Page 81 of F*ck Marriage

Her face contorts as she struggles with her answer. I hold my breath—that’s a thing—I actually hold my breath waiting for her answer.

“But, there’s something you should know—”

“I don’t want to know anything. I just want to do Christmas shit and see you smile.”

“That’s so cheesy.” She sighs.

“Good idea. We should do fondue for dinner. I know a place…”

“Satcher!”

“Shut up,” I say. “Get ready.”

For whatever reason, she obeys, shuffling off to my bedroom to get ready. When she emerges twenty minutes later, she’s wearing a floor-length black dress that’s long enough to cover the boot on her left foot. She has her leather jacket thrown over one arm, and in the other, she’s holding a scarf and hat. To hide the bruises around her eyes, she’s put on dark smoky makeup and bright red lipstick.

“Wow, you look like college Billie,” I say.

She grins. “Emo Billie then?”

I fist bump her in response and suddenly, I feel scruffy and underdressed.

“Ten minutes,” I say. “I have to go change.”

She settles on a stool at the island in the kitchen, propping her good foot on the stiles of the stool and planting her boot flat on the floor. My bedroom smells like Billie: her perfume, her skin, her lotions. I step over her duffel bag, which is lying next to my closet doors, clothes piling out of it like spilled organs. I text my doorman instructions and make quick work of changing and putting on cologne, and we’re out the door in under ten minutes. I managed to smuggle my heated blanket under my coat, and when we emerge on the street in front of my building, I slip Fred a twenty and take Billie’s arm to steer her across the icy sidewalk.

“I’m regretting this already.” She frowns. “It’s cold. Why are we even leaving your nice warm apartment?”

“Because you’re turning witchy. You need fresh air and Christmas cheer.”

“Fuck that,” she says. “I need a drink.”

“And a drink you shall have,” I say, leading her to the curb where our ride is waiting.

Billie looks past it at first, no doubt searching for a cab. When I step up to the horse-drawn carriage, her laugh rings out, making me warm all over.

“No. Seriously? Are you for real?”

She’s pulling off her gloves to fondle the horse’s nose. He charmingly dips his head, licorice-colored lips searching her palm for a treat. The driver (who introduces himself as Phil) gives her a sugar cube and she feeds it to the horse, giggling when he nips her palm searching for more.

“What’s his name?” I hear her ask. “Oh my God, Peppermint? Are you for real?” she says to the driver. “His name is Peppermint!” she calls out to me.

Once I’ve helped her into the carriage, I climb in after her and spread the heated blanket around us. The driver shows us where we can find more blankets and hands us a thermos and two cups of hot buttered rum.

“Oh my God, oh my God!” Billie wriggles in her seat like a little girl, eyes lit up in excitement. “Where are we going? Will he take us to see Rockefeller Center?”

“He’ll take us wherever we want,” I say.

“No shit.” Her eyes are large and excited. “I’m going to get so drunk! This is great!”

The carriage lurches forward. I blink rapidly when Billie finds my hand under the blankets and squeezes softly, her tiny little fingers tangling with mine.

“Thank you. I forgot what excitement feels like.” Her eyes are misty when I look at her.

For the next fifteen minutes, Peppermint trots confidently forward while we sip our hot buttered rum and stare at the magic of the city under her Christmas spell. When we pull up to the first pub, Billie’s tossing off her blankets and hiking up her dress so our driver can help her down.

“You have twenty minutes at each place,” he says, winking at me. “Enough for a quick nip and some kissing.” He has a heavy Irish brogue and even heavier white eyebrows that are collecting snow even as he wags them at me.

“It’s snowing,” Billie calls from the doorway of the pub.

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