Marital Bitch

by Jc Emery

  The thing about first class is that you wait forever for everyone to board. While it provides for some excellent people-watching, the downside is that you also find yourself being watched. Brad sits in the aisle seat, and all of the female passengers who pass by offer him their best flirty smile, even the women who are old enough to be his mother. I do my best to ignore them, but it’s no use. I am strangely intrigued by their gawking at my Brad.

  Okay, so he’s not really mine in that way, but he is my childhood best friend, so he is more mine than he is theirs. I sit and watch the various women who board the plane. Brad’s only real specification is that they have a curvy top half.

  One woman who boards is particularly attractive—curvy and put together. Her dark hair hangs down her back and her light brown skin practically glows. She appears to be no older than late twenties. Her lips are full and pouty and I admire her smart business suit and the way it hugs her body. I notice Brad admire her as well, and when I look to her face to see if she’s noticed him, I realize that her eyes are fixed on me. I smile, feeling my face heat. Her deep green eyes are enchanting. Slowly, she walks past but not before Brad can give her a quick head nod: his lady-killer head nod. He couples it with a sexy smirk and a slight chin rub; but the beautiful woman doesn’t take much notice.

  I allow myself the indulgence of following her with my eyes, until she disappears into coach. During my experimental college days I’d tried dating a woman—a Venezuelan woman in fact—but it never got past a chaste kiss and some handholding for me to realize it was a phase.

  Settling back into my seat, I see Brad staring me down. He’s not happy with me. Women are a touchy subject between us after what happened with Heather. It was so awful we took to calling it The Heather Incident.

  “What?” I ask, feigning nonchalance, but he isn’t buying it.

  “Are you gonna ask her out?” His tone is clipped and I can’t really blame him. He wanted to marry Heather before everything went wrong, and he’s never really forgiven me for my role in their breakup, not that I’ve forgiven myself.

  “It was one time, Bradley,” I snap, sounding much too like his mother. Finally, about five years ago, he stopped finding creative ways to call me a lesbian. Brad doesn’t care if any other woman on the planet likes women, but after The Heather incident, he most certainly cares if I do. I don’t want this to rip open old wounds, though it seems it has.

  “Do me a favor, just move on, okay?” My patience is wearing thin with this topic. It was over ten years ago and a plethora of women have found themselves into his bed since. Bradley Patrick is no monk.

  He quickly turns away from me in his seat, indicating that our conversation is over. I huff and pull out the cheesy vampire book I’ve been enthralled with. I let myself drift into the imaginary world, all the while imagining the male lead is sitting next to me.

  We remain silent for the entire flight—neither one of us is willing to budge on this topic—which suits me just fine. I can only apologize so many times, and I will only allow myself to feel sorry for so long.

  Brad seems content to be my friend when it suits him, but then at the slightest blow of the wind, he’s back to chastising me. One of us is going to have to demand some finality once and for all. Either we can be friends, or we can part ways, but he can’t continue on punishing me like this at will. I won’t stand for it. My birthday has officially started to suck.

  Our arrival in Las Vegas is far less exciting than we had intended it to be. The shuttle ride to our hotel is silent. I heard their subtle commentary on the plane to one another. They miss their kids. Darla is on the verge of tears. Her youngest is only six months old. She nearly backed out this morning to stay home with him, but my parents wouldn’t hear of it. They are no doubt in baby heaven right now, having their grandkids solely to themselves.

  Lindsay and Adam seem to be staying quiet in an effort to avoid upsetting anyone. Brad’s and my silence is bringing everyone down. I hear subtle murmurs from Darla about how she knew this would happen—Brad and I haven’t spent more than six hours together in the last decade without getting into a fight. And it’s always about the same thing. It’s always about Heather.

  The shuttle pulls up to Caesar’s Palace and we file out with no enthusiasm whatsoever. I can tell that our melancholy attitudes are wearing on Lindsay’s natural perkiness. Nevertheless, she keeps mum until we’re all checked in and heading to the elevators, where she promptly stops and turns around to face us.

  “Okay, that’s it,” Lindsay says.

  “Darla, James. You miss the kids, I get it. It’s only for two nights and they are in the best hands possible. You know this. Please, try to enjoy yourselves.” I nod a little too enthusiastically and she turns toward me next.

  “And you, Ms. Birthday Girl, quit sulking and talk to Brad, will you? If you two choose not to be friends after this trip, fine. But we’ve all spent a lot of money on this goddamn vacation and I would really like if you two can just grow the hell up for a few days, okay?”

  I gape in surprise. Lindsay intimidates me when she gets like this, which is seldom, but still slightly frightening. I have no idea why she’s yelling at me and not Brad, but I decide it is best not to ask. The pair has formed a tight relationship over the years. They have an implicit understanding. I want to get along with Brad; he just makes it so difficult.

  Upstairs, I am surprised to find that they have rented a three-bedroom suite. Exquisitely draped, expansive windows and marble flooring surround us. It must have cost a small fortune, even though we’re only staying for two nights. I cringe at the thought.

  I have yet to find out about the sleeping arrangements, but surely they don’t expect me to share a room with Brad. Thankfully, Darla soon hands me a key and informs me that the third bedroom is mine. Brad will sleep on the couch. I know he has paid his fair share for this trip, and I hate to relegate him to the couch. However, when I broach the topic he informs me he is likely to find another room and a lovely lady, perhaps a Latina, to keep him company—that stings, but I try to avoid him for the rest of the evening.

  CHAPTER TWO

  (Colleen)

  Marry me, pretty girl.

  IT’S LATE, BUT we don’t have much time here, so we dress out for a few hours on the strip anyway. Ten years ago, when we were in our mid-twenties, we could have stayed out all night, but time is no longer on our side. James is already complaining about how tired he is. He doesn’t care that it’s still early in Nevada—back home in Massachusetts, it’s nearly midnight.

  Dressed in our best stylish I’m-not-really-trying attire, the six of us make our way down to the casino. The boys wear jeans and button-ups and we girls wear jeans and heels. Darla and Lindsay say, “Go big or go home,” so I suppose going big includes heels. It’s been hours of tense silence and I’m more than ready to blow off some steam. We wasted the entire day stuck in the airport and we’ve missed the comedy show and dinner we had bought tickets to.

  After losing some money and spending some time in a nearby bar, we’re all loosened up, and I’m well on my way to being drunk. After the day I’ve had, this warm, blissful feeling is welcome. It’s been so long since I’ve indulged in anything more than a pint of rocky road.

  I peer over my right shoulder to see Brad at the bar getting another beer. He is not one for hard liquor, only drinking it when he’s having an especially rough time. He walks back to our table and I signal for him to stand by me. I nudge him gently upon his approach. Graciously, he gives me a half smile, the corners of his mouth turning up. We’re making amends.

  At some point we’re going to have to figure out if this friendship is worth salvaging, but not tonight. Tonight, we’re just Brad and Colleen. Tonight, we’re the little kids who used to steal their dad’s badges and ride around the neighborhood on their bikes arresting people. Tonight, we’re just the kids from South Boston. Tonight, I won’t try to hide my accent.

  “What can I do to make you smile, pretty girl?�
� This is Brad’s way of apologizing. He’s never really done the whole ‘I’m sorry’ thing. I bat my eyes, burying the hatchet, even if it’s in a shallow grave and just for the evening.

  “Well, handsome,” I say, my thick Boston accent flowing through every word. Brad’s eyes light up. It’s been a long time since anybody has heard it. I’ve spent years hiding this side of myself.

  “Are you gonna take me to play cards, or not?” Everyone at our table lets out an enthusiastic shout as my speech transforms from my alma-matter-approved Harvard perfect English to my native Boston Irish where the letter “r” always sounds like an “h.”

  “That’s my girl!” Brad leads the cheers as he shoves his beer in the air and he and James clink bottles. He’s laughing a full-on belly laugh and in this moment, he is breathtaking. Tonight, it feels good just being little Colleen Frasier from the neighborhood, not having to prove a thing to anybody.

  “Well, well, well, baby sister still has her accent,” James says, dimples on full display. I laugh and look around the table at my closest friends. I feel a case of shame coming on, no matter how hard I fight it. James and Brad have always been proud of their heritage. I always wanted more.

  I wanted to know what it was like across town, in the fancy high rises overlooking the river. I became a lawyer because I could, and because it was about as far removed from my blue-collar upbringing as I could get. I’m the only one at this table who has ever aspired to be anything other than who they are.

  Thankfully, my sulking doesn’t last. Brad sweeps me away to play blackjack while James and Darla excuse themselves to go upstairs. Darla needs to pump her breasts because she’s still nursing. James is going along for support. We all waive them off, not needing to hear the details of motherhood.

  Adam and Lindsay disappear, but Brad and I don’t worry about them. We just play blackjack and laugh, and we drink. Brad is dismayed with the “beah” selection and gripes to the cocktail waitress. She smiles politely tolerating him, I think, because despite his best efforts, he’s still charming. The night wears on and we continue to drink.

  An elderly couple sits beside us at the blackjack table and they comment on our accents. Brad grins and put his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, telling him we’re from the best place on earth: South Boston. He’s a proud one, that’s for sure. He also manages to throw out the fact that he’s a detective for the police force back home.

  The day Brad got promoted, everyone south of the basin heard about it. The elderly man was a firefighter in his day, so he and Brad bond over their civil service. Brad calls me his girl, loudly, and lays a big smacking kiss on my cheek. His breath is rank, but I’m tipsy enough to not care. I blush under the attention because people begin to stare and Brad is so loud.

  The elderly woman asks how long we’ve been together, if we’re married, and if not, when we will be. This is not the first time we have been asked this. I choose not to wonder why. When we inform her that we’re not together, the elderly woman dons a look of pity. I don’t like where this is going.

  “I don’t understand your generation,” she says. “When I was young, a girl was lucky to genuinely like her husband, much less have him as her best friend. You two are clearly very close. I just don’t understand it.” Her husband tries to quiet her down, but it’s obvious that he’s only making the attempt in an effort to be polite because he backs down quickly and lets her continue.

  “This Bradley is a handsome man,” she gives me her full attention, “and he is smitten with you. I can tell these things. You young girls want it all, what you don’t know is that nobody can have it all and still be happy.” Brad is grinning and the woman quickly turns to him and berates him about what being a proper suitor means. She tells him that if he has any decency that he will marry me tonight. I scoff, but Brad promises her that were I to agree, he would have married me long ago. Like I said, he’s charming. But he’s also full of shit.

  “How old are you?” she asks.

  “Thirty-five,” I say, hating the way it sounds. I just want to get out of here, but Brad’s on a roll. She looks horrified and begins to tell me that I’m getting up there in years. I’ve been drinking for hours now, nursing my drinks, but it’s getting to me. My mind is getting fuzzy.

  Her words sting me in a way I’m loathe to admit. I thought that if I worked hard, I could be an attorney and still have a husband and kids. I had a plan. It was a rough plan, but according to my now-defunct plan, I should have been married by now and I should have already had two children. I never thought I would be alone at thirty-five. Unfortunately, the only men I spend any amount of time with are family or the very married attorneys at my firm, or Brad. I have no prospects and I think I’m starting to give off that vibe of desperation.

  “My sister never married,” the old bitty says. Her voice is gentle and high-pitched, but her words reek of judgment. “She was a spinster at thirty-five.” I nervously laugh her off and avoid eye contact with everyone around me. Brad isn’t laughing anymore. He places his hand on my back. He knows I’m upset and in this very public place there is little he can do about it. He knows that being alone and unmarried at thirty-five has always been a fear of mine—which has now become a reality.

  “Men don’t look at you the same once you’re in your thirties,” she adds. Her words are spaced out and I can tell she’s regretting saying anything at all. I suck back the tears that threaten to spill and pick my head up. I’m training as a closer at the firm. I know how to hold my own, but Nate & Caldwell don’t train you to handle little old ladies with big mouths. I need more practice. “But you’ve known that for a while now, haven’t you?”

  “Let’s go back to the bar, pretty girl. I want another beer,” Brad says.

  “Sure,” I put on my best smile and we excuse ourselves, taking our meager winnings with us. I start heading back to the bar, but Brad steers me outside. The hot air in Las Vegas is in stark contrast to the biting wind chill we experienced at six a.m., back in Boston. There is no wind here in the desert, just this miserable, dry heat. Only the heat and the dust, and the glow of the strip surround us.

  I thought I would feel better, less on edge, once we were alone. But I just feel vulnerable, and old, and so very alone. Women who are married, especially the ones who have been married for decades, have this way of forgetting their own struggles being single. Even Lindsay seems to forget how she used to bemoan the dating scene. They don’t understand being a thirty-five year old woman and being alone. How could they?

  “You okay, pretty girl?” Brad has his arm around my shoulder, comfortably tucking me into his side. I nod weakly. He sighs.

  “Look, you aren’t any of those things that old woman said, okay?” I break out into a pathetic wash of tears at his words. He wraps both of his arms around me and holds me to him, tight. My tears soak his button-up. Petty arguments aside, he is always here for me. I collapse into him, sobbing.

  I wanted so much and I thought that if I just worked hard enough, it would come to me. I didn’t account for the 70-hour work weeks or the emotional demand that being a baby lawyer would take on me. At the end of a work week, assuming I take a day off that week, I’m much too exhausted to even consider going out and meeting new people.

  I let the weight of the old woman’s words sink in. They hit me to the core. “I thought I’d be married by now,” I sniffle into Brad’s chest. I sound ridiculous and I laugh at myself.

  “Me too,” Brad says. “Guess I haven’t found my girl yet.”

  “What are you looking for?” I ask, without really thinking about what I expect to hear. This is as personal as we’ve gotten in years. I’m not sure if I’m crossing some kind of boundary line here.

  “Birthing hips,” he chuckles. “She’s got to be able to pop me out a baseball team. And Irish, she’s got to be Irish—the fiery spirit and all. Working class, a girl who gets her hands dirty and ain’t gonna worry about no chipped nails. And she’s got to be tough to put up
with me and all our kids.” I’m now slightly uncomfortable with the depth of his answer. I expected him to tell me he was looking for a 34D without a gag reflex. How is it possible that after all of these years, he still surprises me? How did I not know that would be his answer? I let myself feel bad for having spent so long putting such a large distance between he and I.

  “What are you looking for?” he asks. I hiccup and try to formulate an answer, but he doesn’t give me time. “Let me guess—you want a hot shot lawyer like you. A guy who speaks proper-like and has some fancy title like you got at Harvard.”

  Pretty much.

  I flush and compose myself. “Sounds pretty good to me,” I say, trying to keep the shame at bay.

  I don’t know why I feel so embarrassed by what I want in a man. Maybe it’s because this is Brad. He has a way of making me feel insignificant, less than, not enough; even though that’s the last thing he’d ever want to do.

  “I figured,” he says, sounding smug as ever. “You’d never go for a guy like me.” He’s trying to sound hurt, and he’s succeeding. I don’t know where he’s going with this, but it makes me nervous. We’re in unmarked territory here. It’s off-putting.

  “That’s not true. I just,” my voice trails off. “I know a guy like you won’t go for a girl like me.” It’s true. I’m too high maintenance as he tells me. I try to shake off the eerie seriousness of the conversation. Brad pulls back, places his hands on my shoulders and looks me up and down.

  “You’ll do,” he says as he scans my body and his hands find purchase on my hips. “Nice and wide,” he sizes up my hips.

  Wide? What the hell!

  I gape at him, much too surprised for my own good. He has me hooked into whatever he is warming up to do or say, just like when we were little. Whatever it is, I’m so screwed.