Page 39 of F*ck Marriage

“This is my business. I should—”

I grab both of his hands and force him to look at me. “It may be your business, but it’s my blog,” I interrupt. “I’ll take care of everything as if I still own it. Promise.”

He purses his lips. We’re facing each other, holding hands. I imagine we must look like a couple having a romantic moment on the terrace.

“Are you sure?” Satcher’s brow is creased, and without thinking, I reach up to smooth it, thinking of the day he spotted me on the street and came running after me to offer me a job. He always shows up when I need help.

“I’m a hundred percent sure.” I feel puffed up about this ... good. Being able to do something for the man who is always doing something for me.

What I do next I blame on the Champagne.

Leaning up on my tiptoes, I aim for his mouth. By the time I see the look in his eyes it’s too late. He turns his head and my mouth meets the stubble on his cheek, startling my lips. It’s a sharp rejection, and I take an immediate step back. I spot the pity on Satcher’s face, and I’m suddenly sober. I look away quickly. Paired with what went down inside I feel pathetic. A fool.

Embarrassment burning my throat, I touch Satcher’s hand, which still rests on the railing.

“I’m so sorry, Satch. Go home, okay?” And then I do the only self-respectable thing left to do: I run.

I don’t know if I’m running from Satcher, my embarrassment, Woods and Pearl, or myself—down the stairs that lead to the boardwalk, checking my watch as I head toward the pier. Lunch will just be letting out. I don’t need to be anywhere for another few hours, which gives me some time to lick my wounds and compose myself.

Ugh, Billie.

My self-hate revs into overdrive as I dodge tourists, licking my lips where the salt from my tears is gathering. Really fucking pathetic. And the worst part is I’m hungry. I wish I’d been an idiotafterI ate. I look around for something to eat and see a hot dog stand and ice cream cart back-to-back. I linger at the hot dogs for a minute and then round the cart to join the ice cream line. If I can’t be at home with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, I’ll eat my way through as many scoops as they’ll give me here.

My plan is to walk back to the hotel, but ten minutes into my walk I realize that I have no idea where I am. I merge with the tourists looking for a landmark I recognize when I hear my name being called. Satcher pulls up beside me in what I presume is a rental. Rolling his window down, he calls my name again.

“Billie!” and when I don’t respond—“Wendy!”

“I’m fine, Satcher,” I say without looking at him. “I just need some time…”

I keep walking and he drives slowly beside me. Cars pull up behind him and honk, but Satcher doesn’t pay attention to them even when they speed around him, yelling out the window.

“Let me drive you back to the hotel.” There’s an onslaught of traffic as cars race by, and I don’t hear the rest of what he says.

“No. I’m fine,” I say again. A gust of wind lifts my hair and whips it into my ice cream.

“You're upset…”

No, I’m embarrassed. I lift my chin a little, crush my lips together. I wish he’d just leave me alone, leave me to my embarrassment.

“If I did what you wanted me to do, I’d be just like him,” Satcher says.

It takes a minute to realize whohimis. I feel dizzy and sick; I’m crashing down from a pretty great buzz.

“Ugh,” is my only response. I’d not considered Willa in all of this. Willa and her perfect body. Willa and her symmetrical face. I suppose that was selfish of me, that the girl he’s seeing didn’t even come to mind when I tried to drunk-kiss her boyfriend.

“Billie—”

“It’s Wendy,” I bite back. “Wen-dee.”

“Will you drop this fucking Wendy shit already?”

I’m so startled by his tone that I stop walking and stare. The light has changed again and there’s a fresh round of honking as Satcher blocks an entire lane of traffic.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t become a different person by changing your name. You’re still the same spiteful, childish, ridiculous woman you were.”

“Fine,” I spit. I am sick of Wendy anyway, always so fucking put together. I lob my ice cream cone at his car and it connects with a wet thud.

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