in private?” She looks directly at my dad when she says this, her eyes wide and innocent.

“Ahh, don’t take anything I say to heart, Billie. I’m just kidding around.”

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