Page 93 of F*ck Marriage

“Well, you will be,” I said it with confidence because I believed she would be.

She sighed deeply. “And if I’m not?”

One last tug and to my dismay, the top button of her dress popped off and bounced off the concrete floor. I bent to retrieve it as Billie turned around to see what happened.

“I’m sorry.”

She laughed at the dismayed look on my face. “It’s just a button.”

“Okay,” I said, still holding it, still staring down at it in horror.

“And if I’m not?” she asked again.

I glanced up at her face and saw that she was serious. There was apprehension in her eyes, maybe the wedding jitters. Her brow was furrowed and in that moment I knew she needed something from me—not what I wanted to give her—but something.

“Then give me this button and I’ll come rescue you.” I placed it in her now open palm, closing her fingers over it. Her face swam in front of me. I was so drunk, so drunk and so hurt. She’d smiled and it had reached all the way to her eyes.

“I believe you,” she said.

And then the door opened, and the noise of the party reached between us, breaking the spell. I watched her run back inside, almost in slow motion, one of her bridesmaids holding the door open for her.

“Billie…” I say. My words get stuck.

How could I forget that?

She remembered.She remembered.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she says.

Part III

Chapter Thirty-Six

Billie

The rain hasn’t let up and the bar at Summertime Sunday is closing. The Christmas party ended hours ago, the last of the employees floating out of the door shortly after. Woods and I have been sitting in a booth near the window for the last three hours. Through the rain-dotted windows, the city is a blur of neon signs and brake lights. His suit jacket is slung around my shoulders and my feet rest in his lap. Every few minutes he’ll be saying something to me and his hands will start rubbing my arches. Several times I’ve thought to stop him, but the sentiment is so familiar I don’t have the mental strength.

“I read it again, you know?”

“What?” I’m distracted. His hands are so warm.

“Your blog post.”

“Really?” I perk up. I’d sit up straighter if it didn’t mean pulling my feet out of his lap.

“Yes. You asked me to.”

“What does that mean? Since when do you do things I ask you to do?”

“You don’t always have to be so hard on me, you know.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he says this.

He’s teasing me. I like it. I tighten my lips and pretend I’m put out.

“You were right. I saw that once I took a step back and read it with my own eyes.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“I—I knew I hurt you. That’s not exactly rocket science. But reading the details…”

---