Page 73 of F*ck Marriage

“Your mom was here,” I say. “She left to go home before she knew you woke up.”

“Ah,” is all she says.

“Listen, Billie, before they come in here I need to say sorry…”

“For what?”

“Well, I don’t like your mom. But also for the argument we had. I was out of line.”

This time she holds her ribs while she laughs. “It’s fine, Satch. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. You were right to be pissed.”

“No. It’s none of my business.”

“Okay,” she breathes, “so let's just forget about it. Fighting isn’t good for our marriage.”

“Speaking of marriage,” I say. “Woods is outside.”

The smile drops off her face. “Oh…”

I perk up immediately. “Do you not want to see him? I can tell him to—”

“No, it’s fine, Satcher,” she says. “I suppose I need to put an end to all of this.”

“Jules is here too.”

“Okay. Maybe send Jules in first. Buy me some time so I can figure out what I’m going to say to Woods.”

“I have a notebook. I can write something out for you.”

“Shut up,” she says, a grin on her face. And even with the black eyes, and the yellow bruises grazing her cheekbones and jaw—she’s alarmingly beautiful.

I’m on my way toward the door when the words burn a path from my heart to my mouth. “Billie…”

She looks up from her lap, the smile still on her lips.

“I was scared. Scared I’d lose you forever. I don’t know that I’ve ever been truly scared before this.”

I can’t tell if her eyes fill with tears or if it’s a trick of the light.

“You’re a good friend, Satcher,” she says.

I force a smile. I don’t want to be her friend.

The next day is the first day I feel like I can finally breathe in weeks. Jules leaves early for the airport. I see her off outside of my building, still wearing my pajama pants as I tuck her into a cab. She texts me from the airport to say she spotted Woods and Pearl heading to their gate.

I thought they left last night, I text back.

Jules’ text comes back quickly and it’s just one word:delayed.

It’s a week till Christmas and the city has emptied out as New Yorkers make their pilgrimages home for the holidays. They’re letting Billie go home tomorrow, but she will have to have surgery on her ankle right after Christmas. She grumbles at that news and I have to make jokes about the doctor’s ear hair before she smiles again. I get my condo ready for her even though she doesn’t know she’ll be staying with me. The doctor gave me strict instructions that she’s to take it easy to allow her ribs to heal. No stairs. Since my building has an elevator and hers doesn’t, I made the executive decision to take her home with me. When I pick her up from the hospital the following afternoon, she’s wearing a pink Adidas hoodie and sweatpants. I toss my beanie at her and she gently pulls it over her hair, flinching when her fingers graze the cuts on her forehead.

“How do I look?” she asks jokingly. She still has two bruised eyes and a split lip, but her smile is bright and beautiful.

I answer her honestly. “Like beautiful hell,” I say.

Her laugh rings out in the hospital lobby, and heads swivel to find the source of joy.

Once in the cab, Billie stares out the window, her head propped on her fist, breath frosting the glass. Last-minute shoppers stream up and down the sidewalk, jackets pulled up around their faces as their gloved fingers grip shopping bags. When we stop outside of my building, she frowns.

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