Marital Bitch

by Jc Emery

  “You’re pretty!” Sarah shouts. Colleen shoots her a dirty look. Is she seriously giving the stink eye to a seven year old?

  “Um, thank you,” Vicky says, smiling at Sarah. “So, Brad,” she says through clenched teeth, “you invited me to this little family party?” I scratch my head and think back. Did I invite her? No, I’m pretty sure I didn’t.

  “Vic!” James shouts and rushes over. A loud burp escapes him and the smell of hot dog and beer fills the immediate area. Damn, that stinks. Vicky snorts at him and gives him a quick hug. “You got my invite!” James is bouncing on his heels, completely oblivious to the glare his sister is shooting him.

  “I did,” Vicky says, “any reason you invited me to a family event, James? Not that I’m not happy to be included,” she clarifies, but it’s obvious that she feels a little nervous about being here. I’m willing to bet that Colleen is most of the reason for that. Colleen gives her brother a questioning look. She, too, wants to know what James was thinking.

  “Yeah, James,” Colleen snaps. At the sound of her voice, Vicky’s head snaps to her and the two women glare at each other. This is ridiculous. I won’t have Colleen ruining this barbeque just because she has to be a complete bitch when Vicky is around. I still haven’t forgiven her for what happened the last time they saw each other. Deciding not to chance another juice throwing incident, I grab Colleen by her elbow and escort her across the yard. Her head spins around to give Vicky a hateful look as I drag her away.

  “You need to knock it off,” I growl.

  “Or what?” Colleen crosses her arms over her chest and she smirks. I back her up against the fence and place my hands beside her head.

  “You listen to me and you listen good, Frasier—you are going to be nice to Vicky because she’s my friend,” I say through clenched teeth. “You know, friends, like we are. Except that I’m not trying to knock her up. So please, be a little decent toward her, will you?” Colleen scowls at me, her jaw set and her chin in the air. She pokes my chest.

  “And you listen to me, Patrick. I’m a Patrick now, too, so quit calling me Frasier! And as for Barbie Bitch over there, I’ll be nice to her when she stops trying to jump my husband!” I laugh at her defense.

  “But I’m your husband in name only, remember? We’re friends, right, Frasier?” I’m trying to let it go, but I can’t. I’m just her friend.

  A stray tear slips down her cheek. She brushes it away just as quickly. Here she goes again trying to make me feel bad for yelling at her. “Just do me a favor this time, and don’t sleep with her, okay?” I turn around and walk away. Colleen rushes past me into the house, sniffling all the way. I don’t even care. I’m just tired of her attitude.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  (Colleen)

  Do you want a girl or a boy?

  "YOU HAVEN'T PUT this many hours in since before you got married," Tim says from the door to my office. He lets out a yawn and rubs his eyes.

  "Yeah," I respond and sit my pen down. I've been working on a game plan for the upcoming trial for hours now and yet nothing has come of it. I lean back and yawn, which causes Tim to yawn again. "It's getting late," I say, "You should go home to your wife."

  "And you should go home to your husband," he smiles. I clear my throat and check the digital clock on my desk; it reads 9:30 p.m. Brad will be here any minute.

  "Actually," I smile, "he's coming to pick me up. He should be here soon."

  "He's picking you up?" Tim asks with raised eyebrows.

  "He's working on some case that's shot his nerves. He just doesn't want me out at night alone," I nod. Tim rubs his chin in contemplation; most likely sizing himself up as a husband in comparison. Even when he’s being a shit, no one really compares to Brad.

  "Well, one thing's for sure-- he must really love you," Tim says, throwing a wink in for good measure.

  "You'd think," I mutter under my breath. My cell phone buzzes, signaling a new text message. It's Brad. He's pulling up to the building. "Well, he's here," I say, standing and collecting my things in my brief case.

  "Have a good night, Colleen," he smiles. I shake my head and laugh at him. For a forty-year-old seasoned attorney, he still busts his ass like when he was a baby lawyer. "You go home and enjoy what's left of your night. I have a few more hours to put in." I nod and brush past him.

  "Ah come on, Tim," I look back and grin. "Daddy owns the firm. Cut yourself some slack." He walks up beside me and thumps my shoulder with the prescription glasses in his hand.

  "That is the reason I can't cut myself any slack," he says and walks away. "Go home, kid, your husband's waiting for you." I walk down the hall and get into the elevator, still smiling. It's a relief to have Tim back from the D.C. office where he had been transferred to on a temporary basis for the last six months. I don't feel so alone here now; stuck with just The Toad and his diaper-wearing imbecile father.

  Downstairs in the lobby, the feeling of calm leaves me. Brad’s truck—which he has unfortunately named Sweetness—is parked in the fire lane right out front and he's gotten out; standing on the other side of the locked doors, waiting for me. Sheesh. I want to run out there and shake him and ask him why he insists on doing this if he thinks of me as just a friend. I can get home without incident. As he so kindly and continuously likes to point out—anyone who kidnaps me is in for an ordeal. He is entirely convinced that my abductor would return me within the hour.

  I swipe my I.D. badge to unlock the door, and then walk out. He doesn't smile at me, he just places his hand on my lower back and escorts me to the truck. This is the most contact we've had in over a week.

  It's Friday now, and he's come to pick me up all week since I've been putting in fifteen-hour days: getting off usually no earlier than 9 p.m. Monday and Tuesday nights he didn't look at me, either, nor did he place his hand on my back. It was the same with Wednesday, but at least then he opened the door to the truck for me. Thursday night he gave me a sad smile. Tonight, I don't even get that; and I don't even know what I did that was so awful to deserve any of it. All I know is that he's angry with me; but he won't talk about it, and by Tuesday I was tired of pressing him to open up.

  Brad normally has no issue telling me what I've done to piss him off, but this silent treatment is faintly reminiscent of The Heather Incident and that scares me. Deep down I had a feeling he would never truly get over that, and maybe he never will.

  The whole thing used to make me a little sad. It's been years and he has yet to really move on from it. I used to wish that he could just get over it and we could erase the whole incident from memory. But I get it now. If I saw him with someone else, I'd lose it, too. He really loved Heather and I messed that up for him.

  A tear slips from my eye and I try to wipe it away without notice. He scoffs. I look over to him and he's shaking his head. "What the fuck are you crying for?" His lack of sympathy or even general regard for my emotional well-being sends me over the edge and I break out in a full cry. "Crap," he grumbles.

  "I'm sorry," I say. Since he's barely speaking to me, I decide to take the floor. "I'm so sorry about the whole Heather thing. I am! I am!" I sob, turning into a blubbering mess. I don’t even know where this is coming from.

  "Don't!" he shouts, startling me. "Don't you fucking go there!" He grips the steering wheel tightly, his face reddening. I ignore him and continue. Fighting with Brad is far better than being ignored by Brad.

  "I know I can't take it back and I'm sorry for that! I have no excuse!" I scream. "But at some point you have to forgive me or not. There can't be an in-between anymore." I cover my face with my hands.

  "You? You!" He barks an angry laugh. "You have no clue how shitty it is to follow you around like a lost fucking puppy, just waiting to be pet and then shoved aside when something else interests you!" My stomach churns at his words. One moment, I feel a little light headed and the next I can feel my dinner making its way up.

  "Stop the car!" I panic as the intensity of my queasiness skyroc
kets.

  "She's not a car, Colleen," he chastises, not even looking away from the road.

  "Stop the damn truck!" I yell, my arms stretched out before me on the dash. Still he doesn't look over.

  "Why!" he snaps, "for what goddamn reason should I stop the truck?"

  My line of vision goes fuzzy and I can't make out the road in front of us. I dry heave once and my stomach calms. But the peace doesn't last. I take two deep breaths and then expel my dinner onto the floorboard.

  "Oh, shit," Brad says, startled. He slowly pulls over and puts the truck in park. "Baby, are you going to get sick again?" he holds my hair back away from my face. His free hand is rubbing my back in the most soothing manner. I shake my head.

  "I told you to stop the truck, you imbecile," I groan and wipe my mouth. This is so disgusting.

  “I wish I had listened to you. Poor Sweetness,” he says. Sweetness? Poor Sweetness? Seriously? Even the truck gets more sympathy than I do. And only Brad would name his damn truck Sweetness. Really? I kick the floorboard and find myself disgusted when my own throw up sloshes around my shoe. I dry heave again, this time opening the door and into the fresh air.

  “Disgusting,” I hear him mutter from behind me as he holds my hair and tries his best to soothe me, which isn’t saying much. He fishes around and finds a water bottle for me. I gulp its contents down quickly and lean back inside the truck—stupid Sweetness—catching my breath.

  “Is it something you ate?” he asks nervously. I shrug my shoulders and close my eyes. It probably is. I haven’t thrown up in years. “Or do you think you could be pregnant already?” I feel one of his hands graze my stomach before he pulls it away quickly. My heart flutters and my cheeks redden at his impulsive action. I like his hand there. It feels so intimate.

  Pregnant? I think that over for a moment. Is it too soon? It’s probably too soon, I reason. But God, I sure hope so. Another flood of images of rowdy little boys flood my mind and warm my heart. I want to have Brad’s baby.

  "How long's it been since, you know, anyway?" he asks. I brace myself against the dash and shoot an incredulous look his way. Is he really trying to ask how long we've been having sex for? He begins to blush under my stare. Brad. Blush? What? Well, this is new.

  "You mean how long we've been bumping uglies for? You mean how long we've been fucking for? You mean--" and he cuts me off.

  "Don't be crude, Colleen," he chastises me, a smirk playing on his lips. The hell? Really? He is telling me not to be crude? Oh, for the ever loving-- "and it’s not bumping uglies," he says, interrupting my internal banter. "It's bumping pretties." I roll my eyes.

  He starts up the car and rolls down the windows. "Let's go home, you disgusting thing, you. I don't think my poor truck can take any more of your particular brand of abuse."

  "Anyway," I grumble, "I don't know how long it's been. We'll have to look at a calendar."

  We get home and to my surprise, Brad comes around to my side in a flash and opens up my door. He offers his hand, which I happily accept, and he helps me out. We walk in and I leave my disgusting shoes just outside the door, and rush up to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

  "So, should I go buy one of those things?" Brad asks, sneaking into the bathroom behind me. Despite having brushed my teeth, I can still smell the puke on me so I decide to shower. I undress in front of Brad. I notice he's paying attention to my now naked body as opposed to my face. I take a small bit of pride in the fact that I can cause a physical reaction out of him, judging by Mac's suddenly obvious presence.

  "Would you?" I ask. He nods, his eyes focusing on my bare breasts. I'm still on the fence about whether or not I think he thinks of me just as a friend; so I do what any red-blooded woman would do, I try to seduce him to find out. My right hand finds its way to my right breast and begins to gently rub my nipple. Brad gulps, his eyes never leaving my chest. In a not-so-genius move on my part, I try to roll my nipple between my fingers but my nail gets in the way and before I know it, a biting pain shoot through my nipple and I swear on all that is Holy, I think I'm having a heart attack.

  "What the hell are you trying to do!" Brad shouts, rushing toward me. The tears flow freely down my face.

  "Trying to seduce you!" I cry, unabashedly. His body shakes with laughter but he's careful to keep as quiet as possible.

  "You don't have to try, pretty girl," he whispers as he gently massages my battered nipple. He kisses my forehead and smiles. God only knows what the hell he's smiling about.

  "I'm going to take a bath," I say with a sigh. I feel better under his touch.

  "And I'll go pick up that thingamajig," he grins.

  "Hey, pretty boy," I say as he walks away. He looks back, still grinning.

  "What's up, pretty girl?"

  "Do you want a boy or a girl?" I ask. His entire face lights up.

  "What do you want?"

  "On three," I say and he nods.

  "Boy," we say in unison. And we're both standing there like love-struck fools. At least I hope we are. I know I am.

  "Don't you ever tell James this, but I'm really glad I had a big brother," I admit sheepishly. He laughs and walks back over to me.

  "As the middle child, and only boy; I can promise you that having an older sister sucks," he admits. Now I'm laughing along with him. "But really," he says, his voice softening, "a little girl like you would be pretty cool." I sniffle at his words, tears threatening to spill; and I'm really damn sure now that I'm not just his best friend.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  (Brad)

  I wouldn’t have her any other way.

  I LEAVE COLLEEN in the bathroom and head down to my poor vomit-ridden truck and get to work on cleaning her out. She's a mess and she smells like shit, but I really don't care. Colleen might be pregnant. And the biggest, ear-to-ear grin lights up my face. I realize how stupid I look-- scrubbing up vomit and smiling like a fool. If vomiting is a sign that we're going to have a baby, then I don't care how many more times I have to clean up puke.

  A baby.

  My baby.

  Our baby.

  Despite how much I want this, I can’t help but think about how screwed up our relationship is. We’re off and then we’re on, but only for a moment because I look at her wrong or she only hears what she wants to. Then I get annoyed and she gets pissed and we’re left standing there, looking like the idiots we are. The only thing that’s changed since we were babies is that now we solve our arguments through sex. We both initiate it. Arguing is like our mating dance or something ridiculous like that.

  The fact that we’ve been unable to mature any in the last thirty-five-odd years leads me to believe we’re going to raise some messed up kids. I mean, I think we’re capable of feeding and diapering and caring for a kid on a daily basis; but what will we be teaching them?

  My brain hurts.

  The thought occurs to me that even if, in time, Colleen learns to love me as more than just her best friend that we may never get along. We may never be Ward and June Cleaver who never seemed to fight and lived in this idealistic state of marital bliss at all times—not that I’m much like Ward Cleaver. Anyway. Colleen is definitely no June Cleaver, I can tell you that. I have never seen that woman make the bed or a decent meal in her life (not one that was edible anyway.)

  I finish cleaning out Sweetness and I give myself a sniff. I stink pretty badly, but whatever. I’m going to buy a pee stick, not sit at some fancy dinner. So, I ignore the scent and grab my keys from my pocket, pulling out the spare to Colleen’s Honda. I know I’m going to stink her car up, and I can’t help from smiling. It serves her right. She’s just lucky I haven’t puked in this thing.

  The drive to the drug store is short. I could have walked it, but I really don’t want to hold up this process any more. Colleen could be pregnant with our baby right now. Unfortunately, when I get to the drug store, it’s packed; which is strange for this time of night. Neighborhood folks form a line at the front registers that is at leas
t ten people long. I groan. I hate waiting in line. I wish I had my badge right now. I could flash it and see all these people scatter. Well, okay, maybe not; but the thought is nice.

  So, I finally make my way to the back of the store where they got condoms next to diapers and pregnancy tests next to drug tests. Huh. The aisle is empty, thank God. I feel like some kind of pervert, like I’ve done something wrong to be here. I feel like I did that time back in high school when James thought Darla was knocked up and she made him go buy a pregnancy test. She said not to tell anyone, so what did he do? He dragged me along. I remember standing there, my hands shoved in my pockets, looking like I had been the irresponsible jerk who felt like their life was about to end.

  Why is he my best friend again?

  Oh, that’s right. He’s not.

  His obnoxious little sister is.

  My wife.

  And we’re back to present day and I’m standing here and I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing. Some of these tests say they’ve got digital readings on them. Some of them give you a plus or negative sign. Some of them have the word “pregnant” appear and some of them, I just don’t even know what the hell they do. So I look through them and decide on the one that spells out the word “pregnant” or “not pregnant” because damn if that ain’t clear.

  “Thirty-five dollars!,” I shout. The entire drug store silences and heads poke around the corners of the sex aisle and gape at me. I rub the back of my neck and look around. “Damn,” I say, trying to look innocent, “some people got no respect. Why do they have to be so loud?” I continue to look around as innocently as possible and soon enough the nosey birds are no longer interested in the idiot down aisle sex with sticker shock.

  Thirty-five dollars seems a little ridiculous to me. I want to call James or Darla or hell, even Ma, and ask them what’s considered a reasonable price; but nobody else knows that we’re trying to have a baby, except Dan, and I’m thinking the wife wouldn’t like me just blurting it out to the world. And if I tell Ma, I’m telling the world. You see, despite Colleen’s opinion of me, I do think things through before I do them. But much like the wife herself, I go ahead and do it, bad idea or not. I won’t tell her that, though. I also know how to keep from starting a fight; but I kind of like fighting with her. She’s never more passionate than when she’s angry, and she seems to thinking putting out will show me. Yeah, she “shows me” real good when she’s pissed. Needless to say, Mac is partial to an angry Colleen.