Page 83 of F*ck Marriage

“Each other,” I tell her. “Twenty-dollar limit.”

She stops dead, forcing me to backtrack or get run over by the determined pedestrians.

“Where do you think this is? Target? You can’t buy a shoelace in Barneys for twenty dollars,” she says.

“Fifty,” I counter. “And we have thirty minutes to choose wisely.”

We fist bump and separate once we’re inside. Billie hobbles right toward the elevators, and I take a left through the makeup and perfume. I have no idea what I’m looking for and I already bought Billie a Christmas present. Slightly buzzed from the beer and hot buttered rum in Phil’s flask, I wander aimlessly, hoping something catches my eye before Phil and Peppermint get a ticket for loitering. I spot something in the home department I think she’d like. It’s a hundred and twenty dollars, but I grab it anyway and carry it to a register. The button Billie gave me sits at the bottom of my coat pocket. My fingers brush it as I search for my phone. I think about asking Billie about it, but there’s something about that night when she handed it to me that feels sacred. If I ask and she tells me, the spell will be broken. I don’t even know what the fuck that means, but it feels true. Billie is already waiting in the carriage with a broad smile on her face, when I emerge. I hop in and she automatically snuggles closer to me, hungry for warmth.

“Well…?” she says. “Do we do this now or later?”

She’s bouncing in her seat, a little sparking livewire. I kiss her nose because we’re that close and her eyes crease in a smile.

“Stop being cute,” she says. She rolls her eyes, but it doesn’t matter because they’re dancing with a light I haven’t seen in a while.

“Okay,” I say. “You first.”

She grabs a bag from her feet just as Peppermint lurches forward and proffers it at me with an alcohol-induced enthusiasm. We bump heads and then laugh as we rub the sore spots.

As I dig around the tissue paper, my mind once again goes to the button. Billie is watching me anxiously. My fingers brush against something hard at the bottom of the bag. She chews on her lip, her face somewhere between excitement and nervousness. When I pull my hand out I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking at.

“What is it?” I turn it over in my hand. It looks like a very bright, very knobby doll made entirely of ... wait for it ... buttons. Buttons of every color and size make up its face, limbs, and torso. I stare into its black button eyes, confused.

“It’s a button baby,” she says sweetly.

“A button baby?” I repeat.

She nods, taking it from me. “The idea is that if you need a button—say if you lost one on your coat—you’d find a replacement on this guy. Also, you know all those extra buttons that come with shirts and pants and whatnot?”

I nod. She turns over the button baby and shows me a zipper. “You put them in here for when you need them.”

“Hmmmm.” I reach into my pocket, deciding it’s the right time to bring up the white button she gave me the night of the Rhubarb Christmas party. I hold it out to her and her face lights up. She carefully takes it from my palm and deposits it inside of the button baby, zipping it closed to keep the button safe.

“Sooo ... about that button…”

“You don’t remember, do you?”

I can see the disappointment on her face and it makes me feel like crap. I almost suggest that she has the wrong person, the real owner of the button memory can’t possibly be me.

“I—I don’t.”

Her laugh fills my ears. “Well ... maybe you will someday. And then my Christmas present won’t seem stupid.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?”

Billie shakes her head, a coy smile teasing her lips. “Not today. You’ll remember one day.”

I frown at her.

“Now me.” She holds out her hand, wiggling her fingers.

I pull my less confusing gift from between my feet and hold the bag out to her. “I’m afraid my gift has no deep, forgotten meaning.”

“Oh, hush…”

She reaches into the bag just as Peppermint guides us over a pothole and whatever she’s holding drops from her fingers before she can see it. She swears colorfully before plunging her hand inside again, and when it emerges, much to my relief she starts to laugh. I can’t help but join her. Just past the makeup I’d found a jewelry station where using tiny letters you could build your own bracelet to say anything you wanted. I’d chosen a silver bracelet for Billie and then spelled out the words:Fuck Wendy.

“My God, Satcher. What did you have against Wendy anyway?”

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