Page 29 of F*ck Marriage

“Then what exactly are you asking for?” I’d snapped.

Woods looked hurt. I was the one yelling, while he was calmly sitting on the couch trying to talk things out.

“Interest, consideration—a relationship, Billie. That’s why you get married, to have a relationship with someone…”

“We have a damn relationship,” I’d argued.

“You don’t even know that I hate coffee, Billie. I don’t drink coffee anymore…”

“What the fuck are you even talking about, Woods?” He was being petty ... needy. I’d loomed over him, my voice and face wrought with anger.

“Green tea,” he’d said slowly. “I switched to green tea about six months ago…”

Guilt. So much, but instead of acknowledging what my husband had just said I acted like it was ridiculous.

“This is so stupid.”

That was it for me. I’d stormed out of the room, slamming our bedroom door, and crawling into the bed to wallow in self-righteousness. What did he want from me, for God’s sake? I was chin-deep in Rhubarb, trying to get it off the ground so that we could live comfortably without worries. I barely slept, and my doctor had just put me on anxiety meds. When we’d started the business we’d both been on the same track, but somewhere along the way, Rhubarb had stopped being something that brought us together and instead started ripping us apart.

“He just means for the tea,” I answer Satcher.

I can tell Satcher doesn’t buy it, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything else.

“I should go.” I stand up.

“Yeah,” Satcher says.

I don’t know why, but his tone makes me angry. I glare at him one more time before snatching up my purse and marching for the elevators. I don’t say goodbye. The last thing I need is Satcher’s goody two-shoes judgment. I thought I’d changed, grown up, but in moments like these, I know I’m still the same defensive fuck-up I’ve always been.

Pearl takes two weeks off of work. During the time she’s gone, Rhubarb feels lighter, more joyful. The employees who normally steer clear of me due to their loyalty to Pearl, warm up, chatting with me in the common room and even once inviting me to happy hour with them after work. I feel guilty for how much I enjoy her absence. Especially since I’m the reason she miscarried. Satcher avoids me, never making eye contact, and only talking to me if it’s to respond to a question I ask, or to deal with Rhubarb business. Woods comes into the office twice to pick up some things for Pearl. We collide in the hallway, his arms full of paperwork, and mine full of the props I just went to get from the storage room.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey yourself.”

“How is she?”

His face immediately clouds over. “I don’t know. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She’s ... shut down.”

I nod. Women deal with things differently than men. We want them to meet our emotional needs without us having to spell it out for them. It’s anif you love me, you should know what I needtype of thing.

“She’s grieving. Hold her. Order the food she likes and fuss over her,” I say. “She just needs her pain acknowledged and to be taken care of.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

We stand there for another thirty seconds, Woods just staring at me like he wants to say something else. But I never give him the chance.

“I’ll see you,” I say, stepping around him.

I haven’t gotten five steps when he calls after me. “Wendy…”

I turn. The wooden sign I’m holding digs painfully into my waist and I shift feet to alleviate the pressure.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

It feels like someone has just shoved me sideways. I feel unbalanced ... panicked.

“I know you’re blaming yourself.” He pauses as someone walks by to get to the bathroom.

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