Page 85 of F*ck Marriage

“Sláinte,” she says, meeting my eyes.

We click glasses.

Chapter Thirty-Four

We spend the next day in my apartment lying on the couch, recovering from our exuberant drinking efforts from the day before. Billie chooses the movies, and to my surprise, she picks entirely non-romantic storylines instead of the holiday films I thought she’d go for. We spread cream cheese on crackers and sip at our huge tumblers of water, reminding each other to hydrate. For lack of a better word, I find the afternoon sweet in its simplicity—easy. But that’s the way it’s always been with Billie. At one point, I find myself lying with my head in her lap. Casually, Billie plays with my hair as Liam Neeson issues his famous“I’ll find you”into the phone. My eyes drift closed and I wake up to the credits as Billie lifts her arms over her head in a stretch. Between movies, we take turns complaining about how sick we feel, and around six, Billie offers to make breakfast for dinner. It’s snowing outside when I join her in the kitchen, the lights from the Christmas tree casting lazy reflections on the window.

“This is kind of fun, you know.” She cracks the last egg into the bowl and tosses the shells. “Like a sleepover…”

I grin over the top of her head and hand her the bowl of onions she asked me to dice. “Does that mean I get to share the bed with you tonight?”

Her laugh is halfhearted.

“My mother told me she still feels like she’s having a sleepover with my dad after thirty-six years,” I tell her.

My parents largely grossed their children out for much of our adolescence. As adults, we’ve learned to appreciate their love fest, but we all still look away when they make out like two teenagers.

“That’s sweet,” she says, avoiding my eyes. “My parents don’t talk to each other unless it’s to comment on the weather.”

“That’s depressing.” I pop a cherry tomato in my mouth as I try not to let on how closely I’m watching her reactions.

“Yeah. I wanted the opposite of their marriage. And look at me now. Marriageless. An old divorcée with no prospects.”

I snigger. “Oh, please. You’d have plenty of prospects if you were ready.”

She pretends not to hear me as she searches through the silverware drawer. I listen to the clatter of metal and frown.

“Spatula?” I dig it out of a different drawer and hand it to her.

Our fingers brush and she pulls her hand away like I’ve shocked her.

“Were you truly happy with Woods?” I think about her blog post. I’d read it on my parents’ couch—three times, four—wondering if it was the idea of love she’d been in love with rather than Woods.

“I don’t know. I was ignorant, I guess. So in a way ... yeah. He fulfilled my idea of marriage and I enjoyed that.”

“And the person you are now, the woman you’ve become—would she be happy in a marriage with Woods?”

I’m surprised when she laughs.

“No,” she says. “This person is much more complicated.”

“Then why do you still want to be with him?”

Her hands still. She sets everything down and turns around to face me, leaning her back against the counter as she dries her hands on a dish towel.

“Because we made a commitment. We were supposed to fight through it. I was willing.”

“Then why did you leave? Why didn’t you stay and fight?”

Her lips move, but the words stay trapped in her throat.

She withdraws completely after that, her smile disappearing from her face. I should ask why, but I’m partially amused by the way she keeps glancing at me when she thinks I’m not looking. After we eat, she’s frowning down at her empty plate when I finally ask what’s bothering her.

“I have to tell you something,” she says. “I don’t know if I should. But I’m in a tough position and I’ve honestly lost sight of who I’m betraying at this point.”

I lean back in my seat having already pushed my plate away.

“Jules?”

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