Page 99 of F*ck Marriage

He took me to the Bahamas, a vacation he said I desperately needed. We drank, we ate, we swam until our fingers wrinkled like raisins and our skin tanned dark. I felt ... better. And then one night after dinner, he got down on his knee in the restaurant and presented me with a blue box. Everyone was looking, everyone was cheering when I felt obligated to say yes. That night when Woods snored softly beside me I mentally berated myself for being too concerned with what people thought to voice my fear. Fear of marrying someone again after they hurt me so deeply, fear of never being enough to keep Woods tethered to our relationship, fear that I was trying to save something that died a long time ago.

You wanted this, I remind myself.You came back for this.And then we got back to New York and everyone was so happy that we worked it out. They’d always thought we belonged together, they said. And so I was swept into this belonging, because I was convinced of it myself not that long ago. The wedding date was set. I got what I wanted.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

I’m locking up the apartment when a delivery guy steps out of the elevator. He has his tongue curled around his upper lip, and his head is bent as he studies the address on an envelope.

“Oh shit,” he says when he almost runs into me. “Sorry.”

He has one bud still in his ear, while the other is draped across his shoulder. I can hear the music playing faintly as his head moves up and down to the beat. He glances at the door behind me and then back at the envelope.

“Billie Tarrow?” he asks.

“That’s me.”

He hands me the envelope. “Sign here and here,” he says, indicating the lines.

I’m about to ask for a pen when he buffers one at me.

“Thanks.” I scribble my signature on the lines, and he rips off the receipt before handing it back to me.

“Nice day,” he mumbles.

I lift my hand in a goodbye even though his back is to me.

I glance at the return address. It’s an attorney’s office; I don’t recognize the name. My phone rings. It’s Woods. I’m late. I stick the envelope in my bag and run for the stairs so I won’t have to wait for the elevator.

I’m rifling around in my bag looking for the tiny box I packed with my earrings when my fingers touch the envelope. I’d forgotten about it. I hesitate, eyeing the return address. I don’t really have time, but what if it’s something important?

I rip it open, tenting the cardboard. Inside is a smaller brown envelope. There’s a bright pink sticky note stuck to the front of it, Satcher’s bold handwriting filling most of the tiny square. I blink hard, a sudden whirlwind in my chest. There is pain, and nostalgia, and regret ... so much regret. My eyes blur as I read. Even his handwriting is beautiful. How can handwriting make you miss someone this much?

Billie,

This was always yours. I was just taking care of it in your absence.

My heart wants only good and beautiful things for you. Forgive me for not reading between the lines.

Love,

Satcher

Itake longer to open the next envelope, my hands shaking. Inside is a single sheet of paper signed by both Satcher and his attorney. It takes a moment to process what I’m seeing. There is a blank line where my signature goes. He signed his share of Rhubarb over to me. I lift a hand to cover my mouth, tears stinging my eyes. Had this always been his plan? I say his name out loud.

“Satcher ... oh my God, Satcher.”

There’s a knock.

“Billie,” my mother calls through the door. “Are you ready?”

I’m not.

“Just another minute, Mom.” I have to work to keep my voice steady, but even if she heard me crying she wouldn’t have come in without an invitation. The reality of this doesn’t bother me anymore; trying to pretend the situation is different doesn’t change the situation, it just puts you in a slumber deep enough to never learn acceptance. My family is detached, and because of that, I attached myself to Woods so fiercely, hoping to find what I’d been missing my whole life. My heart is topsy-turvy as I walk to the window and stare down at the parking lot. I see Woods locking up his car. He bends his knees to check his reflection in the window. He looks so handsome in his suit. I’ve loved Woods for so long. I left my home and my family in search of adventure, New York being the epicenter of excitement and power in my mind. I’d found Woods along the way. He’d been so into me, in the way twenty-year-old men were into their twenty-year-old girlfriends. But like most women in their twenties, I’d changed ... evolved. Woods hadn’t liked the changes. In retrospect, he hadn’t been mature enough to deal with them, especially when I went from a sleepy, wholesome PNW girl to a career-obsessed New Yorker.

I move away from the window and sit in the only chair in the room.

Satcher always liked who I was—even when I was wearing the Martha Stewart dresses, even when I was a bitter bitch. How had I not seen what was right in front of me? It’s because I was obsessed with what was behind me, my future always clouded by my stiff-knuckled inability to let go.

I walk to the door, resting my palm on the rich mahogany. “Mom?” I breathe.

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